The Forgotten Room

The house was on the outskirts of town, a relic of the past. Its Victorian facade and ivy-covered walls had captivated Evelyn the instant she laid eyes on it. It was ideal—a new beginning after her divorce, a home of her own. The real estate agent had said something about its past in passing, something about the first owner vanishing, but Evelyn wasn't a believer in such things. She just needed peace.

The house had the scent of old wood and lost memories. She unpacked, and her eyes widened as she admired the ornate molding, the sweeping staircase, and the creaking wooden floors that spoke in hushed tones with every step. It was an old house, full of idiosyncrasies and enigmas. But one enigma predominated over all the others.

There was a door.

Not any door—a locked door down the hall upstairs. It hadn't been on the blueprints the agent had provided her. It hadn't been noted on any paperwork. It was just there, at the end of the dark hall, waiting for her.

She tried the knob. Locked.

Curiosity troubled her. She looked around the house for a key but never found one. The door contained no visible hinges, no keyhole—nothing but a thick brass knob that would not yield.

She tuned it out at first. The first few nights, she occupied herself with unpacking, furnishing, and making the house home. The door could not be ignored long, however.

The Whispers Begin

The fourth night brought it on.

A soft scratchy noise, such as fingernails on wood. Evelyn awoke in the dark, her heart racing. She listened, but the noise ceased when she shifted. Perhaps it was the house settling. Old houses creaked, didn't they?

But the second night, it came again. This time, there were whispers.

She couldn't decipher the words. They were just out of reach, murmured voices battering the walls. It chilled her to the bone. She was in bed, gazing at the ceiling, attempting to reassure herself she was hallucinating.

At the end of the week, she couldn't turn a blind eye any longer.

Opening the Door

With a crowbar, Evelyn stood before the door, resolve overcoming her fear.

With a slow breath, she jammed the crowbar into the frame and shoved. The wood creaked, protesting her entry. The whispers came louder. Then—CRACK!

The door creaked open.

What she found inside made her gut flip.

It wasn't a room. It was a mirror.

A huge, floor-to-ceiling mirror took over the other wall, reflecting the shadowy hallway behind her. The rest of the room was barren, dust dancing in the air like caged time.

Evelyn entered, her image mirroring her actions. But something was wrong.

The air was chillier here. The silence denser. She extended a hand, tentatively placing it on the surface of the mirror. It was hard, smooth—ordinary. And yet. her reflection wasn't quite hers.

She took another step forward.

Her reflection didn't.

Evelyn froze.

Her mirror self simply stood there, looking at her, head cocked slightly—observing.

Then, incredibly, it smiled.

Not a regular smile. An incorrect smile. Lips too far apart, eyes going dark as ink spreading on water. Evelyn fell back, her breath caught.

Her mirror reflection raised its hand and set it against glass. The glass shimmered.

Evelyn fled.

She pushed the door closed, panting. She yanked a chair from the corridor and rammed it into place under the handle, keeping out whatever lay beyond.

Whispers came again that evening. More distinct. More proximal.

"Let me out."

The Secret of the Mirror

Evelyn spent the following day doing research. She pored over town records, newspaper clippings from years ago—anything on the house. What she discovered chilled her blood.

The house had once been owned by Margaret Holloway, a widow who lived alone during the 1800s. She was famous for her fascination with mirrors, thinking they could capture spirits.

Margaret vanished in 1883. No body was ever recovered.

The residents had spoken in hushed tones about a curse, about how the people who lived in the house disappeared or lost their minds. No one remained long-term over the years. The real estate agent omitted those facts.

Evelyn glared at the article, shivering. She knew—whatever was in that room wasn't just a mirror's reflection.

The door creaked open on its own that night.

She awoke to the creak of wood. The barricade was down. The door hung open, exposing the darkened room beyond. The mirror waited.

And this time, her reflection was not alone.

There was a figure behind it. A woman in a black gown, her face smudged like smeared ink. The whispers were louder.

"Come closer."

Evelyn fled.

She left the house, not slowing until she arrived at a motel on the opposite side of town.

The following morning, she listed the house for sale.

She never returned.

But occasionally, in the middle of the night, she dreams of that mirror. And in the morning, she's certain she can hear a whisper.

"I found you."