Reflections of Sarah

A short story by Tobias Malm

I was on duty when we got a call about a foul smell coming from an old house deep in the woods. I went out there with my partner to investigate. Only one person was registered at the address—a man named Thomas Nielsen. No one seemed to know him. He lived far enough off the grid to go mostly unnoticed. No one answered when we knocked, but after my partner tried the handle, we realized the door was unlocked. The stench inside was overwhelming.

“Mr. Nielsen?” I called out. “Hello?”

No response.

“You think he’s—”

“He’s a hoarder,” I interrupted. “I mean, look at all this junk. There are probably at least two dead cats in here somewhere.”

But the smell wasn’t from dead cats.

We found Mr. Nielsen sitting at the kitchen table. A shotgun lay on the floor beside him. Maggots writhed in the rotting flesh that had once been his face, and the only sound was the steady buzz of flies circling his body. We called for backup. There was no reason to suspect anything other than suicide.

A note sat on the table, placed atop a yellowed envelope. I put on my gloves and picked it up.

“I can’t take it anymore. The knocking won’t stop. To whoever finds this… Please help her. I’ve tried to explain everything in the letter.”

The envelope wasn’t sealed, and I could see that the letter inside stretched across several pages. My partner put on his gloves as well and picked it up. It wasn’t addressed to anyone.

“We shouldn’t read it,” I said as he slid the pages out of the envelope. “It’s evidence.”

“Relax,” he replied. “Aren’t you curious?”

We stepped out onto the porch to escape the stench. He brought the pages with him, and while we waited for backup, we gave in to temptation and read them.

What follows are the contents of Mr. Nielsen’s confession.

My daughter, Sarah, was diagnosed with cancer in 1967. The doctors said there was no cure. At most, she had a year. She was only seven. Losing a child… it’s not something you ever prepare for. It’s a kind of nightmare that strips you of everything—who you were, your future, your faith. You become a shadow of yourself, an empty shell, a husk of flesh with no spirit left inside.

My late wife, Olivia, couldn’t accept it. Of course, neither could I—it was, after all, unacceptable. But Olivia... she truly couldn’t let it go. She believed there had to be a way to save Sarah. She was ready to travel the world to find it, ready to sell our house—her soul, even.

She reached out to every scientist she could find, every dietician, every expert in every field even loosely related to health. She pushed for every experimental treatment, every alternative remedy, no matter how far-fetched. But Sarah kept getting sicker. Weaker.

Still, Olivia wouldn’t stop. In the end, she gave up everything—except her soul—to chase a cure. And that obsession… it’s what killed our marriage.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I still loved Olivia, but she was sacrificing everything—and in doing so, she was making things worse for Sarah. Maybe not directly, but the constant travel, the endless treatments, the false hope… it was taking a toll. What Sarah needed, I believed, was to be home with us, surrounded by love in her final months—not strung along by weekly disappointments. But Olivia wouldn’t listen.

Then one day, she vanished. No warning—just a note saying she’d gone to the tanner’s quarter, just off the dead-end passage called Derb el-Magana in Fez el-Bali, Morocco.

Sarah was bedridden by the time Olivia returned, a month later. With her, she brought a large crate, still dusted with desert sand. I don’t know how she paid for it—we’d already spent everything we had. Maybe she really sold her soul...

Inside the crate was a mirror, nearly the size of a door. Its frame was carved from a dark, resinous wood that gave off the faint scent of myrrh... and something fouler. It was covered in intricate patterns—Berber talismans, Arabic calligraphy—but the verses didn’t make sense. At the top, centered above the glass, was a sculpted eye that seemed to follow you no matter where you stood.

Seeing my reflection in that warped, ancient glass sent a chill through me.

When I asked Olivia why she’d brought it back, why she’d spent what little we didn’t have on it, she just said I wouldn’t understand—but begged me to let her try. She swore it would be the last attempt. After this, she’d stop. She’d accept fate, however cruel.

