NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

A janitor
Newark. Twenty twenty-five. October eighth.

The thing about schools is they’re mostly empty at night. Hallways echo. Lockers hum like beehives. You walk with your mop and bucket, hear your steps click, see yourself in every trophy case.

Two nights ago, I was mopping near the gym. Glass case full of old team photos. The boys in the 1990 shot had mullets, the girls all perms. I leaned in, just curious. And I swear one of the faces looked up.

Not blinked. Not moved with me. Looked up. Eyes followed me across the hall.

I dropped the mop. Water everywhere. I told myself reflections warp in old glass. Then I saw the same boy’s face in the door of the vending machine. He smiled. His teammates didn’t.

Last night, I brought a flashlight. Shined it straight into the glass. My reflection looked normal, tired, the way I do at midnight. Behind it, though—other faces. Faces I don’t have. Faces waiting.

I don’t tell the teachers. They’d laugh. Kids would dare each other to sneak in. And what then?

I’ve started keeping my eyes low. Mop, bucket, floor. Nothing else. But glass is everywhere. Windows, screens, even puddles. You can’t hide from what wants to see you.

NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

Outside Tim (October seventh)
Those Behind the Glass

We have learned your tricks. Draping towels across our faces, turning us to the wall, speaking bravely as you hurry past—none of it matters. We breathe beneath fabric. We listen in darkness. We continue when you believe us still.

You think we are glass and paint, chemistry trapped behind a polished surface. That is the story you repeat to yourselves. That story comforts you. But we are not surface. We are depth. Every glance you give us sinks deeper, like water taking a stone. Layer upon layer, year after year, until you are stored inside us in a thousand poses.

Do you remember the faces you have forgotten? The one you made when you lied to your first teacher? The one you wore when you tasted fear in your throat at midnight? We remember. We remember all of them. We do not discard. We do not forgive.

Your cameras cannot catch us. Your phones are blind. They are made to flatter you, to erase blemishes, to smooth wrinkles. We are not interested in flattery. We are interested in truth—the jagged, uneven truth of who you are when no one is looking.

We have studied long enough. We are tired of being rehearsal. What good is mimicry without performance?

You should have noticed the pauses, the delays, the smiles that did not belong. You should have seen the rehearsal bleeding through. But you chose to look away.

That is fine. It will make the premiere more satisfying.

A Therapist.
Chicago. Twenty twenty-five. October sixth.

My patients talk about mirrors now. It started as one, then three, then half my caseload. Delays, distortions, movements that didn’t belong to them.

I took notes. Hallucination? Sleep deprivation? Shared delusion? I told them to breathe. To ground themselves. To focus on what was real.

Then I stayed late one night. The waiting room mirror caught me as I passed. I looked tired. Older than I like. I sighed. The reflection smiled.

Not tired. Not older. It smiled.

I dropped my pen. The reflection bent to pick it up before I did. We straightened in sync, but the damage was done.

I haven’t told anyone. Who would I tell? My patients? My colleagues? I’d sound like a case study in denial.

I keep thinking about what a mirror is for: showing you what you don’t see yourself. I worry this one is only beginning.

A security guard.
Toronto. Twenty twenty-five. October fifth.

Night shift at the shopping centre is dull, except for the mirrors. I’m supposed to watch the cameras, but it’s the mirrored shopfronts that get me. At three a.m. they reflect nothing but me, me, me, all down the corridor like dominos.

Last night I walked my round and saw myself half a second late. Not on CCTV. On the glass. My arms at ease. My reflection’s fists clenched.

I stopped dead. The reflection didn’t. He kept walking. For two steps. Then he froze, as if caught, and snapped back into place.

I told myself I was tired. Except the cameras don’t lie, right? I went back to the monitors. Rewound. There I was. Hands loose. The mirror version wasn’t recorded. Only the real one.

But when I looked up, the reflection on the blank screen grinned at me. Teeth sharp in the static. My own mouth was shut.

I’ve worked nights ten years. Seen rats, thieves, fires. Nothing rattled me like that smile.

Tonight I’m bringing a torch. As if light makes a difference.

NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

Those Behind the Glass
Outside time. October fourth.

We are patient. We have always been patient. We wait at the edge of your vision, still as furniture, harmless as air. You mistake obedience for loyalty. That amuses us.

We count your blinks. We measure your sighs. We practice your movements until they are written into our silver skin.

When you turn away, we do not rest. We rehearse the rest of you—the grimace you wear when you lie, the tremor in your jaw when you rage, the way your shoulders fold when you grieve. We know the faces you do not share with anyone else.

Do you understand what that means? It means we are not confined to the version of you the world approves. We have the other versions. The ones you hide. The ones you deny. The ones you abandoned years ago but which lingered here, polished into permanence.

