The hallway mirror.

It hangs there, on the wall, staring at me. It's watching me now, waiting patiently to strike again.

There is no escape for me.

I can see it, from here in my study; I can see it on the wall, carrying the stench of blood with it. The smell is getting stronger; it's only a matter of time now. How long can I stand the stench, the horrible stench of death?

So I write hurriedly, determined to beat the clock. I have not slept; I have not eaten. I just write, tale after tale of the bloody hallway mirror.

This is the first story, the first time it happened. Before I knew. Before everyone called me insane. Back when I was free, free of the mirror and the stench of blood.

Please, keep in mind that I am not mad. I am perfectly sane. I just reside in the trap of the mirror, the bloody hallway mirror.

I grew up as the child of a wealthy man. He was vain, and proud, and had a room completely covered in mirrors. The walls, the floors, the ceiling – all made of mirrors. The door was always kept locked, but I knew where my father hid the key.

If ever I was home alone, I'd retrieve the key from the shelf, unlock the door, and stare at myself for hours. I was careful; oh so very careful – I left the door open, and the window, so I knew when someone arrived home. The servants never came into my father's private chambers, which is where the entrance to the reflection room resides, so I was safe on that account.

I was careful – too careful, perhaps. I left no imprint of my visits to that room; I left the key exactly where and how I'd found it.

But somehow, he found out. I don't know how he did it – perhaps he had a servant spy on me, perhaps he knew some dark magic – but he found out nonetheless.

He kicked me out of the house, leaving me to live on the streets. A few weeks passed; long, cold, hungry weeks that left me stuttering for survival. But, at last, misfortune had mercy on me and led me to an old, abandoned house.

It was a rickety house; a forgotten house. Nobody had been in here for perhaps centuries, for it was covered in dust and spiders and misery.

With what little money I had, I purchased some cleaning tools and set to work. Long, hard hours I laboured on this house, scrubbing and brushing and mopping until everything was spotless.

By some miracle, the power worked, and the hot water. I don't know who paid for the house – I still don't know who pays for it, for it's certainly not me, although the hot water still runs fine – but it was a place to live.

Who was I to question justice?

To my dismay, however, there was only one mirror in the entire house. The floor plan was so open you could see it from nearly anywhere in the house, that hallway mirror. It hung – still hangs, even now – on the wall, reaching nearly from floor to ceiling, framed by an extravagant gold pattern.

I used to stand in front of the mirror, that hallway mirror; stand and stare at myself for hours, days, weeks at a time. Or that's how it would feel, anyway.

I don't truly know when it began, if it ever did begin; but I first noticed it not too long after I moved in. Sometimes my reflection would lag a split second behind, or it wouldn't blink when I did, and if you looked close enough it was always a little fuzzy around the edges.

I chalked the lagging and lack of blinking up to my tired mind, and the fuzziness to poor eyesight. Back then, I didn't know any better. I didn't know – how could I have known? – that it was the start of a horrible nightmare.

Eventually I started noticing it more and more. The lagging got worse, happened more frequently. My reflection got fuzzier and fuzzier until I couldn't deny it anymore.

And then my reflection disappeared.

I still don't know, in the confusion of looking at the mirror, if my reflection truly does disappear every time, or if it grows so fuzzy my mind refuses to process it. Whichever way you look at it; my reflection was gone.

I panicked, that first time. I refused to sleep, refused to eat; I refused to leave the house. Days passed, weeks passed; months, years, decades passed and still my reflection was gone.

Then came a knock on my door. I woke from my stupor, found it was four in the afternoon, and went to answer the door.

A child stared back at me, with perfect green, almond-shaped eyes and adorable, fluffy black hair.

He gave me a lopsided smile and asked for his friend to come play.

I told him his friend didn't live here. Looking back at it, I should have left it at that. I should have slammed the door, should have told him to leave me be; better he think I was rude than what truly happened next.

I invited him inside.

I had hot chocolate ready, and some scones on a plate, with more in the oven. I forgot about my missing reflection for a moment and invited the child inside.

