A salesman tired, his eyes half-dead,
Checked in one night, then went to bed.
A budget inn, room number nine,
Flickering bulbs, a faulty sign.
He tossed his bags, the floorboards creaked,
The air was still, the hallway leaked.
He brushed his teeth, looked up to see,
His mirror smile — a second too early.
He froze in place, his breath turned thin,
The glass grin wider, not his chin.
He moved an inch, it stayed too still,
That chilling pause — a human thrill.
He laughed it off, “I’m just too tired,”
Then shut the lights, though half-wired.
But as he turned to sleep that night,
The mirror whispered in the light.
A faint, low hum, like static song,
He swore it hummed, “You won’t live long.”
He snapped awake — no sound, no gleam,
Perhaps he’d dreamed — or so it seemed.
At dawn he packed, prepared to go,
But stopped once more — to check, to know.
He waved his hand — the mirror waved…
But not the same. The timing strayed.
The glass hand rose — a half-second late,
It smiled wider, sealing fate.
The salesman fled, his heart in flight,
Left key, left bag, drove through the night.
Next week they found his car near town,
The seatbelt cut, the glass torn down.
And on the seat — his hotel key,
With scrawled words faint: “It looked like me.”
So if you stay where mirrors stare,
And see one blink when you’re not there —
Don’t look again, don’t wait, don’t call.
Just turn around… or lose it all.