I should never have let her. I should’ve thrown that cursed mirror out the moment I saw it. But at the time… I didn’t know what was coming. And a part of me still hoped that letting her try one last time might bring her back to me—so I wouldn’t lose both my wife and my daughter.

I helped Olivia lean the mirror against the attic wall. Then she went downstairs and returned with her bag. From it, she pulled out an old sheet of parchment, covered in strange, ancient glyphs. I had no idea what language it was—if it even was a language—but Olivia claimed someone had taught her how to read it.

The moment she began reciting the verses, a deep unease settled in my chest. They sounded like chants—low, rhythmic, and unsettling. And then I saw something in the mirror.

Our reflections—mine and Olivia’s—were beginning to fade. Slowly, subtly… vanishing from the glass. That’s when true terror took hold. I had already lost my faith. But in that moment, I unwillingly found another. When Olivia stopped reading, I stood frozen, staring at the mirror. It now reflected only the room. We were no longer in it.

“Go get Sarah,” Olivia said, her voice distant, as though echoing from far away. "Hello?"

I blinked, startled.

“Go get Sarah,” she repeated, more urgently this time.

“W-why?” I asked. “What’s going to happen?”

“There isn’t much time,” she said. “You’ll see.”

I hurried downstairs and gently lifted Sarah from her bed. She was so frail, wincing with pain as I held her close and whispered soft reassurances. Clutching her to my chest, I struggled up the steps to the attic, each one feeling steeper than the last.

“What now?” I asked Olivia, breathless. “I’m not so sure about this… this is real. Real fucking magic.”

“What’s happening, Mommy?” Sarah asked, her voice small and confused.

“It’s going to be alright, love,” Olivia said softly. Then she looked at me, her eyes steady. “Step closer to the mirror. Let her touch the glass.”

She turned back to Sarah, still resting in my arms. “Did you hear that, sweetheart? I need you to put your palm against the mirror. Can you do that for me?”

“O-okay,” Sarah whispered.

As Olivia continued reciting the verses, something impossible began to happen—Sarah’s hand slowly started to pass through the surface of the mirror. I nearly dropped her in shock. When Olivia finished reading, she looked at me and said the “ritual” was complete. Then, calmly, she stepped forward, took Sarah from my arms, crouched down, and placed her into the mirror. Into it. And there, inside that eerie reflection… Sarah stood up. On her own. At the time, I thought it was a miracle. For the first time in weeks, she stood without help. Color returned to her cheeks. And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled.

“The pain is gone,” she said.

I stepped forward, instinctively trying to follow her, to hold her, to be with her. But I walked straight into cold, unyielding glass.

“What’s going on?” I asked, panic rising in my chest. “Why can’t I go in?”

“It only works for one person,” Olivia said quietly. “I don’t know exactly how it works… but she’s safe in there. Nothing ever changes in that place.”

“She can’t just live inside a mirror!” I cried. “She’s not trapped, is she?”

“She should be able to leave.” Olivia turned to the mirror. “Sarah, sweetheart, can you try to step back through?”

She could leave—but the moment she stepped through the glass, she collapsed. The cancer returned to her body in an instant. The mirror hadn’t cured her; it had only suspended the disease.

“This will buy us time,” Olivia said. “We’ll keep her inside the mirror for as long as we can—only letting her out on special occasions—until they find a cure… or until I find another way.”

“But there’s nothing in there for her,” I said. “Just the attic. Just this room.”

“Whatever we place in front of the mirror,” Olivia replied, “she should be able to use.”

And so began our new life. At first, it felt like a second chance—a life filled with renewed hope. We furnished the attic to meet Sarah’s every need. We gave her stuffed animals, toys, a bed, books—anything we thought might bring her comfort. We did everything we could to make her happy inside that strange, mirrored version of the attic. But there was one thing we couldn’t give her—freedom. And we couldn’t touch her. On rare occasions, we let her out. But we avoided it unless absolutely necessary. It felt too risky.

