Blink First
My reflection smiled before I did, so I smashed the bathroom mirror.
Every shard showed me standing behind myself.
Bathrooms combine mirrors, drains, locked stalls and moments when people expect privacy. These short stories turn ordinary plumbing and reflections into compact horror.
Every story here follows the same rule: exactly two sentences. The first sentence establishes a stable reality; the second sentence changes what the first one meant.
My reflection smiled before I did, so I smashed the bathroom mirror.
Every shard showed me standing behind myself.
My bathroom reflection has started copying me half a second too late.
This morning it finished shaving before I picked up the razor.
After my shower, words appeared in the fogged mirror telling me not to turn around.
The handwriting matched the message carved into the back of the glass.
Room service called to ask whether I wanted breakfast sent up again.
I had not ordered the first tray, and the dirty dishes were stacked inside my shower.
I found a knot in my hair so tight I had to cut it out.
The severed knot crawled under the bathroom door.
I heard my shower turn on while I was watching television alone downstairs.
Before I could move, wet footprints appeared on the ceiling above me.
A second wet toothbrush appeared beside mine in the bathroom cup.
The mirror fogged from a shower that had never been turned on.
The highway rest area looked normal until I noticed every parked car had the same license plate as mine.
Inside the bathroom, every stall was occupied by someone wearing my shoes.
Someone in the last bathroom stall kept coughing even after the building closed.
When I looked under the partition, the feet were standing on the ceiling.
The shower curtain bulged inward while I brushed my teeth alone.
When I pulled it open, the bathroom door behind me slammed shut.
A long strand of black hair kept coming out of the sink drain when I pulled it.
I stopped when something beneath the pipe pulled back.
The bathroom light burned out while I was looking in the mirror.
My reflection stayed visible.
Every stall in the empty highway restroom showed OCCUPIED.
One by one, the locks began sliding open.
I heard whispering through the bathroom pipes after the neighbors moved out.
The voices stopped when I flushed and started screaming from the wall.
A dark waterline appeared around the dry bathtub every morning.
Today there were finger marks above it.
The medicine cabinet mirror opened by itself while I was washing my face.
There is no cabinet behind it, only another bathroom with someone washing my face.
The restroom hand dryer turned on every time I entered the empty bathroom.
Tonight it whispered my name through the fan.
The mirror selfie looked normal until I zoomed in on the shower behind me.
Someone had written SEE YOU TOMORROW in the steam.