Room Six

The motel looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by time. Neon sign half-hanging, windows fogged with grime, weeds clawing through the parking lot like they were trying to escape. Mara pulled up in a beat-up sedan that smelled like old fries and regret, parked crooked, and stared at the place like it owed her money.

She hadn’t seen her mom in over a decade. Last time they talked, Mara had screamed something about being tired of secrets, and her mom had just whispered, “You’ll understand someday.” Then poof—radio silence. Until the letter came. Dead mom. Inherited motel. No explanation.

Mara didn’t want it. She wanted to sell it, torch it, forget it. But she was broke, and broke people don’t get picky. So she drove twelve hours through desert and dust, and now here she was, standing in front of a building that looked like it might collapse if she breathed too hard.

Inside, the air was thick. Like the place had been holding its breath. Dust coated everything—counter, keys, even the old guestbook. One key sat alone on the desk: Room 6. It looked newer than the rest. Polished. Waiting.

She frowned. “Why just one?”

The deed had come with a note. Handwritten, shaky. “Don’t open Room 6. Sell the place. Leave it be.”

Mara snorted. “Yeah, okay. That’s not suspicious at all.”

She pocketed the key.

The other rooms were trashed. Cigarette burns, busted TVs, mold creeping like it had a plan. But Room 6? Sealed. Boards nailed across the door. A mirror bolted dead center, warped and cloudy.

She stared at her reflection. It stared back. But something felt… off. Like the glass was a little too deep. Like it was looking through her, not at her.

She grabbed a hammer from the supply closet and went to town. Boards splintered. The mirror cracked and fell, shattering across the floor like it had been holding something in. The door creaked open.

Inside, the room was spotless. Not just clean—pristine. Bed made. Carpet vacuumed. And mirrors. Everywhere. Wall to wall, ceiling, even the damn floor. It was like stepping into a funhouse designed by someone who hated fun.

She stepped inside.

Her reflection followed.

That night, Mara dreamed of mirrors. She was standing in Room 6 again, staring at herself. But the reflection didn’t move. It just watched. Eyes wide. Mouth closed. Breathing slow. She tried to blink. It didn’t. She tried to speak. It smiled.

She woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. Her heart was doing drum solos in her chest.

“Okay,” she muttered, sitting up. “That’s normal. Totally normal. Creepy mirror dreams. Happens to everyone.”

She didn’t believe herself.

The next day, she tried to clean the office, but her brain kept drifting. She kept thinking about that room. About the way the mirrors felt like they were breathing. About the way her reflection had smiled like it knew something she didn’t.

She went back.

The mirrors were fogged. She wiped one clean with her sleeve. Her reflection blinked.

She didn’t.

She stumbled back, heart in her throat. “Nope. Nope nope nope.”

She turned to leave—but the door was gone. Just another mirror.

She ran to the wall, palms flat against glass. Her reflection stared, unmoving. Then it tilted its head. Then it smiled.

She screamed.

Three months later, Cal pulled into the lot in a rusted-out pickup that coughed more than it ran. He killed the engine and sat there for a minute, staring at the motel like it might lunge at him. The place looked like it hadn’t aged—it had rotted. Same busted sign, same cracked windows, same feeling in his gut like something was watching him.

He hadn’t seen Mara since she inherited the place. They weren’t close, not really. Cousins by blood, strangers by choice. But she’d called him once, late at night, voice shaky. Said she needed help. Said something was wrong with the mirrors.

Then she stopped answering.

Cal wasn’t the sentimental type, but something about that call stuck. So here he was, boots crunching gravel, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, walking toward a place that felt like it had teeth.

The office was unlocked. Inside, dust hung in the air like it was waiting for someone to breathe it in. The counter was clean. Too clean. A single key sat on the desk: Room 5.

No note. No sign of Mara.

He took the key and walked down the row of rooms. Room 6 was boarded up again. Mirror bolted to the door. He stopped in front of it, stared at his reflection. It stared back.

He didn’t like the way it looked at him.

Room 5 was musty but livable. He dropped his bag, cracked a beer, and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence was thick. Not peaceful—claustrophobic. Like the air was holding its breath.

That night, he dreamed of Mara.

She was standing in Room 6, staring into a mirror. Her reflection didn’t move. It just smiled. Then it turned and walked away—out of the mirror, out of the room, into the world.

