A Ripple in the Glass - A Short Story

A Short Story - A Ripple in the Glass

Penulis: Grace Prikasih – UKI

“I slipped beneath the silver skin,
A breath erased, a fading grin.
I reach, unseen, through glass and fear—
A name forgotten, trapped in here.”

Gilded Walls, Restless Soul

I didn’t plan on ending up at Hotel Spiegelvallei.
Honestly, it was more of an escape than a vacation.

Back home, everything felt too loud. My thoughts, my apartment, the people asking if I was “doing okay.” My therapist suggested a change of scenery, and I—being a responsible adult with totally functional coping mechanisms—opened a travel website and booked the cheapest room in a place that looked fancy enough to pretend I had my life together.

That’s how I found Spiegelvallei.

The reviews said it was “classic,” “quiet,” “a perfect retreat for the burnout traveler.”
I figured that meant old, but charming. And quiet is all I wanted. Quiet and space—somewhere my thoughts wouldn’t bounce off the walls and back into me.

When I arrived, I realized the hotel was a bit more old than charming. The lobby was dim, with polished floors that reflected the chandeliers like puddles of gold. Mirrors lined the walls—tall, antique ones with silver frames carved like vines. My reflection followed me everywhere I walked, like pieces of me scattered across the room.

Still, I joked to myself that the place had personality. The kind of personality that probably whispers to guests at night, but hey—what hotel doesn’t?

The receptionist gave me a room on the sixth floor.
“Good view,” she said.

Sure. A good view of my attempt at not falling apart.

The first few days weren’t bad. I actually felt… lighter. I slept. I wrote a bit. I went out, tried new food, took photos of random streets as if I was discovering myself or whatever people say in self-help books.

I even laughed at myself—quietly—when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and gave myself a pep talk like an idiot.
“You’re doing great,” I told my reflection.
He didn’t believe me, but he played along.

Then, on the fourth night, I woke up.

2:17 a.m., exactly.

At first, I thought it was the usual night anxiety—the kind that sits on your chest and refuses to move until you acknowledge it. But then I heard something.

A tap.

Soft. Delicate. Like fingernails on glass.

I opened my eyes slowly, expecting maybe someone at the door.

But the sound wasn’t coming from the door.
It came from the mirror beside the bed.

I pulled myself up on my elbows and stared at it through the darkness. The surface was still, reflecting only the faint outline of my body. No movement. No shadow. No hand.

Just me.
Just… me.

My heart beat too fast anyway.

I told myself it was probably the pipes. Old building, old noises. Or maybe my brain firing off a false alarm—it’s been doing that a lot lately.

In the morning, I typed into my blog:

“Probably just me… probably just the illness.”

I tried to keep it casual. Tried to turn it into a joke:
“My schizophrenia doing community theatre at 2 a.m.”

But when I closed the laptop, something inside me felt off—like the room was tilted slightly toward the mirror.

As if whatever was behind the glass was leaning closer.
Waiting.

A Smile in the Empty Hallway

The strange things didn’t stop at the tapping on the mirror.

They got worse.

At first, it was just a feeling. That tight, invisible pressure on the back of my neck, like someone was standing too close behind me. I kept turning around in the hallways, expecting to see a guest or a staff member.

But it was always empty.

Empty… yet not.

I started pacing. I didn’t even notice at first. I’d find myself walking up and down the same stretch of hallway outside my room, muttering under my breath as if someone were next to me. Sometimes I’d stop mid-sentence because I felt something breathe in my ear.

One night, I caught myself pressed into a corner, whispering “Please stop” to nothing.

Or maybe not nothing.

I wrote in my blog:

“There’s a shadow behind me. I know there is. I can hear someone whisper my name when the lights flicker. I swear there are eyes… on the ceiling. Watching.”

The words didn’t calm me this time. They made it worse.
Like I was documenting my own unraveling.

A few days later, the hotel staff knocked on my door.

“There have been complaints,” they said gently.
“Guests heard noises… pacing… talking. Are you feeling alright?”

I nodded. Lied.
Said I’d try to keep it down.

They smiled in that polite, distant way people do when they think your mind is slipping. When they think they know what’s wrong with you better than you do.

Later, I overheard them talking near the elevator.

“Poor boy,” one whispered. “Looks like a psychotic break.”

The worst part?
A part of me agreed.

But the other part—the part that stayed awake at night listening to whispers crawl along the walls—knew it wasn’t just me.

A few staff members checked the CCTV to reassure themselves nothing unusual was happening.

They showed me what they found.

There I was:
standing in front of my room, talking to empty air.
Peeking out my door like someone was stalking me.
Backing into corners with my hands up, waving them in a desperate, pleading motion.
My face pale, eyes darting like a trapped animal.

I almost didn’t recognize myself.

The staff exchanged that look again—the “he’s not well” look.

But I saw something they didn’t mean for me to see.

In one frame, just behind me—barely visible—
a thin shadow stretched across the hallway floor.

No source.
No person.
No explanation.

Just a shape.
Flat. Wrong.
As if it wasn’t part of the room at all, but belonged to something… on the other side.

I pointed at it. Hands shaking.
“Did you see that? Behind me—”

They blinked.
Brows furrowed.

“There’s nothing there, Skye.”

I stared at them.

And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t tell if they were lying—
or if the shadow didn’t show up for anyone except me.

Either way, it meant the same thing.

I was alone.

And something was following me.

When My Reflection Stopped

I barely remember reaching the upper floors.

All I know is that something was whispering to me—soft, right against my ear, like cold breath sliding down my neck. I kept swatting at it, turning around, stumbling down the old carpeted hallways of Spiegelvallei. These floors were different… older. The mirrors here were tall, almost the height of the ceiling, placed so close together it felt like walking through a maze of my own warped reflections.

