“The Ghost in the Mirror”

You turned 11 today.

Cake, candles, and a brand-new pair of platform boots from your mom, Kelly Osbourne, who says “You're finally old enough to stomp like an Osbourne.” You laugh, she sings to you off-key on purpose, and everything feels pretty normal.

Except July 22nd never really feels normal.

It’s always a little too quiet in the house that day. The lights seem dimmer, the air heavier, and Mom—though she smiles—has this faraway look in her eyes, like she's remembering someone who's not there.

Someone you’ve never met.

Your grandpa.

Ozzy Osbourne.

You’ve heard the name only in whispers. Never in long stories. Never in explanations. Just quiet words exchanged when they thought you weren’t paying attention. Once, you asked your mom, “Who was Grandpa Ozzy?” and she just said, “He was...complicated, baby. I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”

But the weird part?

You feel like you already know him.

Sometimes, when you’re in your room alone, you hear humming. Not creepy humming—like, peaceful humming. Low and deep, like a lullaby made of thunder and guitar strings. Sometimes your guitar picks vanish and show up exactly where you swear you didn’t leave them. Lights flicker. Mirrors fog with words like “Let it out” or “Sing, little bat.”

At first you thought it was your imagination.

But today, on your birthday, something changed.

You were standing in front of your mirror, trying on the new boots and pretending to perform in a stadium, when the stereo in your room clicked on by itself. No one touched it. You hadn’t moved. But it started playing a song you’d never heard before—a voice raspy and wild, growling lyrics about madness and freedom.

You froze.

And in the mirror, behind you—just for a split second—you saw a figure. Long hair. Round glasses. A cross around his neck. He didn’t look scary. He looked proud.

You spun around. No one there.

Your heart pounded. But somehow, you weren’t scared. You felt…safe. Warm.

You told your mom what happened, half-expecting her to say it was just the old stereo acting up again. But she didn’t. She looked at you for a long time, eyes glassy, and then finally sat you down.

“I guess it’s time,” she whispered. “To tell you about the man who watches over you.”

She pulled out a dusty photo album from the back of a drawer—one you’d never seen before. Inside were pictures of a man who looked exactly like the figure in your mirror: black eyeliner, tattoos, the wild grin of someone who’d seen the end of the world and screamed back at it.

“That’s your grandpa, Ozzy,” she said. “He died the day you were born. July 22nd. But I swear on everything, he’s never really left.”

She told you stories then. Not just about Ozzy the Rock Legend, but Ozzy the Granddad Who Never Got the Chance. How he’d talk to your mom’s belly while she was pregnant with you. How he bought you a tiny leather jacket before you were even born. How he said, “That kid’s gonna change the world—just like I didn’t mean to.”

That night, you went to bed with your headphones on, blasting his music for the first time.

And as you drifted to sleep, you heard the humming again.

But this time, it was louder. Clearer. And right before you closed your eyes, the mirror fogged up one more time, with three simple words written across the glass:

“Sing it loud.”

He’s watching you. Guiding you. Not haunting, but guarding.

The Prince of Darkness never met you in life… But in death?

He's your loudest fan.