The Mirror Man of Algonquin

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Monologue

There’s something about mirrors—they never forget. Every glance, every reflection, every lie you tell yourself gets trapped somewhere behind the glass. And when the lights are low enough, you can almost feel it breathing back.

I’ve learned not to stare too long. Some reflections aren’t memories—they’re invitations.

---

Urban Legend: The Mirror Man of Algonquin

Just a few miles from where I live in Cary, Illinois, lies Algonquin—a quiet town with a story that never made the papers. Locals whisper about a man who once lived on the edge of the Fox River, a mirror maker who restored antiques from forgotten estates.

He was obsessed with perfection. Each mirror he repaired gleamed unnaturally bright, as if it remembered more than it should. People claimed they saw faces behind their own reflections—faint, blurred, watching.

Then one night, his workshop burned down. Firefighters found his body fused into the wall—half flesh, half glass. Every mirror shattered except one.

That mirror still surfaces from time to time. Estate sales. Flea markets. Forgotten basements. Its surface hums faintly, like breath against glass. Cold even in summer. And if you touch it, your fingertips leave no print—only a ripple.

They say if you stare into it long enough, your reflection trembles. And if it stops moving before you do, the Mirror Man takes your place.

Algonquin kids still dare each other to try the ritual at midnight. Lights off. Mirror uncovered. Whisper your darkest secret three times. Most don’t last past the second whisper. Some never stop seeing him again.

One post from 2012 claimed the mirror turned up at a garage sale in Crystal Lake. The buyer said their reflection blinked when they didn’t. The mirror vanished two days later.

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The Storyteller Chronicles

The relic’s faint hum filled the room, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the surface of the world. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, trembling with each flicker of candlelight.

Nyra stood over the table, her hands hovering above the glowing artifact. Its surface shimmered like a warped mirror—reflecting not light, but memory. The mark etched into its metal frame shimmered like living silver.

> “That symbol…” she said, her voice sharp with unease. “It belongs to the Veneris Covenant.”

The name scraped against something in the back of my mind, but it meant nothing solid. “Never heard of them,” I said. “Not even when I was in Elyndor.”

Nyra’s eyes darkened. “That’s because they were erased from its history. A collection of powerful beings—part creature, part god. They tried to conquer Elyndor before the Great Sundering. When they failed, they set their sights on the Aetheric Realm—the realm that binds all others together. Yours. Mine. All of them.”

She paused, eyes flicking toward me. “When the clans united, they thought they destroyed the Covenant. But something survived. Something patient.”

Before I could ask more, the relic pulsed violently. The air shifted, dense with static and the smell of burning iron. Then a voice cracked through—faint at first, then desperate:

> “Storyteller… this is Virex the Lampbearer. The Ossuary Verge is under attack—Goatman and others—too many! They’ve breached the Verge—if the relic fails, the Covenant returns—please—”

The message fractured into static.

My veins burned. The relic’s purple light crawled up my arms, etching veins of flame beneath my skin. My vision blurred, edges tinged with violet. I didn’t understand the power coursing through me—but I recognized the fury.

Nyra stepped closer. “You can’t just open a rift blindly—”

“I don’t have a choice.” My voice sounded heavier, something else echoing beneath it. “He called for me.”

The artifact split the air open—a tear of shimmering glass and smoke. The smell of ozone and decay bled through as screams echoed from the other side.

I turned to Nyra and Val, who stood frozen in the flickering light. “Find Rhett. Find out what this Covenant wants.”

“Storyteller—”

But I was already moving. The purple fire surged higher, wrapping around me like armor.

“I made a promise,” I said.

Then I stepped through.

The rift sealed behind me with a sound like shattering mirrors. Somewhere, a reflection blinked—and I wasn’t sure it was mine.


X (Twitter): @NightlyStoryTel

Instagram: @NightlyStoryteller

Bluesky: nightlystoryteller.bsky.

Email. thenightlystorytellerblog@gmail.com

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