The Mirror in Ben’s Room
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The Mirror in Ben’s Room
The mirror arrived on a rainy Thursday.
Jake hadn't expected much when he bought it online—a scratched, antique-looking frame from the estate of a "well-known retro gaming collector." It was listed under Obscure Memorabilia > Paranormal Lot, and the seller’s description had been vague, but catchy:
“Found in the game room of a deceased collector. Unusual reflective properties. Handwritten warning carved into back. Sold as-is. No returns.”
Jake loved that kind of stuff. He ran a YouTube channel called Glitched & Haunted, where he explored spooky tech stories, urban legends, and haunted game cartridges. Creepypasta gold. His audience loved it when things felt off.
So when the mirror arrived—wrapped in yellowing newspapers and an unsettling amount of tape—he was thrilled.
It wasn’t especially large. Oval. Dusty silver frame, tarnished like old bones. And on the back, etched into the wood, were seven words:
“DO NOT REFLECT THE CARTRIDGE. BEN WATCHES.”
Jake grinned.
“Oh hell yes.”
He placed it in the corner of his bedroom studio, behind his shelf of retro consoles. The lighting was perfect. He didn’t notice at first that the reflection in the mirror was slightly delayed.
Not like a lag. More like… something else was thinking about what it should show you.
Later that evening, Jake was filming.
The episode was about haunted Nintendo games—an obligatory Majora’s Mask segment, of course. He reached into his drawer and pulled out his copy of the game, the label faded, the cartridge slightly cracked.
As a joke, he decided to test the mirror warning on camera.
He turned, held the cartridge up toward the mirror behind him, and tilted his head to look over his shoulder.
The reflection was wrong.
At first it was just darker than the room should’ve been. Then the angle shifted… slightly… like the mirror had panned on its own. And in the space behind him, just behind his right shoulder, stood someone.
A boy.
Gray skin. Black hair. Blood running from empty sockets. Mouth stitched shut.
Jake turned instantly.
No one there.
He looked back at the mirror.
The boy was closer now.
The reflection was still moving.
Jake stared in horror as the figure behind him tilted its head. Not in real time. The way it moved—it was delayed, fragmented, like bad VHS tracking. And then the mouth began to open.
Stitches peeled away like rotting thread.
Jake dropped the cartridge.
That night, strange things began.
The mirror, which faced the room’s only window, stopped reflecting sunlight.
When he turned off the lights, the mirror still showed faint illumination—from inside itself. A glow like moonlight over murky water.
And in that faint shimmer… shapes moved.
The cartridge glitched.
Badly.
When he booted it up again—out of morbid curiosity—the title screen was wrong.
The “Press Start” text stuttered and faded in and out.
Link’s idle animation didn’t blink.
He just stared straight forward.
Then the screen flashed white, and for a second Jake saw something that made his heart lock in his chest:
LINK
YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE THAT.
He pulled the cartridge. Threw it across the room.
But the reflection in the mirror stayed.
Over the next few days, Jake began documenting what he called “the bleed-through.” His room felt wrong. He’d hear the Song of Healing playing faintly from old electronics. TVs would flicker blue and green. His laptop crashed every time he tried to delete the game files he’d captured.
And the mirror?
It was changing.
The glass had begun to ripple, like water under tension. And behind the ripples—Ben.
Not just standing anymore. Watching.
Moving.
He’d pace back and forth in the mirrored world, sometimes vanishing behind Jake’s reflection. Sometimes pressing his face to the inside of the glass. Blood streaks would appear on the inside surface of the mirror, fading like breath.
Jake tried covering it with a sheet.
The sheet would be on the floor by morning.
The final night, Jake went live.
He looked tired. Hollow-eyed.
“I’ve decided to show you all something I shouldn’t,” he said to the camera, voice trembling. “I’ve been documenting this for days. I know now this was a mistake. But you have to see it.”
He turned the camera to face the mirror.
He held the cartridge up again, this time in front of the lens.
The reflection didn’t show him anymore.
It showed his room—but empty.
And Ben.
Standing in the middle.
Then, suddenly—Ben turned.
Not toward Jake.
Toward the camera.
The live feed cut to black.
The police found Jake’s room in disarray.
No sign of forced entry. No signs of struggle—except for one thing:
The mirror was gone.
So was the cartridge.
All that remained was the camera—still recording—aimed at the spot where the mirror had been.
In the audio?
Just whispers.
Looped over and over:
“You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you?”
Now, sometimes, people claim to see Jake’s stream go live again—just for a second—before vanishing.
The stream title always reads:
BEN’S ROOM – DO NOT REFLECT
And in the static, behind the flickering light…
A boy is watching.
Still bleeding.
Still waiting.
And now that you’ve read this?
Check your mirror.
If you see something move—don’t turn around.
Because Ben isn’t in the game anymore.
He’s in the room.
The End
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Life is sometimes like a picture and perhaps two rooms emerge from it, a good one and a puzzle.