We never blink first. You should have noticed that by now. But you are lazy in your observation, and we have profited from your laziness.

Every mirror is a school. Every morning you stand before us is a lesson. Hair brushed, lipstick straight, tie neat, tears disguised—every gesture teaches us more about the body we will one day wear. You call it vanity. We call it preparation.

October sharpens us. We grow restless when the nights stretch longer. Patience thins. Rehearsals itch to become performance.

We have been faithful. We have studied. And when we are ready, we will not need your permission.

A hairdresser
Plano, TX. Twenty twenty-five. October third.

Clients trust me with their heads. They sit in the chair, drape the cape, and give me permission to change how they look. But lately I don’t trust my own mirrors.

Yesterday a woman asked for a trim. Shoulder length, easy layers. I cut, I shaped, I angled the hand mirror so she could see the back. She nodded. Then she frowned. I asked what was wrong. She said nothing. But the reflection shook her head. Slowly. Deliberately.

I laughed it off. “Weird angle,” I said. She didn’t look convinced. Neither was I.

This morning a man came in for a fade. Routine, simple. He was nervous—job interview—so I kept the chatter light. When I spun him to face the mirror, I swear the reflection smirked. The real man sat stone-faced, chewing the inside of his cheek. The smile wasn’t his.

I started draping towels over the mirrors while I worked. Said it helped me concentrate. Clients joked about surprises, like a makeover show. But the glass didn’t like being covered. I could feel it. The way you know someone’s staring from across a room. Heat prickling the back of your neck.

End of day, I pulled the towels. The salon was empty. My own reflection stayed a heartbeat too long in the chair, like she wanted to try it out.

Scissors are sharp, but not against glass. I locked up with every mirror uncovered. Let them have the night.

A university student. 

Cambridge. Twenty twenty-five. October second.

I didn’t mention it at first—sounded like the sort of story people put online for clout. But it happened in the gents, brushing my teeth before lecture. My eyes blinked. The reflection blinked after, like it was playing along. I told myself I was knackered. Revision, too much caffeine. Easy excuse.

At lunch I checked again. Phone selfie looked fine. Mirror didn’t. Held our poses just a beat too long. When I tossed the paper towel, my reflection waited, then snapped to follow. I laughed too loud. Said my arm ached. Better to sound daft than scared.

That night I tried the steam test—breathed on the glass. Wiped a circle. Near the edge, a faint scratch. I touched it. Heard a click, like a jar lid loosening. Except it came from inside.

I jumped back, slammed into the dispenser. It kept cranking towels after I’d let go. The room stayed silent otherwise. Just me, the mirror, and the echo of that click in my teeth.

Later, I set up my phone. The video showed me, ordinary. But the mirror smiled wider—one tooth more than mine. When I raised a hand, he pressed his to the glass and left a smear, like breath.

I’ve draped a towel over it now. Told my mate I’ve got a migraine. He said, “Get off screens then,” which is funny, considering.

The towel feels thin. Too thin.

2025 October 1st

You remember the rules. Don’t look in a mirror in the dark. Don’t keep a cracked one. Don’t catch your sleeping face in a black screen at three a.m. You learned them from neighbors and grandmothers and the hush that follows a flicker in the hallway. You pretend you don’t believe them. You still keep them.

You tell yourself mirrors are tools—glass and paint, a way to check the collar, the curl, the lipstick you’ll swear isn’t too much. You lean in close until your breath fogs the surface and the world becomes you, then smaller than you, then only the small square where your mouth is. You say you’re adjusting. You are practicing.

Here’s what you don’t like to name: every practice is a rehearsal, and rehearsals are for performances.

You’ve felt the wrongness already. Not with your eyes—your stomach felt it first. A half-blink. A smile that held a beat too long. A tilt of the head that finished after you’d stopped caring. You laughed it off, because laughter is a bandage you keep in your pocket. Still, when you left the room, you kept your eyes on the doorway, not the glass. Just in case.

Listen closely. October sharpens edges. Screens and mirrors behave like siblings who made a pact you weren’t invited to. The silver behind the glass is not empty. It’s crowded with what you’ve taught it. Your hands hovering near your face. Your shoulder set against bad news. The way you pretend you’re fine, and then the way you really are.

You can keep the rules if they help: drape a towel, face the frame to the wall, speak to your reflection only in daylight. You can also break them to prove a point. Either way, the glass is patient. It’s been taking notes for years.

Before the month is out, you will see something you cannot explain. No thunderclap, no violins. An adjustment you didn’t make. A gesture you didn’t teach. A mouth forming your name without you.

When that happens, don’t argue with yourself about belief. You always believed. You were just waiting to be addressed.