A short story written in 2025.

Genre: Horror

The PDF for this short story can be found here, or otherwise can be read below.

There comes a time when a man must look in the mirror, and behold the reflection that has separated from its source. These are the teachings of my father, and his father before him, spiraling back through centuries. That manifestation of the self, that lies within the space constrained by glass and light, is the purest representation of one’s maturity through life. The stories of ancestors long exposed to the dusts of death give the defining moment no similar shape. One saw the pulling of a polished, glowing coin from the pocket of his trousers, and so his life bestowed upon him a region-wide enterprise imparting riches of the highest caliber. Another saw the fancied movements of a routine never-before enacted in the spaces of theatre and dance, and so his life bestowed upon him a disposition befitting of the country’s biggest entertainer. My father, too, would always ensure that the encounter with his inner character was never forgotten; his destiny was firmly solidified when at the age of twenty-three, his imitation reflected the cuts, bruises, and deep scars of a conqueror of war. The ladies of the house believed his fate would spell the end of the Prixtelle lineage, yet every skirmish he would return from and every militaristic rank he would attain only seemed to enrich and fuel his life rather than put it in a state of decay. It’s almost a wonder that he found the time to build a family at all.

Rekan Prixtelle is my name, and twenty years past my awakening into the family, my reflected self had not split from its natural state. I had remained eager for years, pondering when my chance to view my potential would arrive. It came quite late for my father compared to those that came before him, so my hopes rested on unforeseen expectations, the anxious wonder of how long I would have to wait constantly muddying my trains of thought. What day would I wake from the typical nights of restful sleep and dress up for the morning, only to realize my doppelganger was not similarly preparing opposite of me? Moreover, what path would be laid out for me at the time of that glorious event? Prixtelles have seen businessmen, creative geniuses, political figureheads—what remained for me to inherit? 

It was not a morning of my expectations, but rather a cool autumn evening when I first glimpsed a shift in the mirror. I was preparing for a rare night’s festivities—a celebration party marking my father’s return from another successful operation—when my counterpart revealed himself. Though, revealed might be too forward of an action; what my eyes witnessed showed more of a hesitation than a showcase. I had extended my arm out to the side to adjust the sleeve of my top, when I noticed that my reflected self performed the same action a staggering half second later. Astonished, I moved it once more, this time in front of me. First my arm moved, then the doppelganger’s did a brief moment later. The tests with the rest of my body began, and each movement came with a delay in the mirror. A tilt of the head, a lifting of a leg, and a jump off of the ground all provided similar results. My twin acted as if it had to see what manner of movement I would perform before it could attempt to do the same. I stepped away from the mirror, unsure what I could construe from these events. As far as I could tell, nothing out of the ordinary bounds of my life was shown to me. Did this mean I was fated to live as I was currently, without purpose or motivation for greater things? Would I need to choose for myself the path I should follow, knowing that there was no force guiding me to that vision’s success? What would father think, if he were to hear of such a revelation? His son, the most recent of the esteemed Prixtelle line, destined for nothing! That couldn’t be. I refused to believe that the mirror’s reflection would set me on this course. Perhaps the following day would reveal more to me, and would quell the vain worries imposing in my mind’s dialogue. 

I resumed my festivity preparations, and soon met up with my mother and father by the estate courtyard. I made no mention of my puzzling experience with the mirror, and partook in the drinks and dances only our family could afford to host for the town. 

– – – 

The next day, after the first restless night I could remember for years, I sprung up from my bed and faced the tall mirror in the corner of the room. As I walked up to the glass, my reflected body followed, still never at the same time. I waited, and moved, and pondered for what felt like hours, until I could bear it no more and muttered to myself, “What is it that you want to tell me!” I expected the reflection to repeat the movements of my mouth, but I did not expect it to repeat the vocalizations those movements produced. A deep voice, much deeper than my own could ever be, repeated the words, putting my thoughts to a stop and creating an eerie silence throughout the room. It was broken moments later, by the same testing that had similarly accompanied yesterday’s revelation. Polite greetings were reciprocated, followed by vocal hums, noises, and phrases that, if heard from another room, may have painted me as crazy. One thing was abundantly clear, no matter the amount of repetition: The voice was not my own, and it deeply unsettled me. 

