I bought the antique mirror from an estate sale. Dust clouded its surface, but the moment I wiped it clean, I saw my reflection — and another faintly behind me. At first, I laughed it off. The shape was always the same: a pale face with dark eyes, expressionless. Every night, the figure crept closer in the reflection. Last night, I woke to a sound — the scrape of glass. The mirror was cracked from the inside. My reflection smiled back before stepping away, leaving me standing there, on the wrong side.