Hi gang! This true ghost story comes from a reader in Maryland. She’s asked that I alter the names in the story since it’s such a personal tale. I’ll call this one, “Somewhat Lost.”

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Somewhat Lost

The first strange thing Noreen found in her new apartment was a full-length mirror hidden in a closet. It wasn’t hanging on the back of the door. It wasn’t leaning against the wall beside a broom or a mop. It was shoved into the far corner with two rolls of old Christmas wrapping paper.

The mirror stood nearly six feet tall. Its heavy gold frame was carved with leaves, flowers, and small birds. The glass had darkened around the edges, but the center remained clear.

It looked much older than the building.

Noreen strained to lift it and carry it into the kitchen, wiping away the dust with an old dish towel.

“Why would anyone put you in a closet? And why wouldn’t the previous owner take you?” she asked.

The mirror did not answer. At least, not then.

Noreen had moved to Baltimore for a job at a downtown bank. She was twenty-eight, recently promoted, and tired of renting apartments with thin walls and unreliable air conditioning.

The condo was in a mid-rise building a few miles from downtown. It had been built in the 1940s. That made it old enough to have character, but not quite old enough to be considered historic.

The hallways smelled like floor wax and curry wafted down the hall. The elevator had brass buttons. The radiators knocked whenever the temperature dropped. But maintenance always kept the building in tiptop shape.

Noreen liked the place right away, and the sale had been surprisingly easy. The sellers made most of the fixes Noreen asked for without a single bit of back-and-forth.

The previous owner, Walter Horvath, had died several months earlier. His children had cleared out most of his belongings and put the condo on the market. They lived in different states and didn’t want to keep it.

The apartment needed new appliances and a little paint. That was about all. There were no damaged floors, hidden leaks, or expensive repairs. Even the closing went smoothly.

Noreen almost felt guilty about how easy it had been.

Over the next month, she replaced the refrigerator, painted the bedroom a soft green, and moved the mirror into the living room. It fit perfectly between two tall windows.

For the next few days, it was just a mirror. It reflected the sofa, the windows, and the crooked stack of moving boxes Noreen kept promising to unpack. Somehow, the mirror made the modest condo look larger, more spacious.

Then, on a Tuesday morning, she saw a man standing in it.

Noreen was walking toward the kitchen in her slippers. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot, and her only thought was coffee.

She glanced toward the mirror to take in her bed head.

A man stood behind her.

He was tall and thin. He wore a dark suit with a stiff white collar. His dark hair was combed neatly away from his face. And that mustache. Thick and curved up to tiny points It’s like handlebars met a bull’s horns.

Noreen spun around.

The room was empty.

She looked back at the mirror.

The man was gone.

For several seconds, Noreen stood perfectly still. Then she checked the front door.

Locked.

She checked the hallway.

Empty.

She searched the bedroom, bathroom, closets, and pantry. She even looked behind the shower curtain, although she knew that made no sense.

No one was there.

Noreen made her coffee and sat at the kitchen table, tapping her fingers while she’d start to dial 911 and then stop.

She told herself she had seen her coat hanging over a chair. She told herself she was tired. She told herself that old mirrors sometimes distorted reflections.

She did not look at the mirror again before leaving for work.

Three nights later, someone knocked on the glass.

Noreen was curled up on the sofa with a blanket and a mystery novel. Rain tapped against the windows.

Three soft knocks came from the other side of the room.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She lowered the book.

The man was standing inside the mirror.

This time, she got an even better look at him.

He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He had a narrow face, deep-set eyes, and a gray mustache. His clothes belonged to another time. Well before her parents had been born.

He did not look angry. He looked worried.

Noreen slowly placed her book on the sofa.

“Hello?”

The man raised one hand.

Noreen raised hers.

His expression softened. Then he pointed to the right.

Noreen looked toward the windows.

“What?”

He pointed again, flicking his index finger twice.

