It started around a year ago. I went to my friend's (who I will call Jack) house to have a sleepover. We had heard rumors about his house from the surrounding neighborhood. One of them was that a woman had murdered her husband while he was taking a shower. Another one was that there was a cat buried in the backyard who roamed the neighborhood on the night of it's death.
I didn't beleive any of these stories myself and being the hyper 15-year-old that I was, I suggested that we tell ghost stories. We started off with the usual, one's like the guy with the hook for a hand, the window (most of these are from a favorite book of mine called Scary Stories for Sleepovers), and other such ridiculous tales. But after a few hours of trying to scare each other and watching T.V., I suggested that we do something else.
We went into the bathroom where the guy had supposedly been murdered and turned off the lights. I then proceeded to say Bloody Mary for around a hundred times. When I had said it for what I guessed was the hundredth, the mirror cracked. I screamed and my friend Jack turned on the light. The mirror was cracked in the shape of a face. We freaked out and ran out of the bathroom and dived into our sleeping bags.
The next day was Saturday, so we walked around the neighborhood asking about the face. As we described what it looked like people just seemed to ignore us. We never did figure out if it was the face of the dead man in the shower. But to tell the truth, we never go in to that bathroom anymore. And we've stopped telling scaring stories at his house.