The Girl in the Room That Doesn’t Exist

By Habib

No one believed her, of course.

Landlords dismissed her concerns with blank stares. “Miss Rowan, there is no such room. The floorplan is standard.”

Friends said it was stress. A breakup, a job loss, a fragile mind.

But Lila knew what she saw. Or rather… what she entered.

It was always the same. Every apartment, every city. She’d move in, unpack, settle. And then, a few days later, she’d notice it: a door where none should be. Usually at the end of a hallway or tucked behind an oddly placed coat rack. Nondescript, always closed, always silent.

And always locked—at first.

This time, it appeared on her fourth night in the new apartment. She saw it while brushing her teeth. A glimpse in the mirror — just a flicker, a trick of the eye — but when she turned, the door was there, behind the linen closet.

Her breath fogged the glass as she stared at her reflection.

“You’re not going to open it this time,” she whispered.

But the door waited.

________________________________________

The lock clicked open on the sixth day.

There was no key, no sound. It simply opened as she passed, like it had been waiting for her.

The room inside was pitch black. No windows, no furnishings. Just the same soft, velvety dark that swallowed sound and logic. The air smelled like dust and something older — like forgotten prayers or the underside of coffins.

She stood in the doorway, heart galloping.

“Not again,” she whispered. “Please not again.”

But her feet moved anyway.

Inside, the air was cold. Her breath clouded in front of her. The walls were smooth — not plaster, not stone. They pulsed faintly beneath her fingertips, like they were breathing. She felt watched, as though the room was conscious of her. Expecting her.

A mirror stood in the far corner. She hadn’t seen it until she was nearly upon it.

This time, her reflection didn’t move.

________________________________________

Lila bolted.

She didn’t scream — she knew better than that. You don’t scream when the thing that looks like you blinks after you’ve already turned away. You don’t scream when your apartment has a heartbeat. You just leave.

But when she tried the front door, it wouldn’t open.

Neither would the windows.

And her phone screen was dead — not off, just blank. Like it didn’t know how to be useful anymore.

She spent that night sitting in the kitchen with every light on. The hum of the refrigerator was her only company. And from down the hall, behind the closed door that shouldn’t exist, she heard soft footsteps.

________________________________________

The next day, she called a locksmith. He walked in smiling and walked out confused.

“There’s no door, ma’am,” he said, scratching his beard. “Just a wall. Solid. Drywall and studs.”

She stared past him, to the hallway.

The door was gone.

________________________________________

That night, the mirror appeared in her bedroom.

She didn’t notice it until she awoke at 3:11 a.m., sweat-soaked and cold. It stood across from her bed, tall and freestanding, gleaming like metal teeth.

Her reflection was already awake.

It didn’t blink. It didn’t breathe.

It just watched her.

She turned on the light.

The mirror was gone.

________________________________________

By the tenth night, Lila stopped sleeping.

The door returned, sometimes in the bathroom, sometimes inside her closet. She started marking the walls with chalk, desperate to track the impossible architecture. But every morning, the marks were wiped clean.

Her own face began to feel unfamiliar. Her voice echoed oddly in her throat.

One morning, she opened her mouth to speak, and something else’s voice came out — deeper, slower, smiling.

“I see you now.”

She didn’t speak for two days after that.

________________________________________

On the thirteenth night, the mirror spoke.

Her reflection grinned. Not her smile — its. Crooked. Knowing.

“You're not real,” Lila whispered.

“Oh,” the mirror said, voice a silky hum, “but you aren’t either. Not anymore.”

The surface rippled like water, and Lila stumbled back. Her chest hurt. Her vision blurred.

She ran through the hallway, into the living room, back to the front door.

Still locked.

But this time, when she turned around, the mirror had followed her.

________________________________________

The last thing she remembered clearly was touching the glass. It had felt warm — too warm — like flesh.

She woke up on the floor the next morning. Alone. Quiet.

No mirror.

No door.

Just her apartment, sunlit and serene.

The silence was unbearable.

________________________________________

That was three months ago.

Now, the apartment is empty. No furniture. No chalk. No Lila.

But if you stand in the hallway long enough — in the spot where the door shouldn’t be — you might hear something behind the wall.

Breathing. Scratching. A faint whisper, almost like your own voice.

If you knock, sometimes, it knocks back.

And if you're not careful…

You’ll let her out.

________________________________________

[END]