She crossed the living room and stood beside the mirror.

The man shook his head and pointed farther to the right.

Noreen followed his gesture toward the dining area.

“The table?”

He shook his head no.

“The kitchen?”

He nodded yes.

Noreen moved toward the kitchen. When she looked back, the mirror reflected only the living room.

The man was gone.

That was the beginning. Over the next two months, he appeared at random. Sometimes Noreen saw him early in the morning. Sometimes he arrived late at night.

His appearances always began with a knock.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He never stepped out of the mirror. He never spoke. Instead, he pointed, nodded, shook his head, and acted out small clues with his hands. It became a strange game of charades.

“You want me to open something?” Noreen asked one evening.

The man nodded.

“A cabinet?”

He shook his head no.

“A door?”

Another shake … no.

“A box?”

He held one hand flat and moved it sideways.

“A drawer?”

He frowned.

“That was close, wasn’t it?”

He nodded yes.

Noreen began keeping notes. She filled a yellow legal pad with everything she learned. The man wanted her to find something. It was hidden inside the condo. It had belonged to his family … maybe.

It was not jewelry. It was not money. It was not a photograph. It was something that opened, but it was not a box.

The man seemed most interested in the living room. That narrowed the search, but not by much. The room contained several large pieces of furniture and a wall of built-in bookshelves.

Noreen searched everything.

She pulled books from the shelves. She emptied the cabinets beneath the windows. She checked behind the radiator and under the floor vents. She tapped along the walls, listening for hollow spaces.

Nothing.

The man watched from the mirror. At times, he seemed amused.

“You could be more helpful,” Noreen told him.

He lifted both hands as if to say he was doing his best.

She started calling him Mr. Mirror. He did not seem to like that. Whenever she used the name, he frowned and pointed to himself.

“Fine,” Noreen said. “We need to figure out who you are.”

That became the second mystery. Noreen contacted Catherine, the real estate agent who had handled the condo sale. Catherine remembered it well.

“Walter Horvath lived there for almost forty years,” she said. “His family was very nice. They just wanted everything settled.”

“Did Walter have a brother?” Noreen asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“What about his father?”

There was a pause.

“Why are you asking?”

Noreen looked toward the mirror. It showed only her reflection.

“I found something that might belong to the family,” she said.

That was not exactly true. But she hoped it would be soon.

Catherine told her that Walter’s oldest daughter was named Stephanie. She offered to contact her if Noreen found anything important.

That evening, Noreen searched online.

She started with Walter’s obituary. It listed three children, six grandchildren, and a late wife named Barbara. It also mentioned that Walter had been born in Boston. His parents were listed as Thomas and Ilona Horvath.

Noreen wrote the names on her legal pad.

The next time the man appeared, she was ready.

“Walter?”

He shook his head no.

“Ilona?”

Another shake with a quizzical look.

“Thomas?”

The man froze. Then he smiled.

Noreen stared at him.

“You’re Thomas Horvath.”

He bowed his head.

It was the first real answer she had received. From there, the search became easier.

Noreen found Thomas (Tamás in Hungarian) in old census records. He had been born in Hungary and moved to Boston as a young man. He worked as a cabinetmaker. Later, the family moved to Baltimore.

Cabinetmaker. That detail stayed with her.

The following Saturday, Noreen stood in front of the built-in bookshelves. They covered most of the living room wall. According to the building records, they had been added sometime in the 1950s.

She ran her hand along the wooden trim. One section felt different. The edge was smoother than the rest. Noreen pushed against it.

Nothing happened.

She pulled.

Nothing.

Then she remembered Thomas’ charade. He had held one hand flat and moved it sideways.

Noreen pressed the panel and slid it to the left. A narrow opening appeared in the wall. Cold air touched her face.

Behind the panel was a shallow storage space. It was dusty and lined with unfinished wood. Inside sat a bundle wrapped in yellowed cloth.

