Mirror House

It was supposed to be a healing retreat.

The sprawling mansion on the edge of a silent forest gleamed in the late afternoon light, its tall windows reflecting gold. A banner outside read:

"Welcome to the Sanctuary: Confront Your True Self."

Seven guests arrived that day — strangers to each other, each carrying invisible burdens.

Among them was Leah, a woman in her thirties, with dark eyes that looked perpetually tired. She worked in advertising but hadn’t slept through the night since her divorce. Her therapist had recommended the retreat, promising it would be “transformative.”

The air inside was cool and fragrant, the walls lined with enormous, ornate mirrors — each one gilded and spotless. The mirrors were everywhere: in the foyer, the bedrooms, the dining room, even the ceiling. Some guests joked about how narcissistic it felt. But the staff only smiled politely and instructed them not to touch the glass.

On the first evening, their host — a tall woman in a black dress who called herself Madame Corinne — gathered them in the main hall.

"In the Mirror House," she said, "you will not only see yourself, but also what you have refused to see. Do not resist it. Do not run from it. Look until you understand."

The guests exchanged nervous chuckles, thinking it was just some sort of mindfulness exercise.

That night, Leah explored the mansion alone after dinner. The halls were quiet, the light dim, the mirrors glimmering faintly.

In the study, she paused in front of an enormous mirror. For a moment, she thought she saw something — no, someone — standing behind her in the reflection.

She spun around. No one there.

Her heart sped up. When she looked back into the glass, the reflection smiled at her — but she wasn’t smiling.

She backed away quickly, muttering, “It’s just stress. Just stress…”

The next day, one of the guests, a man named Peter, was gone. Madame Corinne told everyone he had “completed his journey” and left early.

But Leah noticed his reflection still stood in the dining room mirror, watching them eat.

She tried to point it out. The others didn’t see anything.

That night, the mirrors grew stranger. Leah’s reflection began moving on its own — smiling when she wasn’t, tilting its head as if listening to something she couldn’t hear. Sometimes it seemed taller, or thinner, or younger. Once, she saw it reach a hand toward her through the glass — and she bolted out of the room.

By the third day, she no longer trusted what she saw.

The guests had stopped talking to each other. They all seemed afraid, eyes darting from mirror to mirror. And one by one, they disappeared.

Only Leah and an older woman, Marta, were left. Leah found her crying in the library, surrounded by mirrors.

"It’s me," Marta sobbed. "It’s been me all along. I let her in. I can’t make her leave."

Then she stepped up to a mirror — and her reflection grinned hideously, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her through the glass.

Leah screamed.

She ran.

She ran through the halls, but they seemed to stretch and twist endlessly. Every turn revealed more mirrors — some cracked, some blackened, some showing scenes she didn’t recognize: a version of herself crying in a bathtub, laughing cruelly at a stranger, standing on a bridge at night.

She ran until she collapsed in the ballroom — in front of the largest mirror yet.

There, her reflection stood waiting. Not moving. Just watching her.

Leah, panting, whispered: “What do you want from me?”

The reflection tilted its head, then spoke — its voice cold and hollow:

"To be free."

And with that, the glass shattered outward, sending shards spinning into the air like icy snowflakes.

Leah was no longer looking at a mirror. She was looking at herself — outside the glass. The reflection stepped forward, real, solid, smiling.

"Thank you," it whispered. "You can rest now."

Before Leah could react, everything went dark.

When she woke, the house was quiet. Empty.

She walked to a mirror and froze — because her reflection was gone.

No matter how she turned, no matter where she looked — the glass stayed empty.

But she felt something, just behind her shoulder — breathing.

And somewhere in the silence, a voice she knew too well whispered:

"Your turn."