Lin Chun felt her life was like a cup of water left to cool—tasteless, but at least it quenched thirst.
She'd worked at Chanjuan Beauty Salon for three years, moving from apprentice to full aesthetician. Her skills weren't spectacular, but her hands were steady, she talked little, and never pushed products. Boss Lady Zhao liked that about her—clients didn't find a non-pushy aesthetician annoying, so they came back more often.
Most of Chanjuan's clients were women over forty from the nearby residential complexes. They'd perm their hair, wear silk pajamas, shuffle over in slippers. They came not just for facials but to find someone to talk to. Husbands who didn't listen, sons who disappointed, daughters-in-law who didn't understand—the same few topics, over and over. Lin Chun would massage in circles while listening, occasionally responding with "mm," "really?" or "that's terrible," and the clients would think her so sensible.
Chanjuan Beauty Salon wasn't big—a street-level shop with a white sign, green characters in regular script: "Chanjuan Beauty Salon." Below that, smaller text: Korean Skin Management · Meridian Wellness · Semi-Permanent Makeup.
Inside was a small reception area with a long sofa and glass coffee table that always held a pot of chrysanthemum tea and disposable cups. Beyond a sliding door was the treatment room—three facial beds lined up, each with a small cart beside it covered in bottles and jars.
The bed furthest in was against the wall, and on that wall hung a large mirror, taking up most of it. Boss Lady Zhao had it custom-made when they opened, so clients could see the results right after their treatment.
Lin Chun had never thought there was anything wrong with that mirror.
August 14th, Thursday. The weather was hot as a steamer. Lin Chun had the evening shift, 2 PM to 10 PM. The last client was booked for 7:30—basic cleansing and hydration. Her name was Zhou Min, early forties, lived in Sunshine Garden nearby, worked admin at an accounting firm. Every time she came, she complained about the young girls in her office dressing too scantily. Lin Chun removed her makeup, cleansed, applied mask, used the light—by the time the whole routine finished, it was nearly nine.
Zhou Min checked the mirror, nodded with satisfaction, said "Xiao Chun, your technique is so steady, I'll ask for you next time." Lin Chun smiled, walked her to the door, said "Take care."
Back in the treatment room, she started cleaning up. Threw used towels in the hamper, straightened the bottles and jars on the cart, wiped the facial beds with alcohol pads. When she got to the last bed, she pulled off the sheet, balled it up, stuffed it in the dirty laundry basket, then straightened up and subconsciously glanced at the wall mirror.
In the mirror was herself—white uniform, hair in a low ponytail, fine beads of sweat on her forehead. She looked a bit tired, her complexion sallow under the fluorescent lights. Lin Chun adjusted her collar in the mirror, about to turn off the lights, when something felt wrong.
In the mirror, someone was standing behind her.
Right at the sliding door to the treatment room, about three meters away. White clothes, long hair hanging down covering the face, standing completely still.
Lin Chun's scalp prickled. She spun around almost instinctively, looking toward the sliding door.
Nothing there. The door was half-open, the reception area beyond dark, only streetlight filtering through the glass door, casting a vague bright patch on the floor.
She stood there staring at the darkness for two or three seconds, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Reason told her it must have been her eyes playing tricks, but still she slowly turned her head back to look in the mirror again.
The person was still there.
And had taken a step forward.
Now about two meters away. Still in those white clothes, still with hair covering the face. It was a white robe-like garment, the belt tied loosely, the cuffs with a dark red border—like some kind of pattern, or something else. The feet were bare, stepping on the white tiles of the treatment room, the tops of the feet an unnaturally pale color.
Lin Chun wanted to run, but her legs seemed nailed to the floor. She opened her mouth, but no sound came from her throat. Her gaze was locked on the mirror, watching helplessly as the person inside took another step forward.
Now the figure was only a meter away, close enough to see the tiny folds in the white robe, to see those hanging black strands of hair swaying gently, as if something behind the hair was breathing.
Her body finally moved. She knocked over the cart as she ran. Bottles and jars crashed to the floor, glass serum bottles shattering, transparent liquid spreading everywhere. She rushed out stepping on broken glass and serum, slammed the sliding door, ran through the reception area, pushed through the glass door onto the street.
The street was empty. This street had no pedestrians after nine in the evening, shops on both sides closed, only streetlights on, their light falling on the asphalt that still radiated heat from a day of sun. Lin Chun stood under a streetlamp, gasping for breath. Her white work shoes were covered in glass shards and sticky serum. She looked back at Chanjuan Beauty Salon's glass door—half open, dark inside, nothing visible.
Her phone was still in the shop. Her bag too. Her keys in the bag. She was wearing just her uniform, with a pack of tissues and a lip balm in her pocket. She stood under the streetlight for a full five minutes, her heartbeat finally slowing, reason gradually returning.
