The Mirror in Room Nine

I never believed in haunted hotels—until I stayed in Room Nine.

It was late November, and I was driving through northern Vermont for a photography project when a blizzard rolled in faster than expected. My car skidded near a curve, and I barely made it to a small roadside inn with a flickering neon sign: The Elkwood Lodge – Since 1923.

Inside, the place was cozy, warm, and smelled of cinnamon and old wood. The innkeeper, a stooped man with clouded eyes, handed me a brass key without asking for my ID or credit card.
"Room Nine. Top of the stairs, end of the hall," he said.
I asked if he had Wi-Fi.
He smiled faintly. "You won’t need it tonight."

The hallway upstairs felt strangely long. Paintings of forgotten people lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow me. Room Nine was at the end, just as promised. Inside, the room was plain: a bed, a desk, and a large antique mirror facing the window.

I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. Snow pattered against the windowpane like a lullaby. I didn’t notice anything wrong until just before I fell asleep.

The mirror.

Its reflection didn’t quite match the room.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. But when I turned off the lamp, the mirror still showed faint flickers—as if candlelight danced behind me, though there were no candles in the room.

I got up, flicked on the light, and walked to the mirror. I expected to see myself. Instead, I saw someone else.

A woman. Pale, wearing a dark dress with lace around the collar. She stood behind me, unmoving.

I spun around.

No one.

Heart racing, I looked back at the mirror.

She was gone.

I should have left. Any sane person would’ve. But I told myself I was overtired, maybe even dreaming. So I went back to bed.

Around 2:00 a.m., I woke up gasping. My chest felt tight. The room was cold—too cold. The window was open. I was certain I had closed it.

I got up to shut it, and that’s when I heard a whisper.
“Stay.”

I froze.

“Stay with me…”

The voice came from the mirror.

I turned slowly.

The woman was back—but this time, she was closer, her hands pressed against the inside of the glass.

I stepped toward it, unsure why I wasn’t screaming or running. Her mouth moved silently, and then she raised one hand and pointed at the desk drawer.

I opened it.

Inside was a faded photograph: her face, unmistakable. And behind her… Room Nine, unmistakably newer, brighter, alive. On the back was a name: Margaret Ellison, 1931.

Beneath the photo was a yellowed news clipping.
"Local Woman Missing in Snowstorm—Feared Dead. Last seen checking into Elkwood Lodge. No body ever found."

I looked back at the mirror.

Now, she was right up against the glass, her hand flat as if trying to push through.

“No one ever came for me,” her voice echoed softly. “But you came…”

My chest tightened again. My breath caught.

The mirror began to frost over from the edges inward, but her face remained clear, watching.

I backed away and grabbed my bag. I didn’t stop to look again. I ran down the hallway, down the stairs.

The lobby was empty. No lights. No innkeeper.

I burst through the door into the storm, barely seeing a foot ahead. My car was buried, dead. I ran until I saw the headlights of a snowplow, waved it down, and never looked back.


---

The Elkwood Lodge doesn’t show up on any GPS now. I even returned in the spring—but the place wasn’t there. Just a clearing of snow-damaged trees.

No inn. No road sign. Nothing.

But I still have the photo.

Sometimes, when I glance into my mirror at home, I swear I see Margaret watching.

And sometimes…

I hear her whisper:

“Stay with me.”
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