Mirrors were first conceived by humans over 6,000 years ago—from those polished obsidian stones our ancestors used to see themselves for the first time, to the modern glass mirrors we now find almost anywhere in the world. They've been used in everything from ancient rituals to deep psychological analysis. Over time, the mirror has become ingrained in our collective subconscious as one of humanity’s most powerful symbols. It represents self-awareness, identity, shadow, the reflection of the soul, truth, confrontation, dissociation, magic, dimensions, and the infinite.
Almost everyone has dreamed of mirrors at some point and questioned what they might mean.
What follows is an immersion into a lucid dream—or more accurately, a lucid nightmare.
It’s three in the morning. I’m in my bedroom, in my parents’ house. The night is so still, it feels as if the entire world has stopped. Darkness covers every corner, except for the thin slivers of light filtering through the blinds of the two windows beside my bed.
Slowly, I pull back the sheets and sit at the edge of the bed. The cold floor creeps up through the soles of my feet. I stand and walk to the door. When I open it, the hallway appears just as always: narrow, cold, and dark. To my left, a wooden railing borders the staircase, wrapping around an old, barely visible chandelier made of bronze and glass, hanging from the ceiling on a chain.
The thick shadows barely allow me to make out the door to my parents' room at the end of the hallway. To my right, beside my room, the bathroom door is slightly ajar.
I step in and turn on the light. As I lift my eyes, I see my reflection in the mirror. I freeze. I stare at myself. My image, oddly sharp and vivid, suggests something—something subtle yet undeniable. I’m in my underwear, torso bare, and behind me, the darkness of the house feels more oppressive than ever.
A shiver crawls down my spine, but I don’t look away. It’s as if the reflection is invading the room with its presence. I lean closer to the glass. A faint discomfort stirs in my mouth. I run my tongue along my teeth until I reach my upper right incisor. I touch it with my finger. It moves. There’s no pain, only an unpleasant sensation.
I step back slightly and gaze at my full face. Using my thumb and index finger, I gently grip the tooth and pull it out. There’s no blood. No pain. Just the empty space my tongue now explores.
Then, my reflection looks directly at me. Slowly, it extends its arm… offering the tooth.
Years later, I’m in my apartment. It’s three in the morning. I wake up with a strange pressure in my mouth. I get up and head to the bathroom. As I cross the doorway, the perspective shifts. I’m no longer in my apartment—I’m back in the bathroom of my parents’ house.
My breath quickens, my heartbeat pounds. I look at the mirror, uncertain, wondering if this is the same dream again. But something is off. I’m frozen in place, yet fully conscious. This has to be a dream—or so I think.
My reflection blinks, but I don’t. Then, it moves—as if following a predetermined script. I watch as it raises a finger to the same loose tooth. It wiggles it. Then it steps back slightly, revealing its entire torso. Calmly, it removes the tooth and drops it into the sink.
The sound of the tooth hitting the ceramic echoes inside my head. Then it pulls out the left incisor. And finally, the premolar. This time, it yanks with force—ripping away a chunk of jaw, gum, and several teeth.
My stomach churns, but I can’t look away—as if thorned vines were growing inside me, holding me in place. The mirror reflects the torn flesh, the bloody edges, the teeth still embedded in the bone. My reflection fixes its cold, empty gaze into mine. It extends its arm, offering the bloodied teeth in the palm of its hand.
Terror paralyzes me. The air thickens. The room feels like it’s collapsing inward. The space between us shrinks—until our eyes merge into one single stare.
I wake up with a jolt. The clock reads 3:15 a.m. I’m in my bed, in my apartment. Still breathless, my heart racing. My mouth is dry and sore. I stumble toward the bathroom.
I turn on the light. I look in the mirror. Something’s wrong.
There’s no reflection.
I take two steps back in shock—and bump into something. My mind breaks in that instant. A chill rushes up my neck and takes my breath away. This can’t be real…
Then, gently, it takes my hands from behind—and places each of its teeth into them.
At some point, we all had to confront the reflection of what we once were… or of what we most fear we might become.
And you? have you already recognized the shadow watching you from the other side?
