The Mirror Room

The locals called it Marrow House.

Tucked deep in the pine forests on the edge of town, the Victorian mansion had long been abandoned. Children dared each other to run up to its rusted gates. Teenagers used it as a backdrop for ghost stories.

But no one stayed.

They all spoke of the mirror.

Hidden in the attic. Broken. Whispering.

Some said it showed your death.

Others said it trapped your reflection.

But the oldest tales spoke of a woman in white, always staring back, even when you stood alone.

**

When Ava inherited the property from a distant, barely-remembered great aunt, she didn’t think twice. She was tired of city life—burned out, heartbroken, and looking for quiet.

She arrived on a rainy afternoon with two suitcases and low expectations.

The house creaked under her boots. Wallpaper peeled like old scabs. The air tasted like forgotten things.

But it was hers.

**

For the first two days, nothing strange happened.

She swept dust, uncovered furniture, and made herself at home.

It wasn’t until she opened the attic door that she remembered the stories.

A cold gust met her as she stepped onto the attic stairs.

It smelled like iron and lavender.

There, in the far corner, leaning against the wall—the mirror.

Almost six feet tall, rimmed with ornate silver, cracked across the middle like a jagged lightning bolt.

It was beautiful in a tragic way.

She stepped closer, brushing her fingers against the frame.

Her reflection looked… wrong.

The light behind her was flickering, though she had no lamp on.

And for a brief second—she swore her reflection blinked before she did.

She laughed it off. Told herself it was the dust. The exhaustion. The stories.

But that night, she couldn’t sleep.

She dreamt of someone whispering her name. Ava… Ava… Ava…

And when she woke up, there were wet footprints leading down from the attic stairs.

**

The next day, she returned to the attic with a flashlight and her phone.

She took pictures of the mirror.

But in the photos, the mirror didn’t show her reflection at all.

Just the room. Empty. Dim. And in the corner—a woman in a white dress, head tilted, face obscured.

Ava dropped her phone.

The air went icy.

She turned to run, but the attic door slammed shut.

Then she heard it—a slow, deliberate whisper.

“Why did you leave me here?”

Ava backed away from the mirror, her heart pounding.

“I didn’t—” she stammered. “I don’t know you.”

Silence.

Then the mirror began to hum, soft and mournful.

Ava reached out, trembling, and touched the glass.

It was warm.

And for a brief moment—she saw the room behind the glass transform.

The attic was clean. Lit with candlelight. And in front of her stood a woman in white, holding a small child.

The woman looked like Ava.

The child had her eyes.

Then the image shattered into dust.

And Ava collapsed.

**

She woke up hours later on the attic floor.

But something had changed.

She could remember things that weren’t hers.

A lullaby. A man with cold hands. A locked room. A daughter taken away.

She found a journal tucked under the floorboards the next day.

It belonged to Lillian Marrow, dated 1893.

“They called me mad. Said I was dangerous. They took my daughter from me and locked me in the attic. I watched her grow up through that mirror. It became the only thing that showed me the truth.”

“She never knew I was there, always behind the glass. Watching. Waiting.”

“Now I am part of the mirror. My soul trapped in the cracks. I will not fade.”

**

Ava wept.

She realized then: she was the bloodline. The child of the child who had been taken.

And now, the mirror called to her.

She could feel it. Pulling.

But she made a choice.

She didn’t run.

She stayed.

Each night, she spoke to the mirror. To Lillian. To the woman who had been silenced.

And slowly, the mirror changed.

The cracks faded. The humming softened.

Until one night, the mirror was whole again.

And Lillian—smiling through the glass—finally disappeared into light.

**

Ava still lives in Marrow House.

The attic is now her writing room.

The mirror remains, but no longer broken.

And when the moonlight hits it just right, it reflects not just the face looking in—

—but the stories hidden beneath the skin.