Cal woke up with a start, heart hammering. He sat up, rubbed his face, and muttered, “Jesus, Mara… what the hell did you get into?”

He spent the next day poking around. The other rooms were empty, untouched. The office had a few receipts, a half-used guestbook, and a drawer full of dust. No journal. No photos. No sign of her.

Room 6 stayed quiet.

That night, he heard footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. He peeked through the blinds and saw Mara standing outside Room 6. Talking to herself.

He crept closer, barefoot on cold concrete. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

“I’m doing what you asked. I brought him.”

Cal froze.

The door to Room 6 creaked open. Inside, the mirrors pulsed—like they were breathing.

Mara turned and looked right at him.

But it wasn’t Mara.

Her eyes were wrong. Too wide. Too still. Her smile was too perfect, like someone had drawn it on.

Cal backed away. “Nope. No. Not her. That’s not her.”

He ran back to Room 5, locked the door, shoved a chair under the knob. He didn’t sleep.

The next morning, Room 6 was sealed again. Boards nailed tight. Mirror bolted back on.

Mara was gone.

He checked the security footage. Nothing. Just static.

He stared at the mirror on Room 6. His reflection stared back.

He whispered, “What are you?”

The mirror didn’t answer.

But it smiled.

Cal didn’t sleep. Not really. He sat in the room with the lights on, back against the wall, crowbar across his lap like a security blanket. Every creak made him flinch. Every shadow felt like it was leaning in. He kept thinking about Mara—about the way she’d looked at him. Like she knew him, but didn’t care. Like she was wearing her own skin wrong.

He didn’t believe in ghosts. Didn’t believe in demons, curses, any of that crap. But this? This was something else. Something that didn’t care what you believed. It just watched. And waited.

The next morning, he walked back to Room 6. The boards were fresh. The mirror was clean. His reflection stared at him like it was sizing him up.

He muttered, “Screw it.”

He went to the shed behind the office, found a pry bar, and came back swinging. Wood splintered. Nails screamed. The mirror cracked but didn’t fall. It just shimmered—like water. Like it was inviting him in.

He kicked the door open.

Inside, the room was colder than it should’ve been. The air felt thick, like breathing soup. Mirrors covered every surface. Floor, ceiling, walls. Even the bed frame had mirrored panels. It was like stepping into a box made of eyes.

He stepped in.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He spun, heart pounding. “Nope. Hell no.”

He grabbed the knob. It didn’t budge. The mirrors rippled.

His reflection blinked.

He didn’t.

He backed up, breathing hard. “Okay. Okay. This is a dream. I’m dreaming. I’m gonna wake up in that crusty-ass bed and laugh about this.”

The mirrors pulsed again. His reflection stepped forward.

Cal didn’t move.

The reflection smiled. “You’re late.”

Cal’s voice caught in his throat. “What the hell are you?”

“I’m what’s left when people stop looking.”

The reflection tilted its head. “She brought you. You’re the last one.”

Cal gripped the crowbar tighter. “I’m not staying.”

The reflection laughed. “You already did.”

The mirrors began to shimmer, showing things that weren’t there. Mara, standing in the office, smiling. Mara, walking through town, waving at neighbors. Mara, sleeping peacefully in Room 5.

But it wasn’t Mara.

It was the thing.

Cal stumbled back, heart racing. “You’re not real.”

The reflection stepped out of the mirror.

It was him.

Same face. Same clothes. But the eyes were wrong. Too still. Too deep.

Cal swung the crowbar. It passed through the figure like smoke.

The thing smiled. “You’re not fighting me. You’re feeding me.”

The mirrors pulsed again. Cal felt something tug at his chest—like a hook in his soul. Memories flashed. His childhood. His first heartbreak. His worst mistake. All laid bare in the glass.

He screamed.

The thing stepped closer. “You’re just a reflection. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Cal dropped the crowbar. His knees buckled. The room spun.

He saw himself—hundreds of versions—laughing, crying, dying.

He whispered, “I don’t want to be here.”

The thing leaned in. “You never left.”

The motel changed hands again.

The new owner was charming. Friendly. His name was Cal.

He smiled at guests. Cleaned rooms. Kept Room 6 sealed.

But sometimes, late at night, he stood in front of the mirror in the office.

And watched himself.