In the mornings, the day took Time's baton from the night, and ran across the sky until they met again to hand it back. The day's contrail was sunlight, a welcome blaze to brighten and inspire.

To some, sunlight revitalised. To some, sunlight renewed entirely.

To Cassidy, sunlight blinded.

He blinked, shielding his eyes from the light streaming in through his bedroom window. At first, he was confused. He shouldn't have had to protect himself from the light. It was night time, and the blind was closed. There would only be the slight glow at the blind's edges. It wouldn't be so dazzling.

He waited a few moments, still shielding and blinking, until his eyes had adjusted to the glare, then he sat up.

Where was his quilt? Why was the mattress so ha...

Cassidy looked around. He was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, by the door of the wardrobe. The window blind was all the way up, allowing the sun to shove its colossal head in his face and give him a welcome early morning headache.

What? Why wasn't he in bed?

He looked around again, realisation taking the place of the sunlight to temporarily blind him. He'd been awake in bed. No, not in bed, but going to bed. No, trying to. Something was stopping him. Something... What was...?

He understood, being next to the wardrobe, what else he was near. He didn't know why he was on the floor waking up, but the last thing he saw flashed in his mind, banishing the glaring effects of the sun. He looked up.

I'm Amy.

He felt suddenly queasy, with pressure at the back of his throat threatening him with an eruption of vomit. He swallowed it back down and held his head until the sensation passed. When it had, he slowly pushed himself to standing, avoiding the mirror's message. He knew he'd have to look, but he needed to prepare himself first.

Cass took a deep breath. Two. It was as steady as he was going to be, albeit not very, so he faced the mirror.

I'm Amy.

It was still there, waiting for him.

Well, he had introduced himself, so it would only be polite for the other to do the same. 'Other' was the only term he could think of. They couldn't be a person, that much was apparent. They also could not be a ghost. He didn't believe in them, so they didn't exist.

He had wondered, in the past, if such things were only real for the believers. A ghost could haunt you, because ghosts were real to you. You'd go to Heaven because you had faith in God, or the alternative versions of both. In some far-off sea, Merpeople swam. If you didn't believe, as was the case with him, you would never experience or meet any of them.

The writing was real, but none of the explanations for its existence could be. He'd have to concentrate on it alone, and ignore any thoughts of its origin until they became apparent. If that shook, or completely trashed, his beliefs, he would deal with it when (if) it happened.

"Hi, Amy," he said.

He managed a smile, not that anyone could see it.

The change was instantaneous. As if a living thing, the substance that made up the letters moved. making up the letters moved. It scurried across the surface like tiny ants trying to keep up with their colony. When it stopped, new words had formed. More words, requiring more of the lipstick ink, yet nothing had appeared to add any.

He'd witnessed the transformation. Whatever his beliefs, he'd seen it occur with no outside influence. The deep breath he took to aid his acceptance leaked out through his nostrils like the ectoplasm he so vehemently denied.

Hello Cassidy. Do you live here now?

He nodded. He could see himself from the point of view of a visitor to the room, watching him speak to the mirror. He knew how he would seem and could understand exactly why. He could, he thought, completely ignore the writing. He could put the mirror back inside the wardrobe, or dispose of it completely. He'd not be bothered by the phenomenon anymore. He knew he wouldn't, though. He was fully involved and turning his back on it would prod at his mind incessantly.

"I do," he said. "I've been here a couple of days."

Lipstick sliding across glass. Ants hurrying.

Do you like it?

He did when he thought it was a simple house. When an old wardrobe was just that, and a haunted mirror was nonsense.

"Yes, I do. It's nice."

I agree. It is, or it could be.

The place needs a bit of paint and some fresh wallpaper.

The last word barely fit on the glass. It was right at the bottom and the lipstick used was too thick for finesse. The unseen hand doing the writing was steady and fairly neat, but even that couldn't avoid 'wallpaper' looking more like willpipir. Not all the punctuation was there, either, but Cassidy's mind automatically inserted it. He suffered from mild OCD, which only really exhibited itself in straightened tea and coffee cannisters and parallel remote controls. He also had to visualise badly punctuated sentences correctly. It was a habit he didn't notice anymore, apart from a tensed shudder jabbing at his shoulders.

