The Reflection Room

The room was never part of the blueprints.

Eliza stumbled upon it while wandering through the west wing of her late grandmother’s decaying estate—a section that had been locked away, hidden behind rotting doors and an atmosphere thick with untold stories.

She had inherited the house out of the blue, a surprise from the will. The lawyer hadn’t mentioned any conditions, just that she shouldn’t linger there for too long.

On the fourth day of her exploration, she found it—tucked behind a bookshelf that slid aside with surprising ease.

The moment she stepped inside, the air shifted. It felt cooler, almost still.

The room was small and circular, completely lined with mirrors—walls, ceiling, and even the floor.

Dozens of reflections stared back at her, each one showing the same pale face and wide, uncertain eyes. But one reflection was different.

It smiled.

Eliza blinked, and the smile disappeared.

She let out a nervous laugh and turned to leave—but her reflection didn’t move.

Panic surged in her chest. She stepped forward, and the reflection remained frozen. She turned left; it turned right. It was no longer her own.

It belonged to someone else.

A girl, about her age, with eyes darker than Eliza’s and a grin that felt unsettling. The girl mouthed something:

“I’m ready.”

Eliza instinctively reached out. Her hand met the cold glass, but the reflection’s hand passed right through.

In an instant, the glass transformed into liquid. The girl reached out—and pulled Eliza in.

The mirrors stood silent.

Outside, the house remained still.

A week went by before anyone realized she was missing.

The police never found her. They claimed it was just an abandoned estate with too many broken stairs, too many ways to vanish.

But sometimes, if you stand in front of a mirror in the west wing of the estate at just the right moment, you might catch a glimpse of her.

Smiling back.

And mouthing two words:

“Your turn.”