The child – was he six? Seven? I don't know – smiled happily and walked into my lounge room. Sam, his name was – I only found this out later, much later, when I saw his name in the newspaper.

Little Sam looked at me with his perfect green eyes and thanked me joyfully when I gave him his hot chocolate and buttered his scones. He looked around and saw the hallway mirror.

It was a joy to have him at first. I loved listening to his chatter, tiring though it was. He left that first day happy and healthy, singing along to his favourite song.

He came back. Sam came back once a week to have biscuits and hot chocolate, or tea and scones, and chat with me.

But, over time, I grew tired of his chatter. I started looking at the mirror, seeing his reflection happy and healthy as he was, whilst mine was still missing. In the mirror, the child sat alone on the couch, chatting away to no-one.

Then, as he left on a day some five or six weeks after we'd met, I decided I'd had enough.

Why did he get a reflection in the hallway mirror? Why was mine missing and his still there?

The child didn't deserve a reflection. His green eyes now portrayed as ugly in my mind, his black hair fluffy and disgusting.

So the next time he visited, I acted nice at first. Never before had I been so kind to the small boy; never before had I given him so many biscuits or smiles.

But then, just as he was leaving, I struck.

I don't remember what happened. I remember clearly the aftermath – red, sticky blood on the timber floor, a butter knife in the child's head, the echo of a scream. But the moment of killing – the only memory I have is knowing exactly what I was doing.

It took a while to clean up, that first time. I had the impression I was being watched – but who else was in the house but the hallway mirror and the dead child?

I discovered a safe behind the mirror, the hallway mirror – I hid the body there. The door was thick; you could smell nothing. You couldn't see anything, either – not once you swung the mirror back into place.

I cleaned the blood calmly, never panicking; oh so carefully I concealed his body in the safe behind the mirror. And still the police came to my door – bang, bang, bang – and demanded I grant them entry.

I opened the door with a concerned look on my face. I asked them if anything was wrong – for they wouldn't find anything if they looked.

The neighbours had heard a scream, and called the police. They were doing a routine check to make sure nothing was out of place.

I invited them inside, told them to look around. The scream had been my own, I claimed, at seeing a spider in my shoe. The police accepted that story dubiously, but after they'd searched and searched and never found decided that nothing was out of place.

I invited them for hot chocolate and scones. I carefully washed that butter knife – using a strong detergent, so that they wouldn't notice the taste of blood – and buttered their scones for them, never once looking in the mirror.

The policemen sat and chatted for a while; they made small talk about the weather and other such things. I joined in the conversation, giving my input into everything I could.

But then I glanced in the mirror – that bloody hallway mirror – and uttered a scream. For my reflection was back, but no longer was it the epitome of beauty as I remembered it to be.

My head squashed and misshapen; my hair greasy and gray instead of shiny and blonde. My eyes green, the same green as Sam's had been, instead of their usual gentle blue. Blood dripped from my hands onto the timber floor, but I couldn't tear my eyes away to check if it was true.

I could feel it, the blood, coating my hands. The stench crawled up my nose and down my throat, filling my entire being with the smell of blood.

The policemen took no notice of my scream, of my discomfort – they didn't notice the monstrosity I had become. I could hear them chatting from a million miles away – and, even as I watched, my reflection turned to them of its own accord; I was forced to follow its actions.

I became terrified, the stench of blood emanating from the hallway mirror making my mind clouded and my stomach nauseous, that my reflection would give away my secret.

Desperate to prevent it, I screeched to the policemen.

"In the mirror, it's in the mirror!"

I tried to make them understand that my reflection was the one to blame, but they heard nothing. I was not truly talking, just raving about it being in the mirror, that blasted bloody hallway mirror!

They found him; they found Sam. I was arrested and served my time in jail. It is several years later now, and many stories similar to this first have occurred. Sam was the only one they'd ever found; I was more careful after that.

But my reflection is watching me now, waiting for me. It never blinks, never misses a move I make, repeating my movements back to me; mocking me, taunting me.

Even now, almond-shaped green eyes and the stench of blood haunt my nightmares.

And my reflection is fuzzy around the edges again.