Cass nodded. It did, but that was one of the things he liked about the house. He could make it entirely his, from top to, more or less, bottom. Rather than being intimidated by the amount of work it would require, it excited him.

"Who are you?" he asked, wanting to put a name to his delusion, if he was deluded.

I'm Amy.

"Yes, Amy who?"

I'm Amy.

OK. The lack of a surname didn't limit the research available to identify 'Amy.' It wouldn't be difficult. How many women with that first name would have lived there? He'd have to investigate to see how thoroughly the culprit had studied the role they were taking on. It may well be someone called Amy, and it could easily be someone called Elise. The how and why were things for later. The who was the immediate question.

"Well, hello Amy. How are you?"

He almost asked who, but decided how was a better way to discover more. Sound interested, which he genuinely was anyway. She, he or they, for the gender was still unknown, would be more likely to share, or let slip, information.

I'm good, thank you. I'm pleased to meet you.

Good? Would a dead person say that? The swarm of ants morphed into another message.

It's been too long.

"What has?"

Since someone spoke to me.

Hmmm. Since someone spoke to her? Did that imply she'd spoken and been ignored? Or was this all part of the ruse? The building up of the character and back story?

"How long?"

Well, never.

Cassidy felt suddenly sorry for her. Giving 'Amy' the benefit of a great deal of doubt, to never have had a conversation... Wait. That just wouldn't happen. No one could go through life without a single dialogue.

"What do you mean?"

The lipstick ants faded, like ice melting under a hot sun, leaving the mirror clear. He waited for a response. None came.

"Amy?"

Nothing. Silence, if an exchange where one side was entirely in text could be classed as silent. Cass couldn't help feeling angry towards her. She'd coerced him into answering the bizarre messages. She had made him feel concerned for her welfare, however briefly it lasted. He'd almost believed her.

Almost. The deceased would not refer to their situation as 'good.' Being dead was decidedly not good. That gave it away. It was all just a sham. A stupid, elaborate hoax. But why? Who? And how?

Why would anyone do this to him? Was it the previous owner of the house using a remote controlled mirror? With his interest in connected homes and all types of gadgets, Cass knew there was a plethora of devices on the market. He also knew smart mirrors were enormously expensive. They wouldn't be, at least not yet, so early in their development, as think as this one. It was as thick as a normal mirror, with nowhere for the electronics to go. No mains lead or battery compartment. Or solar panels, either.

Perhaps that was why 'Amy' had stopped speaking to him. The batteries had died. It had been stuck to the back of the wardrobe for so long, they'd only managed a couple of messages before the power faded was gone.

When he moved the mirror from the inside to outside of the wardrobe, he had seen nothing, but he hadn't looked.

No, that was ludicrous. Things just weren't that advanced and, apart from that, there'd be no reason to. It wasn't something people actually did outside of the silver screen. Stalkers existed, but in a town like his, they wouldn't be so inventive. They'd use social media. Phones. They'd hide in gardens and use binoculars to see in bedroom windows. They'd follow their victims to the local shops and go through their bins. The normal, abnormal things stalkers did. Communicating through a Wi-Fi connected mirror to spy on someone and freak them out? No.

Who would want to do that to him? What did he have that anyone would want? Even if it was just for some bizarre idea of fun, Cassidy didn't think he was remotely interesting enough.

He looked more closely at the offending article to inspect it. There had to be something. An under-surface camera. Some sort of screen to display the text. He should be able to see the outline. There really wasn't one, not that the glass was thick enough to contain any electronics. He thought the mark across the top could hide something, but was mistaken. It was nothing more than his original thought. The smudge from a sweaty palm. He wasn't disgusted by its presence, after all, he left enough hand prints on surfaces in his life, and he regularly washed his hands Some people were just naturally clammy.

It was a mirror. Simply that. A thin sheet of glass with a silvered back. Nothing hidden or untoward. Nothing to indicate it was anything else.

So, what the fuck?

https://youtu.be/Q_WCU_oxIiA