Noreen carried it to the dining table. The cloth fell open. Inside was a large Bible with a cracked brown cover. Several papers had been tucked between its pages. There were birth records, marriage notices, letters, and small photographs. Names had been written inside the front cover. The earliest entries were in Hungarian, or at least she thought it was Hungarian.

Noreen looked toward the mirror. Thomas stood inside it. His eyes were bright.

“You wanted me to find this.”

He nodded.

“The family Bible?”

He placed one hand over his heart.

Noreen called Catherine. This time, she told her the truth about what she had found. Not the whole truth. She left out the man in the mirror.

Catherine contacted Walter’s daughter, Stephanie, and the answer came quickly.

Yes. The family wanted the Bible. They had believed it was lost decades ago during one of the family’s moves.

Stephanie came to the condo the following Sunday morning. She was in her late fifties, with short silver hair and a cheerful voice. She carried a bakery box from a nearby café.

“I thought coffee needed something to go with it,” she said.

Inside the box were two cinnamon rolls. Noreen made coffee while Stephanie sat at the dining table with the Bible. For several minutes, she did not speak. She turned the pages slowly and touched the handwritten names.

“My father talked about this,” Stephanie finally said. “He thought it disappeared when his parents moved from Boston.”

“It was hidden behind the bookshelves.”

Stephanie laughed softly.

“That sounds like my grandfather.”

“Thomas?”

Stephanie looked up.

“Yes. How did you know his name?”

Noreen pointed to the inside cover.

“It’s written there.”

That was true.

Stephanie smiled.

“He built things everywhere he lived. Cabinets. Shelves. Little hiding places. My grandmother complained that he never built a normal wall in his life.”

Noreen glanced at the mirror. No one stood inside it.

Stephanie spent the next hour telling stories.

Thomas had come to the United States with very little money. He worked long days and saved every dollar he could. He met Ilona at a church picnic. They raised Walter in Boston, then followed family members to Baltimore.

Walter later bought the condo and stayed there for most of his adult life.

“He was supposed to move into a smaller place,” Stephanie said. “He refused. He said too much of the family was still in these walls.”

Noreen looked toward the bookshelves.

“Maybe he was right.”

Stephanie smiled, although she did not seem to understand.

When the coffee was gone, Stephanie wrapped the Bible carefully in its cloth.

She hugged Noreen at the door.

“You have no idea what this means to us.”

“I’m glad it found its way home.”

Noreen paused and asked Stephanie about the mirror. She glanced at it for a moment but it didn’t seem to register with her.

“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said. “I don’t recognize it.”

Stephanie stepped into the hallway and walked down to the elevator. Her heels echoed on the shiny tiles. She turned and smiled and waved farewell.

Noreen returned to the living room and picked up the empty coffee cups. Then she heard it.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Thomas stood inside the mirror.

He wore the same dark suit, but his shoulders no longer looked tense. The worry had left his face. He smiled at Noreen. Then he bowed. It was a slow, formal bow.

“You’re welcome,” Noreen said.

Thomas straightened. For a moment, he seemed to grow faint. The living room showed through him. The sofa. The windows. The old bookshelves he may have built with his own hands.

Then he disappeared.

The mirror reflected only Noreen.

She waited. There was no final tap. Thomas never appeared again.

Noreen kept the mirror in the living room. She never learned how it had ended up in the closet. Perhaps Walter had grown tired of seeing his father. Perhaps someone had moved it there without knowing what it could do.

Or perhaps Thomas had simply been waiting for the right person to find him.

Years later, Noreen still looked at the mirror whenever she passed. Most days, she saw only herself.

But every now and then, when the apartment was quiet and coffee was brewing in the kitchen, she thought she heard three soft taps.

Not a warning.

Not a request.

Just an old friend saying hello.

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Thanks for reading Ghostly Activities. If you’ve encountered a ghost or experienced a haunting, let me know about it in the comments. Take care!