I was headed to Brixton, trying to ignore the fact that I’d just bombed an interview I actually cared about. Took the top deck, headphones on, dead quiet except for my stupid overthinking brain.

Snapped this pic without much thought. The lighting was decent, jacket looked cozy, figured maybe I’d post it later with a self-pity caption.

Didn’t notice the window reflection until I was editing it that night.

In the far-right pane, just behind my seat—was a face.

Not mine. Not anyone on the bus.

It was someone outside, but weirdly close. Too clear for a street shot.

Messy blonde hair. High cheekbones. Looking directly at me.

And I swear on everything, I’ve seen that face before.

Two years ago, when I moved into my flat, there was a photo wedged between the floorboards of the hallway closet. An old passport-style one, curled with age. Same hair. Same stare.

I asked my landlord. He brushed it off. Said the last tenant left “in a rush.”

I didn’t think about it again. Until now.

So I zoomed in, cropped it, and sent the photo to my neighbor who works transport security.

I just asked, “Can you see who got off at Victoria around 3:30 today from the 88?”

He called me five minutes later and said—

“You’re not going to believe this, but that person… no one matching that description got on or off at any stop. And here’s the kicker—there’s no footage of anyone standing where that face appears in your selfie. No one. It’s just… blank glass.”

I went cold. He tried to say maybe it was a glitch, or something with the reflection, but I wasn’t convinced. That face was too real.

The next morning, I dug out the old photo from my drawer. Held it side-by-side with the cropped bus pic. It was the same person. I wasn’t imagining things.

At that point, curiosity overtook fear. I needed answers.

So I did something dumb. I went back to the flat’s closet, the one where I found the photo, and ripped up more of the floorboards. Underneath, there was a hollow. A shallow space between the wood and the foundation.

Inside it, I found a thin leather notebook, wrapped in what looked like an old dish towel. Dusty, brittle. I opened it carefully.

The handwriting was small, neat, written in blue ink. The first page read: “If you found this, I’m probably gone. My name is Anya. And I didn’t leave in a rush. I ran.”

My chest tightened. I kept reading.

She had moved into the flat five years ago. Thought it was a good deal. Cheap rent, central location, nice light. But soon, she started noticing small things: a broken mug she hadn’t touched, books slightly shifted, drawers left ajar.

She thought it was forgetfulness. Maybe even sleepwalking. Until she caught a glimpse of someone in the hallway mirror. Just a flicker. Blonde hair. A face like hers, but not quite.

She started documenting everything. Times, dates, what she saw. Who she told. There were entries about sleepless nights, how the figure would appear in reflective surfaces—never directly, never in person. Always just behind.

Then came the last entry, dated three years ago. “I think it wants me to leave. I think it feeds on staying hidden. But if I go, it’ll find someone else. If I disappear suddenly, don’t believe the landlord. He knows.”

That stopped me cold. The landlord.

I suddenly remembered the weird way he avoided eye contact when I signed the lease. How he hesitated when I mentioned the floorboards. And the fact that he never went inside, not even during inspections.

I called him that afternoon. Just to see. I asked if anyone named Anya had ever lived there.

His voice went tight. “I told you before, mate. The last tenant left quickly. Don’t go poking around, yeah? Flats like that… they got history. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

He hung up.

The thing is, I’ve never believed in ghosts. Still don’t, really. But something was going on here. Maybe not supernatural—but definitely messed up.

So I started digging into tenant records. Took a couple of nights, but I found something. A listing from five years ago. Flat rented to “Anya J. Dobrovska.” Paid three months in advance. No move-out record. No forwarding address.

I checked social media. Nothing. Just a locked profile with one blurry photo. Same messy blonde hair. Same face.

I messaged her. Didn’t expect a reply.

But two days later, I got one.

“I don’t know who you are. But if you’re in that flat, leave. You saw it, didn’t you?”

My heart dropped. I asked her, “What is it?”

Her reply: “I don’t know. But it mimics. It waits. It needs someone to see it. Once you do… it doesn’t let go.”

At that point, I barely slept. Every reflection—every bus window, every mirror, even the kettle—made me flinch. I started covering mirrors. Unplugged my TV. Stopped taking photos.

But the strange part? Nothing else happened.

Weeks passed. I still lived there. Still commuted. Still scrolled my phone like nothing had changed.

But the sense of being watched grew stronger. Not in a horror-movie way. More like… an itch in the back of my brain. A constant whisper.

Then one evening, I saw her again.

Not in a window this time. Not a reflection. She was sitting on a bench at the bus stop opposite my flat. Plain as day. Same jacket as the photo. Same posture.

I grabbed my coat and ran downstairs.

She wasn’t there. Just a damp bench and a newspaper fluttering in the wind.

But tucked under the bench was a piece of paper. Folded twice. My name was on it.

I opened it.

“You’re not the first to see me. But you might be the first to face me.”

That night, I made a decision. I would stop hiding.

So I sat in front of my bedroom mirror. Took the old photo of Anya and placed it beside me. Then I waited. Just stared at the glass. No music. No phone. Just me, my reflection—and whatever else might be watching.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

My reflection didn’t move. But in the corner of the mirror, just behind me, her face faded in. Slowly.

I turned quickly—but nothing there.

Back to the mirror. Still there. Just hovering. Not smiling. Not threatening. Just… watching.

And then, the face started to change.

It shifted. First subtly. Then more clearly. Until it wasn’t her face anymore.

It was mine.

Only older. Tired. Like a version of me who hadn’t slept in days.

And behind him, something else. A figure. Dark, blurry, indistinct.

I blinked, and it vanished.

But I understood something in that moment. The “thing” wasn’t hunting us. It was us. Or what we might become if we let fear take root. If we ignore the signs, the traumas, the truth.

Maybe that’s why Anya left. Maybe she saw what she could become. And chose to run before it consumed her.

But I didn’t want to run anymore.

So I started living differently. I moved out, sure—but not in fear. I moved forward. I reached out to people more. Took fewer selfies, but had more real conversations.

And weirdly, life got lighter.

Six months later, I got a message from Anya again. Just two words: “Thank you.”

Nothing else.

I replied: “For what?”

She didn’t respond. But maybe she didn’t need to.

Maybe by facing it, I gave her a kind of closure too.

And the final twist?

I bumped into my old landlord last week. He looked… different. Tired. Shifty. We made awkward small talk. Then he said, almost under his breath, “Flat’s still empty. No one lasts longer than a month now. Not since you left.”

I just nodded.

Some things, you can’t explain. But you can accept. You can choose not to be afraid.

And sometimes, the scariest thing isn’t the ghost in the mirror.

It’s the parts of ourselves we refuse to face.

But when we do?

That’s when the haunting stops.

If this story hit you in some way, share it. You never know who needs to see it. And hey—like the post too. Maybe it’ll reach someone still staring into their own mirror, waiting for an answer.