I’m Danny, thirty-two, sharing a shoebox in Stratford where the kettle only works if you swear at it first. So when Mr. Leung offers me the top-floor flat for four hundred quid—bills in—I figure the catch is rats or ghosts. Turns out it’s both, plus feng-shui from hell.
The mirror’s the first thing I see: octagonal, bronze, cracked like my ex’s iPhone. It’s nailed dead-center over the door, red string and all. “Leave it,” Mr. Leung warns, eyes darting like he’s late for his own funeral. “Mirror catch bad chi.” I nod, thinking chi is probably the new slang for mold.
Night one, I wake up skint-change clinking under the bed. I check Monzo—still minus £7.40. Yet there’s a neat stack of pound coins on the carpet, cold as ice. I spend them on breakfast, feel cheeky, like the universe just gave me a tip.
Day three the mirror’s crack glows red every time I walk past. My mate Jodie says it’s LED prank. She climbs up to yank it off—stops mid-stretch, face blank, then asks if I smell incense. We don’t, but the hallway suddenly smells like my nana’s funeral flowers. She legs it, screaming about migraines.
That weekend the flat rearranges itself. Sofa faces north, telly faces the wall like it’s in timeout. I haven’t touched a thing. I film it for TikTok—caption “poltergeist with OCD”—but the clip glitches; the only clear frame is the mirror winking. Views: zero. Creepy comments: three hundred.
I google feng-shui fails. Apparently mirrors suck energy, spit it back upside-down. The crack? That’s a doorway. Great. I’ve got a spiritual cat-flap and something’s coming through.
Tuesday I meet the neighbor, Mrs. Chan, who brings oranges and a face like yesterday’s rice. She points at the mirror, whispers, “It’s feeding. You pay, or it collects.” I laugh, but my chuckle echoes wrong, like it’s coming from inside the wall.
That night the mirror shows me richer: me in a suit, Rolex flashing, hairline restored. Real-me wears stained joggers and holds final-demand letters. Mirror-me waves, slips a wad of cash through the glass—real enough to smell the ink. I grab it; notes turn to ash, burn my palm. Smoke alarm sings.
Next morning my debt’s gone. Zero overdraft, credit card smiling. I should be buzzing, but the flat feels smaller, like it’s inflated around me. My reflection lags half a second, smirking when I don’t.
I ring Mum; she says count blessings, stop smoking “that stuff.” I haven’t, but I start googling exorcists. Prices start at five hundred quid—figures.
Desperate, I corner Mr. Leung at the takeaway. He confesses: previous tenant, a crypto kid, bragged about hacking luck. Moved the mirror, woke up with bags of cash—and no soul. One month later they found him swimming face-down in the Thames, pockets full of river stones shaped like coins. Police filed it under “weird.” Rent roll needed refilling; enter Danny-boy.
“Mirror gives, mirror takes,” Leung shrugs. “Balance, yin-yang, all that.” He slips me a card: “Master Zhao, Spiritual Plumbing.” I picture a plumber’s mate holding sage instead of a wrench. Why not?
Master Zhao’s twenty, hoodie, AirPods, vape that smells like temples. He tours the flat, tutting like a disappointed dad. “Big hole in your aura, mate. Mirror’s siphoning, feeding something older than Chinatown.” He quotes two fifty. I haggle to one seventy-five and a Tesco meal deal.
Ritual night: Zhao burns paper iPhones, sprinkles rice wine, makes me apologize to the mirror out loud. “Sorry for greed, sorry for Netflix password sharing.” He paints my door with black sesame paste, chants in Cantonese that sounds suspiciously like takeaway orders. Mirror steams, crack widens, sucks the smoke right in. Floor trembles; my ears pop like on a plane.
Then silence. Zhao opens his eyes, grins. “Done. Debt closed.” He pockets cash, legs it before I can ask warranty length.
For a week everything’s boring-brilliant: no coins, no laggy reflection, debt still gone. I even get a job interview. I start believing maybe feng-shui’s like horoscopes—fun nonsense for people who can’t cope with random.
Interview morning I can’t find my shoes. They’re in the fridge, soles frozen. My shirt’s inside-out stitched to the curtain. Mirror’s crack sealed shiny-new, like it’s healed. In the glass I see suit-me again, but closer, hand pressed against the surface. He mouths, “Your turn.”
I bolt, barefoot, shirt flapping. Elevator’s out—of course—so I sprint nine floors down, each step echoing with someone else’s feet. Outside, the city air tastes metallic. My phone buzzes: bank app, notification, +£50,000. Caption: “Final payment received.”
I stare at the screen, heart drumming dnb. I know the rules now: spend it, enjoy it, become suit-me forever. Or give it back, break the mirror, maybe end up like crypto-kid but drier.
I choose option C. I stride into the hardware store, buy the biggest sledgehammer they’ve got, name it “Balance.” Back upstairs, I plant feet like a batter, swing hard. Mirror explodes into bronze snow. Wind howls through the crack, sucks coins, ash, sesame, my unpaid bills—everything spins into nowhere. Then quiet.
My reflection’s gone. Just blank wood. Debt’s back, minus the sledgehammer receipt. I breathe the freest broke breath of my life.
That night I sleep like a baby who’s never heard of overdrafts. I wake up to a single pound coin on the pillow. Heads-up, 1997. I flip it out the window, hear it clink on the pavement below—someone else’s lucky day now.
Mrs. Chan meets me with more oranges. “You look lighter,” she says. I feel it too, like I’ve shed a second skin made of cash and sleepless nights. I still don’t know if feng-shui’s real or if mirrors just show us the greed we cart around, but I’ve learned one solid rule: if the rent’s too good to be true, the landlord’s probably renting to your ghost as well.
I zip my hoodie, step into London rain that smells of nothing but wet buses. Broke again, but the horizon’s mine, no smirking reflection tagging along. Somewhere behind me the empty frame hangs like a broken smile. Let the next tenant laugh at superstition; I’ve paid my balance, and that’s the only currency that doesn’t bite back.