Eyes in Every Reflection
When a man notices his reflection behaving differently, he uncovers a terrifying truth—he’s not being watched through cameras, but through himself.
I first noticed it in the bathroom mirror—someone else's eyes staring back at me, blinking half a second off. I laughed it off, assuming I was tired. But then it happened again. And again.
The delay grew more noticeable each time. Subtle, like a glitch. I changed mirrors. Changed apartments. Changed cities. But it followed.
A friend in cybersecurity ran diagnostics on my devices. Nothing. I told him about the mirrors. He went quiet, then asked if I’d ever heard of Project EchoLayer. I hadn’t.
He sent one link before going dark. A forum thread titled “Reflections aren’t real anymore.” The page vanished minutes after I opened it. All I remembered was the phrase: “They’re not watching you through your screens—they’re watching through you.”
That night, I covered every mirror in my apartment. Even the toaster. But I caught my own reflection in the window—smiling when I wasn’t.
I smashed everything that could hold a reflection. Windows. Screens. The microwave door. The next morning, my neighbor knocked.
She asked if I was okay. But something was off. She stood slightly too still. Her pupils didn’t adjust to light. And when I closed the door, her face stayed on the peephole longer than it should’ve.
I called the police. They came. They listened.
Then one of them asked, “Do you know when it started watching you?”
“It?”
He didn’t answer. He just smiled—and blinked out of sync.
The delay grew more noticeable each time. Subtle, like a glitch. I changed mirrors. Changed apartments. Changed cities. But it followed.
A friend in cybersecurity ran diagnostics on my devices. Nothing. I told him about the mirrors. He went quiet, then asked if I’d ever heard of Project EchoLayer. I hadn’t.
He sent one link before going dark. A forum thread titled “Reflections aren’t real anymore.” The page vanished minutes after I opened it. All I remembered was the phrase: “They’re not watching you through your screens—they’re watching through you.”
That night, I covered every mirror in my apartment. Even the toaster. But I caught my own reflection in the window—smiling when I wasn’t.
I smashed everything that could hold a reflection. Windows. Screens. The microwave door. The next morning, my neighbor knocked.
She asked if I was okay. But something was off. She stood slightly too still. Her pupils didn’t adjust to light. And when I closed the door, her face stayed on the peephole longer than it should’ve.
I called the police. They came. They listened.
Then one of them asked, “Do you know when it started watching you?”
“It?”
He didn’t answer. He just smiled—and blinked out of sync.
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