The Last Mirror in the House

She had not looked in a mirror for eleven years. Not since the night she saw something standing behind her that was not there when she turned around.

The mirrors in her apartment were all covered. Black cloth over the bathroom. A sheet over the hallway. She had learned to apply her makeup by touch, by memory, by the way her fingers knew her face better than any reflection ever could.

The Last One

There was one mirror she had never covered. The one in the bedroom that came with the apartment. It was bolted to the wall — she had tried to remove it the first week. The screws would not turn. She had painted over it instead, thick white paint, three coats. But every morning she woke to find the paint cracked, and beneath the cracks, something like eyes.