I’m Lottie, twenty-three, studying art-history on instant-noodles and hope. The ad said “room £250—quirky, no parties, mirror stays.” I figured quirky meant damp; I didn’t know it meant alive.
House smells of wet tea bags and old pianos. First night I drop my keys and see this massive mirror, gilt like a drunk sunflower. Landlord Mr. Patel hovers behind me. “Mirror faces south, pulls the good chi up the stairs. Touch it, you pay.” He taps his wallet, as if ghosts take Visa.
Week one: everything’s peachy. My Instagram selfies glow; I even find a fiver in the wash. I tell my mum I’ve finally got “London luck.” Mum says luck is just God’s way of staying anonymous.
Then the mirror shifts—only a finger-width, but I swear I didn’t move it. The hallway feels colder on one side, like someone left a fridge open in 1923. My reflection lags half a second, enough to notice but not enough to prove. Art-history taught me to trust my eyes, not my phone.
Thursday, I come home sloshed on two-for-one cocktails. I’m humming, kicking off heels, when I see the mirror’s crooked. “Screw chi,” I mutter, and yank it straight. Big mistake. The glass ripples, like water deciding whether to drown you now or later.
That night I dream of a woman in Qing-dynasty robes counting coins. She looks up, smiles with too many teeth, and says, “Balance broken, debt due.” I wake up with nosebleed currency on my pillow—seven copper pennies dated 1911. They smell of joss sticks and burnt hair.
Next morning my reflection won’t wave back. It stands still, arms limp, while I flail like inflatable man outside car dealership. I Skype my course mate Raj. He says, “Probably carbon monoxide, or you’re just hungover.” Then his screen glitches and my reflection waves at him instead. Raj hangs up, texts: “Burn sage, move out, whatever faster.”
I google “feng shui mirror exorcism.” Page three of forums says: “Mirrors are doors, not walls. If the door swings your way, feed it gold or blood.” I’m a vegetarian, so blood’s out. I empty my savings—£47.30—into a envelope, slide it behind the frame. The mirror burps, literally, a low bronze sound. Coins vanish. Great, even spirits inflation.
House turns hostile. Radiators clang in Morse: “Give… more…” My coursework files rename themselves “DEADLINE.EXE.” The kettle boils while unplugged. I tape my phone to the ceiling to record the mirror at 3 a.m. Footage shows me sleepwalking, pressing palm to glass, whispering “sorry” in Mandarin I never learned.
Desperate, I corner Mr. Patel. He sighs, unwraps a cinnamon chewing gum like it’s sacred. “My grandmother trapped a ‘hungry ghost’ in that glass during the Blitz. It fed on grief, bombs, ration cards. Every tenant pays rent in luck; mirror funnels it to my family. You moved it, so the funnel reversed. Now it’s siphoning you.”
I consider legal action but doubt small-claims court covers metaphysical theft. Patel hands me a tiny compass crusted with red thread. “Realign mirror at dawn, offer your most valued possession. Maybe she’ll settle.” Most valued? My dead dad’s wristwatch, the one that stopped when he flatlined.
Dawn smells of diesel and regret. I stand on a wobble chair, watch in one hand, compass in other. East is where the sun should rise, but the compass spins like DJ deck. I breathe, place the watch on the mirror’s crest. Glass softens, swallowing it whole. For a second I see Dad waving, smiling, watch ticking again. Then—nothing. Mirror steady, hallway warm, chi supposedly restored.
Weeks pass. No more nosebleed coins, no laggy reflection. My luck turns boring: library books renew, supermarket queue moves, I get first-class degree. Should be thrilled, but feels like living on someone else’s credit card.
Graduation day, I pack up. Mirror winks once, as if saying “see ya.” I leave the seven copper pennies on the mantel—interest, maybe. New tenant, a bubbly Aussie vlogger, asks why the hall feels “super cozy.” I almost warn her, but words stick. Instead I say, “Keep the mirror happy.” She laughs, films herself doing a thumbs-up in front of it. I close the door before the glass can decide her price.
Walking away, I feel lighter, like I’ve shed an invisible landlord. Somewhere behind me a wristwatch ticks in a world that isn’t mine, paying rent in seconds I’ll never live. And that, folks, is feng-shui—every blessing a bill, every mirror a mailbox for things you can’t afford to lose.