The lights flickered every time I passed beneath them.

Only around me.

My heart was slamming in my chest. I knew, I knew someone was behind me. Every footstep echoed twice—mine, and the one that wasn’t mine. I kept spinning around, but the corridor always stretched out empty. Silent. Dead.

Except for the mirrors.

My reflection always seemed a fraction slower than me. Just slightly delayed. Just slightly wrong.

I should have run.
I should have gone back to my room, packed my bags, fled the hotel entirely.
But something about the whisper… it felt like a hook lodged deep inside my mind, tugging me upward, step after step.

And then I found it.

The biggest antique mirror in the hallway—tall, silver-framed, its surface so clean it looked like a pool of black water.

I stopped.

I don’t know why.
Maybe I thought I’d confront whatever was haunting me.
Maybe I thought if I stared long enough, I’d see the truth.

But when I looked into the mirror…

My reflection didn’t move.

Not even a twitch.

I felt my breath freeze in my throat.
I blinked—hard.

My reflection didn’t.

Then, slowly… painfully slowly…
the reflection tilted its head to the side.

I did not.

My entire body went cold. My legs trembled beneath me.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—”

But the reflection smiled.

It was small. Wrong. Pulled too wide, like someone stretching skin that wasn’t meant to stretch.

And then it lifted its hand.

A hand made of shadow—distorted, too long, fingers tapering into points.
The mirror rippled, like water disturbed by a stone.

I felt something wrap around my ankle.

I didn’t see it.
But I felt it.

Something cold.
Thin.
Hungry.

It yanked.

My knees buckled. I hit the floor hard, palms scraping against the old carpet.
I dug my nails into the floor instinctively—dragging, clawing, trying to anchor myself to reality.

But the mirror wanted me.

The CCTV camera above flickered violently as my body jerked forward, inch by inch, dragged by an invisible force. I tried to scream, but only a strangled breath came out.

The corridor warped. The edges of my vision darkened. My reflection—no, the thing inside it—held out its hand, beckoning.

I felt the floor slip away beneath me.

My hands slid forward against the carpet—nails tearing it open, leaving thin scratch lines as I clawed desperately for something, anything, to hold onto.

“No—please—” The words scraped out of my throat.

Then my hand hit the glass.

But it wasn’t solid.

It swallowed me.

My fingers sank through first, then my wrist.
My arm.
My shoulder.

The surface was icy and thick, like pushing into a frozen lake.

I thrashed, but the more I fought, the faster I sank. The mirror pulled me with one smooth, merciless motion.

I saw my reflection up close now—face pressed against mine through the dark liquid glass.

It whispered something.

I couldn’t hear it.

And then—I was gone.

The place I were I was once stood are now empty. As if no one was ever there.

I am swallowed whole by the mirror.
Drag marks and frantic scratches the only proof I had ever been there at all.

The Hallway with No Footprints

When the hotel staff finally reach the upper hallway—just a few minutes after guests report hearing frantic footsteps—the corridor is silent.

Completely silent.

There is no broken mirror.
No shattered glass.
No blood on the carpet.
No sign that anyone had been dragged across the floor.

The antique mirror at the end of the hallway stands perfectly still, reflecting only the empty stretch of corridor… nothing more.

The only thing they find is Skye’s journal, lying open in the middle of the hallway as though he had dropped it mid-step.

One sentence stretches across the page, the ink smeared and trembling:

“Something is in the mirrors.”

When they review the CCTV footage later that night, they find only static and flickering frames. The camera logs show a “data error,” and the corrupted video displays nothing but an empty hallway. No Skye. No movement. No malfunction of the lights.

Nothing.

Authorities conduct a search of the hotel and the surrounding streets, interviewing staff and guests. No one saw Skye leave. No one saw him enter another room or take the stairs or exit the building.

He simply vanished.

The official report lists Skye Arden as missing.
The case quietly closes due to lack of evidence.

But among the hotel staff—those who worked the night he disappeared—none of them ever walk the upper floors alone again.

Not after what they heard:
the faint sound of fingernails scraping lightly against glass, long after the hallway was empty.

The Words Scratched in Silver

Several days later, during routine cleaning, one of the housekeepers pauses in the upper hallway. She has passed this mirror a hundred times before, always hurrying, always refusing to look directly at the glass for too long.

But today, something makes her stop.

Maybe it’s the cold draft brushing the back of her neck.
Maybe it’s the way the mirror seems darker than usual.
Maybe it’s the silence—so still it feels like held breath.

She glances at the mirror.

And in the corner of her eye, she sees him.

A pale figure standing inside the reflection, as if trapped behind the silver surface.
His face drained of color.
His eyes wide and glassy, unmoving.
His hand pressed flat against the inner side of the glass—begging, or warning, she can’t tell.

She gasps and whips around.

The hallway is empty.

When she looks back, the mirror shows only her own trembling reflection.

She quits two days later.
Refuses to speak about what she saw.

But the staff who stay long enough…
who work the late shifts…
who walk the upper corridors when the guests are asleep…
they hear things.

Soft fingernails tapping from inside the antique mirror.
A quiet breath behind their ear.
A voice that isn’t quite a voice.

And sometimes—
when the hallway is dark and the mirrors stand perfectly still—
thin lines appear on the glass surface, carved from the inside, slow and deliberate.

Forming the same words Skye left behind:

“What is real anymore…”

Some swear they’ve seen a hand sliding back into the darkness right after.

Others swear the handwriting changes—
getting shakier.
More desperate.

Whatever the truth is, the staff avoid the upper floors.
And none of them, not anymore, look directly into the mirrors.

Not after Skye.

Not after they realized the glass…
is never empty.

*****

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