My LA Apartment Had a Mirror That Wouldn't Stop Fogging… Even When the Shower Was Off

I found the studio in Silver Lake for $1,400 a month, which honestly felt like a miracle for LA. The building was from the 1940s, had that old Hollywood charm everyone pretends to want until they actually have to deal with vintage plumbing and no AC.

The bathroom mirror was huge—one of those wall-to-wall things that probably cost a fortune to install. The landlord mentioned it specifically during the showing, said it was "original to the building" and "added character."

Yeah. Character. That's one way to put it.

Week One: Probably Just Humidity

The first time it happened, I'd just finished showering. Normal for a mirror to fog up, right? Except I wiped it down completely, opened the window, and turned on the fan. Five minutes later, it was fogged again.

I figured it was just LA humidity or something with the ventilation. Old building, stuff doesn't work right. Whatever.

But then it started fogging when I wasn't showering. I'd brush my teeth in the morning, the mirror totally clear. Come back ten minutes later and it'd be completely fogged over. No shower running. No hot water used. Just fog.

I tried everything. Left the bathroom door open. Kept the fan running 24/7. Even got one of those anti-fog sprays. Nothing worked.

The fog would just appear. Always around the same times—early morning, late evening, middle of the night if I got up to pee.

Week Two: The Handprint

I was getting ready for work when I noticed it. A handprint in the fog. Small, like a child's hand. Pressed against the mirror from the inside.

From the inside.

I stared at it for a solid minute, trying to logic it out. Maybe I'd touched the mirror earlier and the oils from my hand were showing through the condensation? But I hadn't touched that spot. And the print was backwards—fingers pointing the wrong direction for someone standing at the sink.

I wiped it away and didn't think about it too much. Couldn't afford to think about it too much. When you're finally living alone in LA after years of roommate situations, you don't want to admit your place might be weird. You just got out of sharing a bathroom with three other people in Austin. A foggy mirror is not going to chase you out.

But the handprint came back. Every time the mirror fogged, there it was. Same spot. Same size. Always pressed from the wrong side.

Week Three: Words

I woke up at 3 AM to use the bathroom. The mirror was fogged solid. And there were words.

"HELP ME"

Written in the fog like someone had dragged their finger across it. But I live alone. My door was locked. Windows were locked. No one else had keys except the landlord.

I turned on every light, checked every room. Empty. Just me.

Went back to the bathroom, and the words were different.

"PLEASE"

I watched the fog. It wasn't moving, wasn't dripping. Just sitting there on the mirror, impossibly thick for a room that wasn't even humid.

I grabbed my phone and took a picture. Through the camera screen, the mirror looked completely clear. But when I looked up at it with my own eyes, the fog and the word were still there.

I didn't sleep the rest of that night.

Week Four: The Face

Started seeing shapes in the fog. At first, I thought it was pareidolia—you know, like seeing faces in clouds or patterns. Your brain is trying to make sense of random shapes.

But the face kept appearing in the same spot. Same features. A woman, I think. Young. Mouth open like she was screaming but no sound coming out.

I tried to tell myself it wasn't real. I'd been stressed at work. Not sleeping well. Maybe I was seeing things. But every time I looked away and looked back, she was still there. Sometimes clearer, sometimes just an outline. But always the same face.

My coworker asked if I was okay. I guess I looked rough. I'd been coming in early and staying late just to avoid my apartment. She said I should see a doctor because I looked exhausted.

I researched the building instead. Found an article from 1987. A woman had died in the building. Suicide. They found her in the bathtub. Unit 304.

My unit.

Her name was Catherine Miller. She was 26. The article said she'd been struggling with mental health issues, that neighbors had heard her talking to herself, acting paranoid.

There was a photo. I recognized her immediately.

It was the face in my mirror.

Week Five: She Wants Out

The fog started spreading. Not just the bathroom mirror anymore—my bedroom window, the TV screen, my laptop, my phone. Any reflective surface would fog over. And always with that face behind it. Pressing against the glass. Desperate.

Messages kept appearing. "TRAPPED." "COLD." "LET ME OUT."

I called the landlord. Told him everything. He went quiet for a long time.

"You're not the first person to mention the mirror," he finally said.

"What?"

"The last tenant broke the lease after two months. One before that lasted three weeks. I should've replaced the mirror, but it's—it's original to the building. Historic preservation rules make it complicated."

"Someone died in my apartment."