For a while—about a month—it worked. Our hopes were high. Sarah was happy. She could move freely again. She felt good. But once the novelty wore off, once she got used to having her health back, her joy began to fade. She missed her friends. She missed being able to hug us. She missed having a life that felt real.

Then we discovered something worse.

Though she was healthy inside the mirror, her illness wasn’t paused—only hidden. When we let her out after a few weeks, she was visibly sicker than before. So we stopped letting her out altogether. We didn’t know what would happen if the disease claimed her while she was inside. Would she still be able to return? I felt ashamed. I think Olivia did too. But what choice did we have? We weren’t going to give up on her. Not after everything. Not now.

After a year, the color had faded from Sarah’s face again—not from illness this time, but from being shut away from the outside world. She was growing pale from the lack of sunlight, her spirit dimming.

We talked about moving the mirror so it would face the window, letting in some light. But we didn’t know what might happen if we moved it while she was still inside. And after all this time, we didn’t dare let her out.

It became harder and harder to convince Sarah to stay inside. She didn’t understand the danger. Eventually, I had to move into the attic just to keep watch, to make sure she wouldn’t try to step out.

One night, I fell asleep. I woke to a sound—a soft thump—and my heart nearly stopped. Sarah had stepped out of the mirror. She lay collapsed on the floor, pale as a ghost. I rushed to her side, terrified she was already gone. But no—she was still breathing. I could feel a faint pulse. But her face… horrific tumors had overtaken it, disfiguring the sweet features I knew so well. Without thinking, I lifted her and pushed her back through the glass. Inside, she returned to the way she had been just moments before—smiling, whole, untouched by the disease.

After that, Olivia and I agreed: we had to make sure it never happened again. We installed a sheet of glass in front of the mirror, sealing her inside. She cried almost every night for a long time. And then… she just got used to it. We tried to keep her occupied—brought her new toys, more books, even a small bathtub when I could finally afford something nicer. Sarah wasn’t exactly happy, but over time, she forgot what a normal life felt like. She adapted.

And so, months turned into years.

Olivia had been right—nothing ever changed inside the mirror. Sarah wasn’t aging. Inside that world, she would remain seven years old forever. She would never grow up. Never experience anything beyond an endless childhood trapped in the reflection of an attic.

I questioned myself constantly. Believe me, I did. There were times I thought about ending it. Ending all of it. And every time, the thought filled me with shame and self-loathing. Sarah might not have had a normal life—she might not have been truly happy—but she was alive. She smiled sometimes. She told us she loved us. And however bad things were… I figured she didn’t want to die. So we kept her there.

Years turned into decades. I grew older, and so did Olivia. And then she got cancer. This time, there was no mirror. She passed away. Sarah didn’t take it well. It shattered what was left of her already fragile heart. She begged me to let her out. I told her it would kill her. She said she didn’t care anymore. Hearing that… it broke me. I thought about it—truly, deeply. But letting your own daughter die? I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.

That’s when resentment began to grow in her. She couldn’t stand to look at me. Couldn’t forgive me for not giving up on her. She was still seven years old, at least in body. Her mind, though—it had changed. She had lived through so much. Not experiences of the world, but of something else: endless isolation, sadness, hopelessness. And whatever she had become… it wasn’t a child anymore. It wasn’t something with a name. It was something she never wanted to be. And she hated me for it.

It got to the point where I couldn’t even walk up to the attic without it turning into a fight. So I stopped going. I’m so ashamed. I couldn’t bear to lose her—but I couldn’t face her either. After a few more years of this quiet hell—years spent cursing whoever had built that mirror without freezing the disease that, by now, could’ve been treated—I came to a decision.

I realized I couldn’t go on. Surviving my daughter was never something I could do. I’m so, so sorry. But now it’s up to you. I trust you’ll know what to do.

That was how the letter ended. My partner scoffed.

“Ramblings of a madman,” he muttered.

