The hand shot out of the mirror and flapped around an inch from Jason’s face. He jerked backwards, unable to think and unable to free the scream locked in his throat. The hand slowly extended an index finger.

It pointed at him.

Jason’s scream let itself out in a tiny hiss. It was the loudest sound he could make.

The finger relaxed and the hand eased itself back into the mirror. The glass rippled like a puddle. The hand was gone, leaving the mirror as smooth and still as it should have been.

Jason’s legs gave way; he fell on to his bed, staring at the mirror in the wardrobe. Gradually, sounds returned. He could hear his panting breath and the tap of rain on the window. He fancied he could hear his dad on the phone downstairs but he wasn’t sure. It was comforting to pretend his dad was within shouting distance.

So shout then.

He couldn’t. Not because he thought he thought his dad wouldn’t believe him, but because shouting meant calling for help and that meant what had happened — what he had known would happen — was real.

And it couldn’t be real.

Gloomy light struck the mirror for a second and made it appear to move. Jason held his breath and the light passed. The mirror was just a mirror. Outside was just rain, just a Saturday afternoon in September. School was back, summer was gone and life was normal. And when life was normal, when you were twelve and you knew what life meant, hands did not come out of mirrors in wardrobes or mirrors or his parents’ room or the mirrors in the toilets at school.

Jason stood and took a few steps towards the wardrobe. The shadows cast from his hanging clothes made the bottom of the wardrobe dark to the point of black. He could see his school shoes on one of the little ledges to the left of the mirror. They looked like they were sleeping, waiting until Monday morning.

His reflection drew closer as he took another step.

You need to tell someone. This shouldn’t be happening.

That was just stupid. Even if he could, who would believe him? He knew his mum wouldn’t for a second; his dad would think it was some weird joke and his friends would just think he was being stupid.

And it was stupid. In the real world, hands didn’t come out of mirrors, not every day for a week, not when he was brushing his hair or doing up his tie in the morning or when he was washing his hands in the bathroom. They didn’t wave at him or point or wag a finger as if telling him off or beckon him closer to the mirror.

But yes, they did.

Jason let out a tiny moan and rubbed his eyes. They were hot and itchy, which was no surprise. He had barely slept for a week. The image of a hand creeping out of the mirror in the wardrobe, slowly pushing the door open and sliding over the carpet to his sleeping body in the bed had kept him awake until close to dawn every night for a week.

The rain whispered behind him. Shadows cast from the clouds skidded across his bed and slipped into the wardrobe. They darkened the mirror and Jason froze. He strained to hear anything but his own breath and caught nothing. His dad’s voice — if it had been there at all — was gone.

Sudden sunlight filled the room; the clouds had parted for a moment. It illuminated the room; the shadows of fat raindrops on the window cast a pattern on the carpet by Jason’s feet and the front of the wardrobe. He glanced down and then up as the mirror’s surface changed.

The hand shot out faster than he could breathe. Wrist, forearm and elbow followed. Fingers grabbed Jason’s hand.

His scream was soundless.

He heard the whisper of his socks on the carpet, then the smack of his free hand on the edge of the wardrobe. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The scream was still buried in his throat. Wood replaced carpet below his feet as the hand pulled him inside the wardrobe. Cold glass touched his hand. Then his wrist. Then his forearm.

Behind him, the sun slipped behind rainclouds again. The pattern on the carpet was gone.

So was Jason.