When the testing stopped, the swarming thoughts began. What was I meant to see, or rather hear? Is some untimely misfortune meant to befall me, one that would set my voice to the lowest pitches and my movements to a slower state? That didn’t seem right, given how utterly unlike me the voice sounded, but putting this notion to the side would have meant putting the supernatural alternatives on the table. I shuddered as the ideas swirling in my head began to take on terrifying forms. What would it mean if the voice wasn’t mine? Would my life turn into a tale of possession, forever serving the whims of an entity I would never be able to acknowledge nor interact with? With my body or mind taken over, would I live as any semblance of myself? What, then, would happen to the Prixtelle lineage? Would offspring cultivated by entanglement with a possessed shell of a Prixtelle man result in the continued course of fate for our family? Or would I be the final member of the great house that stood for centuries, looked upon as a dark stain that brought such an esteemed name to ruin?

I felt dizzy. I staggered away from the mirror, and fell on the bed, only to be greeted by a cold, dark floor instead of the warm, comforting linens I had always known. A large, glass fixture created a wall that extended to the sides further than I wanted to process. A mirror it reminded me of, but it had nothing to reflect, spare the surrounding darkness and my own slumped body. Yet, the reflection of my own body didn’t stay for long. It began to fade, and in its place stood a grotesque flowery plant, its petals withered and its thorns bending into strangely unintelligible shapes and formations. Its roots presented as larger than the main body of the plant itself, curving and extending in every direction, and protrusions along those roots contained a variety of sensory organs. I could count numerous bloodshot eyes, malformed lips, irregularly shaped ears, horrifyingly smashed nostrils, and in some cases, small patches of skin with textures reminiscent of fingerprints. I stared, my desire  to turn away from the monstrosity having been overcome with fear, until the deep voice I had heard before resonated from the various mouths present. 

“Finally, it is time. Your anticipation has served you well.” There was silence, and then the realization that I was holding my breath, a behavior that the plant noticed, too. “Have you nothing to say? You’ve waited long for this one defining moment, have you not?”

At being prompted, my hesitation dropped, but my fear still kept hold over my senses. “I don’t understand.” It’s all I could muster, and it was returned with a sickening set of sounds that laughter would not have ever thought to encompass.

“You boys never do. Not that it's necessary anyway.”

I spoke the words that banged and throbbed in my head, the words I did not want to believe in. “Am I possessed? Are you here to take my life away from me?”

“Listen here, boy. I am a Prixtelle, and I aim to maintain the family lineage just as is expected of me.” Caught off guard and confused, I opened my mouth, willing to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Instead, the voice continued to speak. “There comes a time when a man must look in the mirror, and behold the reflection that has separated from its source. A teaching of yours, and a mental doctrine of mine. One that was passed down to me by my father upon our birth. I was but a seed of the mind, planted within the deepest recesses of the brain, growing as you do, until maturation finished its proper process.” A small pause, before the voice grows in volume. “You. You are not a Prixtelle. No man is born a Prixtelle. A Prixtelle is only made when the mirror reflects the inner self, and shows us that our bodies are ready for us. A Prixtelle has real desires that they can capitalize on with certainty. Some of us want money. Some want to be known and heard. Some want just the thrill of spilling blood, like my father before me. And as I speak to you right now, I am enraptured by you. I have no aspirations of great proportions—my most heartfelt desire is to take up your mannerisms, and your thoughts, and live this privileged life of the elite without needing to think of anything else. That is the great fate that awaits you, my friend. You will not disappear, because there is nothing I won’t be able to adapt to. I will simply be you.”

The voice kept talking. It grew louder, all while the glass separating our two forms started to crack and strain. As the words trailed on, the voice transformed, first increasing in pitch, then in accent, then in tone.  When the glass finally shattered, the only words I could hear sounded of my own. 

– – – 

Rekan Prixtelle is my name, and twenty years past my awakening into the family, my reflected self revealed to me a life of relaxation and revelry. The food always tasted better each day, and the drinks gave me unimaginable feelings of bliss. The days were filled with celebrations of grandeur, while the nights supplied admirers and pleasures that provided such intimate and strong feelings of ecstasy. And every morning, the mirror in the corner of my room would reaffirm to me that this is who I was, and who I was meant to be. Such is what fate had decided, and would continue to decide, for the Prixtelle line.