Maybe she was just too tired. Four clients today, the last one finished near nine, only a bun for lunch—maybe low blood sugar caused a hallucination. She'd seen videos about how fatigue makes the brain randomly assemble visual information, seeing a coat rack as a person, a shadow as a ghost.
Yes, that must be it.
Lin Chun took a deep breath, then another, and slowly walked back to Chanjuan Beauty Salon's entrance. The glass door was still half-open, silent inside. She reached out to push the door, found the switch by the entrance, clicked on the reception area light.
The chrysanthemum tea was still on the coffee table, the cushion on the sofa just as she'd arranged it that afternoon. Everything normal.
She crossed the reception area, stood before the treatment room's sliding door. She'd slammed it shut, it was tightly closed. She pressed her ear against it, listened. No sound. Then she reached out, pushed the door open a crack, reached in to find the wall switch, turned on the treatment room light.
The moment the light came on, she saw the mess. The cart lay overturned, bottles and jars shattered everywhere, serum had flowed to the doorway. The large mirror still hung on the wall, facing the facial bed, reflecting the disordered treatment room, the overturned cart, and herself standing at the door, pale-faced.
Nothing else. No white clothes, no long hair, no bare feet. Only herself in the mirror.
Lin Chun stood at the door for a while, then slowly walked into the treatment room, stepping around the broken glass, approaching the mirror. She reached out to touch the mirror surface—cold, reflecting her fingers and her face. Her finger left a smudged print on the surface.
She stared at her own face in the mirror for a long time, then stepped back two steps, moved left two steps, examining the treatment room in the mirror from different angles. Every angle was normal—just an ordinary, messy treatment room, exactly like the one behind her.
Lin Chun exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping. Just a hallucination.
She crouched down and started cleaning up the shards, cursing herself for being spineless while she worked. Three years as an aesthetician, working evening shifts alone wasn't new, this had never happened before. She found a large garbage bag, picked up the bigger pieces of glass, then found a mop to clean up the serum. Halfway through, she suddenly remembered something, stopped, looked up at the wall mirror.
In the mirror, she was crouching on the floor holding the mop, and behind her, the sliding door was open.
She remembered closing it when she came in.
Lin Chun's hands started trembling, but she forced herself not to turn around. She stared at the mirror for a full ten seconds. The sliding door just hung open, the reception area beyond lit, she could see a corner of the sofa and the chrysanthemum tea on the coffee table. Nothing unusual.
Slowly, bit by bit, she turned her head.
The sliding door was indeed open. Maybe she hadn't closed it tightly when she came in—the old door, the track a bit sticky, perhaps it had slid open on its own.
Lin Chun stood up, walked over, this time pulled the door firmly shut, heard the click of the latch, tugged twice to confirm it was closed tight, then went back to finish cleaning.
She cleaned up the broken bottles, tied the garbage bag and left it by the door to throw out tomorrow, turned off the treatment room light, turned off the reception area light, took her bag and keys from the hook by the door, locked the glass door, and rode a shared bike back to her rental apartment.
Her shared apartment was in an old complex two streets over, three bedrooms, she had the smallest room. One roommate was a girl who sold clothes at a mall, the other a guy who worked real estate, both night owls, usually not home at this hour. When Lin Chun entered, the apartment was indeed dark. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, lay in bed scrolling her phone, came across a short video about "beauty salon midnight ghost," her finger paused, she scrolled past.
Then she scrolled back, watched a bit, realized it was made-up nonsense about "red-dressed female ghost in beauty salon mirror at midnight," the plot ridiculously fake, comments all saying the creator had great imagination. Lin Chun twitched her mouth, set her phone aside, turned off the light.
In the darkness she lay with eyes open, staring at the ceiling, her mind uncontrollably replaying what she'd seen in the mirror. White robe, long hair, bare feet, that unnatural, dead-fish white on the tops of those feet.
She turned over, pulled the blanket over her head.
The next morning, Lin Chun rode a shared bike to open the shop. Chanjuan Beauty Salon opened at nine, but whoever had the morning shift needed to arrive half an hour early to clean, turn on equipment, boil water for tea. Today Lin Chun had the full-day shift, nine to ten.
When she arrived at the shop entrance, Boss Lady Zhao hadn't come yet. The glass door was locked. She took out her keys, opened the door, pushed in, smelled the faint mix of disinfectant and chrysanthemum tea—the scent she'd known for three years.
She put her bag on the reception area sofa, changed into her uniform, buttoned up, pushed through the sliding door into the treatment room to open the window for ventilation.
Then she froze.
Beside the innermost facial bed, the large mirror was turned around. Not how she'd left it last night—the mirror surface now faced the wall, the gray-green hard cardboard backing facing the treatment room.
