When I was a kid, my grandmother had one rule.
Never count yourself in a mirror.
It sounded ridiculous.
If I stood in front of the bathroom mirror alone, she'd cover my eyes and say, "There are only supposed to be seven."
I assumed she meant eyes, ears, arms... some old superstition.
She refused to explain.
After she died, I inherited her farmhouse.
The mirrors stayed exactly where she'd left them.
Seven in total.
One in the hallway.
One in the kitchen.
One in each bedroom.
One in the bathroom.
One inside an antique wardrobe.
One in the attic.
I counted them the day I moved in.
Seven.
The first month was uneventful.
Then one rainy evening I noticed something strange.
Walking through the hallway, I caught my reflection in the antique wardrobe mirror.
It smiled.
I hadn't.
By the time I turned back, it matched my expression perfectly.
I blamed exhaustion.
A week later I woke to every mirror facing the wall.
I lived alone.
They weighed far too much to move accidentally.
I turned them back.
That night I dreamed of standing inside the mirrors while someone else wore my face.
The knocking began next.
Not at doors.
Inside the glass.
Soft.
Patient.
Always eight knocks.
Never seven.
Never nine.
Curiosity eventually defeated fear.
At midnight I stood in front of the hallway mirror and knocked back.
Eight times.
The reflection waited until my final knock.
Then...
It answered with nine.
The lights throughout the farmhouse went out.
Only the mirror remained illuminated.
Behind my reflection stood another version of me.
Its clothes were soaked.
Its eyes were entirely black.
It slowly leaned toward my reflected ear.
I couldn't hear what it whispered.
But my reflection nodded.
Not me.
My reflection.
The following morning, I discovered muddy footprints.
They began at the hallway mirror.
They ended...
...at my bed.
There were no prints leading away.
I stopped looking into mirrors.
Covered them with blankets.
Bought a shaving mirror made of polished steel.
Avoided windows after dark.
It didn't matter.
My reflection started appearing elsewhere.
In the television.
In the microwave door.
In puddles after rain.
Always watching.
Always a fraction of a second behind.
One afternoon my neighbour, Mrs. Ellis, asked whether my twin brother had moved in.
I laughed.
"I'm an only child."
She frowned.
"Then who was standing upstairs waving at me while you were mowing the lawn?"
The upstairs windows had no curtains.
I looked.
No one.
She insisted.
"He looked just like you."
That night I heard footsteps in the attic.
Heavy.
Slow.
One person.
I climbed the stairs with a flashlight.
The attic was empty except for the old mirror.
Only...
It wasn't reflecting the attic.
It showed my bedroom.
Someone was asleep in my bed.
Someone wearing my clothes.
Breathing exactly as I was breathing.
The sleeper opened its eyes.
It looked directly at me through the mirror.
And smiled.
I smashed the glass.
Thousands of pieces scattered across the floor.
Every fragment reflected a different room.
Different houses.
Different people.
Some were crying.
Some were screaming.
Some were desperately covering mirrors with blankets.
One tiny shard reflected an old woman.
My grandmother.
She looked exhausted.
She raised one trembling finger.
Eight figures stood behind her.
Not seven.
Eight.
She mouthed the words:
"Too late."
Then every shard went black.
The farmhouse burned down that winter.
Investigators blamed faulty wiring.
Nothing remained.
Except the frame of the attic mirror.
There was no glass inside it.
Just empty air.
When they carried the frame outside, one firefighter asked another why they needed to rescue the man still standing inside the burning house.
There was no one there.
The firefighter insisted he'd seen someone at the upstairs window.
A man who looked exactly like me.
Watching the fire.
Smiling.
I moved three provinces away.
New apartment.
No antiques.
No mirrors.
I thought I'd escaped.
Last week I visited an optometrist.
During the eye exam, the doctor adjusted a machine in front of my face.
"You'll see eight tiny reflections," she said. "Tell me which one looks clearest."
I looked into the lenses.
There were eight reflections.
Seven copied every movement I made.
The eighth...
...raised a hand.
It placed one finger against its lips.
Then it winked.
The optometrist frowned.
"Sir?"
I couldn't answer.
Because the eighth reflection had disappeared.
And now there were only seven again.
Except...
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