I cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching me. 

It is half past midnight, and my window is open, letting a chilled waft of air, saturated with the nostalgic scent of fall, gradually fill my room. I am lying under the heavy blankets of my bed, growing increasingly aware of how hot my body is compared to the frozen tips of my nose and ears. I do not seek relief from this state of uncomfort, for I cannot move. 

I am paralyzed. Silent tears leak from my eyes as I attempt to suck air into my lungs with short wheezes. 

There is someone watching me. 

There is someone outside my window. 

There is someone under my bed. 

There is someone in my closet, behind my door, piled with my laundry—waiting downstairs to kill me, or claw me, or stab me, or stuff me. I am merely sitting prey—waiting with my last bits of life for my killer to commence their act. My thoughts, scattered and frantic, make lists in my mind of everything I wish I could have done and would do differently if I were given the chance. I am not ready. It is too soon. Help me. Help me. Help. 

My door opens, and my sister enters. I’m late. The illusion breaks, and my room turns back into being simply my room—no vengeful villains concealed. I whine, and pull my trembling legs to my chest. Behind my back, I watch myself from my mirror. 

My sister and I work in an antique furniture store. It is an old, creepy place that I’m not particularly fond of. Full of hiding places and reflective surfaces, my paranoia runs itself to exhaustion. 

Paranoia: the only malicious sign of the potential existence of the sixth sense. Who are we to doubt the wisdom of our intuition? When our hearts and our blood scream that something is wrong but our minds cannot find any rationality to explain it, should we ignore the warning of the organ that works tirelessly to keep us alive? Perhaps there is more to what we see, smell, hear, touch, and taste. Our bodies experience more, though we cannot explain what, or why, or how. There is someone, though I cannot say what, or why, or how, watching me. 

It is noon, and I am crouched in the corner of the shop, my back pressed against the wall behind me. I am studying the shadow of a wardrobe across the room–one that looks like a large lady with an eloquent hairdo. I could almost convince myself that she is real, and the wardrobe her shadow, if it weren’t for the door handle creating an inhumane lump in her torso. Nonetheless, I cannot be certain that the lady is not the silly coincidence that casts doubt over the true cases of paranormality.

Incessantly, I scratch at the skin just below the hollow of my neck. I scratch and I carve until my fingers come back wet and red with the warning of my blood. 

Outside, dark clouds obscure the sun until the weak light that shines through the small, foggy windows grows weaker still. The shadows grow and overcome. Everything and nothing becomes a shadow, including myself. 

There is someone watching me.

Footsteps start out faint and grow louder as they come closer. I sob through a silent scream and scratch myself harder still. This is it. This is the end. I knew I wouldn’t last this long. It’s come for me. It’s come. Help me. Help.

My sister rounds the corner, feather duster in hand. I exhale with relief. She does not see me, and hums quietly to herself as she dusts off an ornate mirror. She leaves, and I force myself to return to my deskwork, not noticing as I watch myself from within the old and blurred mirror.

The day passes by and I refuse to move my sight from the desk on which I work. If I cannot see them, perhaps they cannot see me. Perhaps my childish beliefs will keep me safe. 

Perhaps, but no. My relentless fear settles itself into me like a droplet of water landing on my neck, rolling down my spine and then engulfing me in a roaring sea of terror. The long hand of the antique clock moves to twelve, and the six chimes that sound send me to my knees once more. 

I am frozen. My body is shaking against my will. I stare into the ornate mirror before me and watch my fearful face as it trembles and quivers. 

There is someone watching me.

There is someone watching me, and I have never been so sure.

I look into my own green eyes, pupils whitened by tiny, forgotten specks of dust. I watch in horror as my reflection’s expression slightly changes, her lips curving upward in a subtle smile. 

I breathe in silent gasps, filling my lungs to completion with every inhale. Still, I feel lightheaded and devoid of oxygen. My chest rises and falls violently, yet the chest of my reflection is utterly still. I scratch and dig at my stinging neck. I am bleeding, but my reflection is clean and whole. I want to scream, but my voice is held hostage by an invisible force.

Then, with a sudden finality, the mirror topples forward and shatters into a million pieces in a high-pitched crash. 

My sister runs in to find me sitting amid the remnants of the disaster, my face white in shock. I hardly notice as she angrily sweeps the mess around my legs and attempts to force me to my feet. Finally, in a fit of frustration, she directs me to go home early. She stalks away, and I realize that I haven’t moved. 

The sun in the sky sinks lower still, and a tiny glare of light in my eyes brings my attention to a missed shard of glass. I reach out and pick it up, bringing it close to my face so that I can see my image within it. 

The eyes that look back at me are different. They are my own, but they are shallow and cold. They ask me a question the way that intimate friends do: with a simple look.

Do you know what you did?

I wonder what and when was my first sin. The tiny, possibly thoughtless action that turned me from entirely innocent to partially evil. The first lie told, first harm inflicted, or first hateful intention carried out. 

Do you know what you did?

It depends, I suppose, on what specifically you are asking. I know that I have lied, and I have hurt, and I have hated. But I have done so often enough that I cannot exact what you are referring to.

I toss the shard of glass across the room. I lie back on the dusty floor. I try to forget. I try to shake this feeling that someone is watching me.

I spend my evening drowning my consciousness in a book. My mind floats with imagery of fairies, and magic, and inherent goodness that always wins in the end. One by one, the members of my family say their goodnights and retreat upstairs. The room grows desolate and dark—soundless but for the rhythmic ticking of the clock above the mirror.

I try to stay focused on my book, but the ticking seems to grow louder with every second that passes. I find that I can no longer ignore the shadows that ominously lurk and plot in every corner. When the clock strikes twelve, I set my book down.

There is someone watching me, but I know I can’t hide from her anymore.

I look up at the mirror that hangs on the wall directly in front of me. My reflection is there again, but she no longer wears the guise of my appearance. She is me, but she is small and scared, her face softer and her hair thinner. She is me before I saw the world as anything more complex than light and dark, happy and sad, good and evil. 

She is covered in blood, and regarding me with hatred. Her pure green eyes water with tears that fight not to spill. 

“You killed me.” She says in a strained voice so quiet it is barely more than a whisper.

“I know.” I say back.

A teardrop rolls down her cheek, and then she vanishes. The mirror is overcome by my face, eyes dulled by purple crescents, and neck red and raw. I sit at the mirror and wait, until the moon is forced down by the sun, and outside trees rustle, and wind blows, and apples fall as the world is illuminated in beautiful death. 

I never see my reflection again.