She hadn't turned the mirror last night.
Lin Chun stood in the treatment room doorway, her palms starting to sweat. She remembered clearly—last night after cleaning up the broken glass, she'd just turned off the lights and left, never touched that mirror.
And she would never turn that mirror—because it was nailed to the wall, fixed in place, not the kind of vanity mirror you could just flip around.
She walked over step by step, to the side of that facial bed, reached out to touch the mirror's frame. Aluminum frame, ice-cold, nothing unusual. She hesitated, then grabbed the mirror's edge and pulled hard, turning it back around.
The mirror surface faced the treatment room again, reflecting bright white light under the fluorescent tubes. In the mirror was the facial bed, herself, the other two facial beds behind her and the sliding door.
Just then, her gaze fell on the facial bed before her.
The bed's sheet was white, impossibly clean. She remembered last night she'd stripped all three beds after cleaning, this bed should have been bare mattress.
But now it was covered with a brand new, unwrinkled white sheet, and in the exact center of the sheet, neatly placed, lay a long hair.
The hair was very long—at least fifty centimeters, black, with a slight curl, lying quietly on the white sheet, like a symbol someone had deliberately placed there.
Lin Chun's own hair barely reached her shoulders.
She stepped back, bumped into the cart behind her, the bottles and jars on it swayed, clinking. She stared at that hair for a long time, then suddenly looked up at the mirror. In the mirror everything was normal, only her own terrified face.
She turned and strode out of the treatment room, pulled open the glass door, stood on the street. The morning sun had risen, shining brightly on the street. The breakfast shop next door was frying dough sticks, the smell of oil mixing with the sweetness of soy milk. People rode e-bikes past, someone was walking a dog, everything full of normal, mundane life.
Lin Chun stood at the shop entrance, both hands clutching the hem of her uniform, her heart pounding like a drum. She took out her phone to call Boss Lady Zhao, stopped when she got to her contacts. How would she explain? Say there was a woman in white in the mirror? Say there was an extra hair on the facial bed? Zhao would think she'd lost her mind.
She gripped her phone until her palms sweated, never made the call. She took a deep breath, walked back into the shop, found a roll of garbage bags and a pair of disposable gloves in the storage closet, returned to the treatment room. She put on the gloves, picked up the long hair, stuffed it in a plastic bag, tied it shut, threw it in the outside trash can.
Then she walked to the mirror, hesitated a long while, reached out and turned the mirror to face the wall.
Boss Lady Zhao arrived at nine-thirty. When she came in, Lin Chun was sitting on the reception area sofa, spacing out. Zhao changed her shoes, glanced at her, said "Xiao Chun, why do you look so bad, didn't sleep well last night?" Lin Chun raised her head, opened her mouth, finally said "Nothing, just a headache."
Zhao said "oh," didn't ask more, pushed through the sliding door into the treatment room. A few seconds later, her voice came from inside: "Who turned this mirror?"
Lin Chun's heart seized. She stood up, walked to the treatment room doorway, saw Boss Lady Zhao standing by the innermost facial bed, one hand on the turned mirror, turning her head to look at her, expression strange.
"I did," Lin Chun said, her voice dry, "Last night while cleaning I accidentally bumped it, it flipped over."
Zhao looked at her, didn't press further. She turned the mirror back, breathed on the surface, wiped it with her sleeve, then turned back to Lin Chun and said: "No need to turn this mirror in the future."
Lin Chun paused. "Why?"
Zhao's hand wiping the mirror stopped, then continued wiping, her tone casual: "This mirror is custom-made, embedded in the wall, flipping it back and forth will damage it. If it breaks, we have to find someone to fix it, troublesome."
The explanation sounded reasonable, but Lin Chun felt Zhao's eyes were dodging when she spoke, like there was something she wasn't saying. She stood there hesitating a few seconds, finally spoke up: "Zhao-jie, I want to ask you something."
Zhao turned to look at her.
"This mirror in our shop," Lin Chun swallowed, "does it need to be turned over at night?"
Zhao's cleaning rag stopped. She looked at Lin Chun, her expression subtle under the fluorescent light. Not surprise, not confusion, but a kind of "you finally asked" understanding.
"Who told you?" Zhao asked.
"No one told me," Lin Chun said, "I just... just wanted to ask."
Zhao draped the rag over the cart's handle, sat down on the facial bed. She was silent for about ten seconds, then spoke, her voice much lower than usual.
"This mirror, after the last client at night, needs to be turned over."
Lin Chun felt her back go cold.
"Why?"
Zhao looked up at her, that glance making Lin Chun feel uncomfortable all over. Zhao was usually a straightforward person, loud voice, decisive in action, but right now she sat on the facial bed like an old woman hesitating whether to tell a secret.