I nodded, though I couldn’t shake the discomfort settling in my chest.

“You don’t think we should check the attic?” I asked quietly.

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you believe in magic mirrors. Let’s just wait for the backup—”

“Shh!” I cut him off. “Did you hear that?”

There it was—a faint banging sound, coming from somewhere deeper in the house. My heart skipped. We stood still, listening. It was quiet—almost too quiet—but the sound was there.

“There’s someone in there,” I said, drawing my gun.

My partner did the same, and we stepped cautiously back inside.

“Hello?” I called out. “Is anyone here?”

We swept through the house again. The sound grew clearer, and we realized it was coming from above us—right above the folded attic ladder in the ceiling. My partner pulled it down. A wave of darkness greeted us. From here, the banging was louder. I climbed up first, flashlight raised over my shoulder. Its beam cut through the shadows. And then I saw it. The mirror. Standing upright at the far end of the attic, angled directly at us. I swallowed hard. My partner joined me, and we stared together.

“My God…” he whispered.

Behind the glass stood a little girl in a white nightgown, clutching a teddy bear. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. I rushed toward her, thinking she was a victim—maybe kidnapped.

“There must be a room behind the mirror,” I said, crouching down.

That’s when I saw it—the thick sheet of glass separating us from her. Just like the letter described.

“Please let me out,” the girl said.

“Hey… hey,” I said gently, kneeling down. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. What’s your name, huh? We’re going to get you out of there, I promise.”

“Sarah,” she said. “My name is Sarah.”

“Okay, Sarah… just hold on. We’re here now. You’re safe.”

My partner spoke into his walkie-talkie, reporting our discovery and requesting an ambulance. I looked up at him.

“Please,” I said. “Help me get this damn glass off.”

“Thank you,” Sarah sobbed. “Thank you, thank you… I’ve been trapped here for so long…”

The glass was tightly screwed into the frame of the mirror.

“Sarah,” I said, turning back to her. “I need you to do something for me, okay? Step away from the mirror. I’m going to break the glass.”

She nodded and took a few careful steps back.

I raised my flashlight and slammed it into the glass, close to the frame, not to break the mirror. The first hit cracked the glass. The second shattered it. My partner used his boot to clear the broken shards from the floor in front of the frame.

“Alright,” I said, breathing hard. “You can come out now.”

Sarah stepped forward, an eerie calm settling over her face. She looked at me, waiting.

“Please don’t be afraid, officer,” she said softly. “And don’t be sad… I’m ready. I’ve been ready for a long time.” She paused, then added, “Thank you.”

A chill settled deep in my gut—pure, ice-cold dread—but I still couldn’t bring myself to believe what the man had written.

“Don’t worry, Sarah,” I said, my voice shaking. “We’re here now. We’ll get you back home.”

She stepped toward us.

“No… no, no, no…” I whispered, tears welling up, as her body passed through the glass. It wasn’t a little girl who fell into my arms. It was a dried, mummified corpse—shrunken and gray, covered in tumors and boils, twisted by time and disease. I stared in horror, holding her.

My partner shone his flashlight on us, his face ghostly pale. He looked like he was about to be sick.

“It… it was true,” I said hoarsely. “That poor, poor girl. It was all true.”

And still, I held her close—tight against my chest—as if she were still alive, still warm enough to feel my embrace.

The official story is that we found the girl like that. My partner and I agreed—no one would believe the truth. According to the report, Mr. Nielsen had let his daughter die of cancer many years ago and never told anyone.

Not many people came to the funeral. But I did. Watching her finally laid to rest—after being trapped for so long—brought me a small measure of peace.

As for the mirror, far as I know, it was auctioned off along with a few of Mr. Nielsen’s other belongings. I can only hope whoever bought it will never discover its secrets.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Thank you for reading my story. If you enjoyed it, I’d love for you to check out my published works—just head over to my webpage. Your comments, reviews, and shares make a big difference and help these tales find new readers. Happy reading!