The Last Room on Hawthorn Lane

There’s a small, quiet street on the edge of town called Hawthorn Lane. People rarely go there anymore. Not since the incident. If you ask the older folks, they’ll lower their voices and tell you, “Never go near House No. 7. That house watches you.”

It all started with a boy named Liam.

Liam had just turned 20 when he moved to Hawthorn Lane. He was a student, quiet and kind. He rented a room at House No. 7 because it was cheap. “Too cheap,” his best friend Mia had warned. But Liam didn’t believe in ghosts or haunted houses. He laughed it off and moved in.

The house was old and cold. The floor creaked with every step, and the walls whispered when the wind blew. The landlady, Mrs. Griggs, was strange too. She had cloudy eyes and a voice like dry leaves. “Don’t go into the last room upstairs,” she warned. “It’s locked for a reason.”

Of course, Liam was curious. One night, he heard something.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound came from upstairs. From the last room.

He got up, grabbed a flashlight, and tiptoed up the stairs. The air grew colder with each step. The hallway stretched longer than he remembered. When he reached the last door, the tapping stopped.

He touched the doorknob. It was ice cold.

It shouldn’t have opened, but it did—with a soft, tired click.

The room was empty. No furniture. No windows. Just darkness, so thick it swallowed his light. But in the center of the room, there was a mirror.

Liam stepped closer.

His reflection didn’t move.

He blinked.

The boy in the mirror smiled.

Liam turned and ran.

After that night, things got worse.

He’d wake up with bruises on his arms and strange scratches on his back. He started hearing voices calling his name from inside the walls. When he tried to leave the house, the doors would slam shut. The landlady was never around during the day anymore. At night, he heard her humming in the basement.

One night, Mia came to check on him. He hadn’t answered his phone in three days.

She found the door to House No. 7 wide open.

The inside smelled like burnt wood and old perfume.

She called his name. No answer.

She went upstairs.

The last room was open.

Inside, there was only the mirror.

And in it, Liam was standing there. But Mia couldn’t see him in the real room. Just in the glass.

His lips moved slowly: “Help me.”

But behind him, in the mirror world, a dark figure stood. Its face was a blur, but it wore the same clothes as Liam. It raised a hand and placed it on the glass. Liam’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Then the mirror cracked.

Mia ran. She never looked back.

The police searched the house. They found no sign of Liam. But they found hundreds of photographs under the floorboards—pictures of people staring into that same mirror. People who were never seen again.

The house was sealed.

But late at night, people still walk past House No. 7 and hear tapping upstairs.

Some say if you look into the mirror long enough, you trade places with the shadow behind the glass.

And now, no one knows who’s inside, and who’s watching from behind the mirror.