"Did you see something last night?"
Lin Chun's fingers tightened. She didn't speak, but her expression said everything.
Zhao sighed. She stood up, walked to the sliding door, pulled it shut, came back and sat on the facial bed, hands crossed on her knees, like she was organizing her words.
"The matter of this mirror was told to me by the previous owner. When she transferred this shop to me, besides the normal handover, she specifically pulled me aside to talk about this. She said, the mirror at Chanjuan Beauty Salon, after the last client at night must be turned over, the mirror surface cannot face an empty treatment room."
"Why?" Lin Chun asked again, her voice even lower this time.
"Because those clients who've had facials," Zhao's voice dropped so low Lin Chun had to lean forward slightly to hear, "come back at night to look in the mirror."
Lin Chun felt her heart thump heavily.
"Come back... to look in the mirror?"
"Think about it," Zhao said, "after a woman has a facial, what does she most want to do? See if she's become prettier. Clients during the day can check right away, but what about clients at night? Those women who had facials, died before they could look in the mirror?"
The treatment room was utterly quiet, quiet enough to hear the second hand of the wall clock ticking. The fluorescent tubes buzzed faintly, like an insect vibrating its wings deep in the ear.
"At first I didn't believe it," Zhao continued, her gaze falling on that mirror, "thought the previous owner was being spooky, deliberately scaring me. The first year I took over, I never turned the mirror, nothing happened. Then one night, after the last client, while I was cleaning up, I saw a woman I didn't recognize in the mirror, standing behind me."
She paused here, took a deep breath.
"I turned to look, nothing there. Looked back at the mirror, the person took a step forward. I was so scared I almost wet myself, fell when I ran out, still have a scar on my knee."
Zhao bent down, pulled up her pant leg, revealing an irregular white old scar on her knee.
Lin Chun stared at that scar for a while, her lips moving: "And then?"
"Then I started turning the mirror. Every night after the last client left, turn the mirror to face the wall, turn it back when opening the next morning. After that, nothing ever happened again."
"So last night..." Lin Chun's voice trembled, "I forgot to turn it."
"So you saw it?"
Lin Chun nodded.
Zhao was silent for a while, then stood up, walked to the mirror, reached out to touch the surface.
"What did she look like?"
Lin Chun tried to recall what she'd seen last night: "White clothes, long hair, hair covering her face, bare feet... the cuffs had a dark red border."
Zhao's hand stopped, pulled back from the mirror surface.
"Dark red border?" She turned to look at Lin Chun, "Are you sure?"
Lin Chun nodded.
Zhao's expression changed. The change was subtle, like a drop of ink falling into a basin of clear water, spreading slowly, but the color very dark. She opened her mouth, about to say something, when the wind chime on the glass door outside rang, a client had come in.
Zhao quickly gathered her expression, clapped her hands, put on her usual brisk manner, pushed through the sliding door to greet them: "Oh, Chen-jie, why so early today, sit, sit, I'll pour you tea."
Lin Chun stood in the treatment room, watching Zhao's back disappear behind the sliding door. She turned to look at the mirror. In the mirror was reflected herself—a twenty-something, pale-faced girl in a white uniform, looking like she'd been terrified by something.
Zhao's reaction just now bothered her. When she said "white clothes, long hair," Zhao's expression was grave but not surprised. But when she said "cuffs with a dark red border," Zhao's face changed.
The client who came in the morning, Chen-jie, was there for basic skincare, done in an hour. After sending Chen-jie off, Zhao didn't continue the earlier topic, Lin Chun didn't press either, each doing their own work, occasionally exchanging bland pleasantries. But Lin Chun noticed that today, whenever Zhao passed that mirror, she would deliberately glance at it.
In the afternoon two clients came, one for hydration, one for acne treatment, both Lin Chun's work. She massaged in circles while thinking, her hands unaffected—three years of muscle memory didn't need brain involvement. After finishing both clients it was already five-thirty. Zhao said she needed to leave early to pick up her mother, told Lin Chun to close up herself tonight.
"Remember to turn the mirror." Zhao said as she left, tone casual, like reminding her to turn off the air conditioning.
Lin Chun nodded.
After Zhao left, she was alone in the shop. In the evening another client came for cleansing, a regular named Liu, checked the mirror after, left satisfied. Lin Chun checked her phone, nearly eight, no new appointments in the system, probably no more clients today.
She started cleaning up. First threw used towels in the hamper, straightened products on the cart, wiped the facial beds with alcohol pads, then took a mop and mopped the floor. After all that, she walked to the innermost facial bed, stood before that mirror.
In the mirror was herself. Under the fluorescent lights she looked better than this morning, not as pale, but the dark circles under her eyes were still visible. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long time, then slowly reached out, grabbed the mirror's frame.