"I know." He sighed. "Look, I'll let you out of the lease. No penalty. But I can't... I can't fix this. We've tried. Had priests come, had the place been blessed, had contractors look at it. The mirror won't break. We've tried."

"What do you mean it won't break?"

"I mean, we've hit it with hammers. It doesn't crack. Doesn't even scratch. It's just glas,s but it won't break."

Week Six: The Boundary

I started losing time. I'd be brushing my teeth, and suddenly it would be an hour later. I'd be getting dressed and blink and it would be night. My reflection started moving wrong—delayed, off-sync, sometimes doing things I wasn't doing.

One night, I watched myself in the bathroom mirror brushing my hair for five minutes. I wasn't holding a brush. I was standing completely still. But my reflection kept moving, kept brushing, kept staring at me with eyes that weren't quite right.

The apartment got cold. Even in the LA heat, my breath would fog. The temperature would drop twenty degrees when I walked into the bathroom. I started showering at the gym.

But the worst part was the feeling. Like I was being watched constantly. Like something was standing right behind me, breathing on my neck. I'd spin around and nothing would be there. But in the mirror, in that fog, I'd see a shadow. Right behind where I was standing.

Getting closer every day.

Week Seven: What Happened

I was packing my stuff when I felt it. A hand on my shoulder. Cold. Solid. Real.

I turned around. Nothing there.

Looked in the mirror. She was standing right behind me. Not in the fog. In the reflection. Solid. Real. She looked exactly like the photo from 1987 except her skin was grey and her eyes were completely black.

She smiled.

I felt it then—this pull. Like something was trying to drag me backwards, into the mirror. I grabbed onto the sink, held on as hard as I could. The bathroom door slammed shut. The lights started flickering.

Her mouth moved. I couldn't hear her but I could read her lips: "Stay with me."

I don't remember breaking free. Don't remember getting out of the bathroom. I came to in my car three blocks away, still in my pajamas, hands bleeding from where I'd apparently clawed at something.

I never went back. Left everything. Clothes, furniture, laptop, everything. Called the landlord from a friend's place and told him I was gone. He didn't argue. Said he'd ship my stuff.

He never did. And I never asked again.

Two Months Later

I'm in San Diego now. Staying with my sister until I can afford my own place. I don't use mirrors anymore. Brush my teeth looking down at the sink. Get dressed facing the wall. Can't stand to see my own reflection.

My sister thinks I had a breakdown. Maybe I did. Maybe none of it was real. Maybe Catherine Miller was just a story I fixated on and my brain filled in the rest. Stress, isolation, lack of sleep—it can make you see things that aren't there.

But then why do I still see her sometimes? In windows I pass. In car mirrors. In the black screen of my phone. Just for a second. Just a flash.

Always with that same desperate expression. Always reaching.

My therapist says it's trauma. That my brain is still processing what happened. She says the mind can create incredibly vivid hallucinations when under extreme stress.

She's probably right.

But I saw the photos on my phone yesterday—the ones I took that first week. The ones that showed a clear mirror when I photographed the fog.

I scrolled through them. And in the last photo, the one I took right before I stopped trying to document it, there's something in the corner of the frame.

A woman standing in my bathroom doorway.

She's not fogged. She's not transparent. She's solid and clear and staring directly at the camera.

Staring at me.

The photo's timestamp says it was taken at 3:47 AM. I don't remember taking a photo at 3:47 AM. I don't remember waking up at 3:47 AM.

But there it is.

When you're apartment hunting—in LA, New York, anywhere—people always tell you to check for stuff like bedbugs, leaky faucets, bad wiring. No one tells you to check the history. To ask why the rent's too good. To find out who lived there before and why they left.

No one tells you to ask if anyone died there.

I'll never live alone again. Can't handle the quiet. Can't handle reflective surfaces in empty rooms. Can't handle the feeling that something might be watching from the other side.

The landlord texted me last week. Said he finally found someone willing to take the unit. A college student moving to LA from out of state. First apartment on their own. They were so excited about the original features, especially that big beautiful mirror.

I didn't respond.

What would I even say?

Some things you can't warn people about. They wouldn't believe you anyway. They'd think you're crazy. Just like I thought the previous tenants were probably exaggerating or making excuses to break their leases.

But sometimes late at night, I think about that student. Wonder if their mirror is fogging yet. Wonder if they've seen the handprint. The face. The words.

Wonder if Catherine Miller is pressing against their mirror right now, trying to find someone who'll finally let her through.

I hope they get out faster than I did.

I really do.