The Forgotten Room at the End of the Hall

I moved into my grandmother’s house after her death, mostly because I had nowhere else to go. A breakup, a dead-end job, and a city that forgot I existed—it all pushed me to that quiet countryside house I hadn’t visited since childhood. The place was old and creaky, filled with the scent of lavender, mothballs, and old secrets. I told myself I’d sell it after a while. Fix it up, let the memories settle.

The house had five rooms upstairs. Four bedrooms and a small storage closet. But something was strange about the hallway that led to them—it felt longer than it should, almost like it stretched just a bit more at night. Each door had its quirks: one squeaked, another stuck slightly when opened. All except one. The door at the very end of the hall had no knob, no hinges visible, and no frame separation. It looked painted shut, sealed from the inside. A dull red border surrounded it like it didn’t belong with the rest of the house.

As a child, I’d asked Grandma about it once.

“That’s not a room, sweetheart,” she had said. “That’s a mistake I never fixed.”

I thought she meant it was unfinished, maybe a bad renovation. But the way she said it—with her voice trembling slightly—haunted me now more than ever. I hadn’t thought about that door in years. Now, living in the house, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

On the third night, I heard something behind it. A dragging sound. Slow, like cloth scraping across wooden floors. I pressed my ear to the wall beside the door and waited. Nothing. The sound stopped the moment I touched the surface. I returned to my room, locking the door for the first time since arriving.

The next day, I convinced myself it was just the house settling. Old homes make sounds—pipes, wood, rats maybe. Still, I avoided walking too close to the sealed door. That night, the sound came again, this time louder. Closer. The next morning, I noticed the paint around the red border was cracking, like something inside was pushing outward.

On the fifth night, I had a dream. My grandmother was standing at the end of the hallway, dressed in the same blue nightgown she used to wear. Her face was pale, eyes wide and sad.

“He still thinks I live here,” she whispered. “He doesn’t know I left.”

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. A cold breeze rolled through the hallway, though every window in the house was shut.

The door had changed. What was once just a painted panel now had a gap running down the center. Just an inch. Just enough to see blackness inside. I grabbed a flashlight and tried to shine it through—but the light seemed to bend and disappear. I don’t know why I reached for the door. I don’t know why I opened it. But I did.

Behind the door was a narrow room, windowless, stretching longer than the entire house should allow. The air was thick, almost wet, and smelled like rotting wood and forgotten time. In the middle of the room stood a tall mirror, covered with a sheet. Something about it made my skin crawl.

I pulled the sheet back. My reflection stared at me. But it was wrong. It smiled before I did. Its eyes blinked too slow. It moved just a second behind. And then it whispered—my own voice, but deeper.

“You finally let me out.”

I stumbled backward. The door slammed shut. I ran to it, yanked it open again—but the room was gone. Just a blank wall behind the frame.

I don’t remember much after that. Only flashes. The hallway was normal again the next morning. The door at the end of the hall? Gone completely. Like it had never existed. But something is different now.

When I pass by mirrors, I catch glimpses of that same smile. A second pair of eyes watching from just behind mine. When I blink, sometimes—only sometimes—my reflection doesn’t.