The Mirror in Room 9

The Mirror in Room 9

Eleanor Hart had spent decades cleaning rooms at the Elmwood Inn, a crumbling, once-grand hotel tucked into a forgotten town. She had seen it all—bachelor parties, broken hearts, the occasional rat—but Room 9 was different.

It wasn’t just the smell, though that was part of it. Lavender and mildew. It wasn’t the chill, either—an unnatural cold that clung even in July. It was the mirror.

A tall, antique thing with ornate silver trim, cracked in the upper corner. The hotel had tried to replace it once. A guest had shattered it in a fit of panic, babbling about someone standing behind him in the reflection.

They hung a new mirror.

It fell in the night.

After that, management gave up. The original was rehung, glued and nailed and secured like a relic. Room 9 became the room they only rented when every other was full.

Until Amy checked in.

She was a graduate student, quiet, curious, with a notebook always in hand. She requested the top floor, a room with "character." The receptionist, young and unaware, handed her the key to Room 9.

That night, Eleanor stayed late to finish the linens. As she passed Room 9, she felt it—an old fear, like walking into a place you don’t belong. She paused, hand hovering over the doorknob, then moved on.

The next morning, Amy was gone.

No check-out, no suitcase, no trace. The bed was made, the window locked. But the mirror was different.

Eleanor swore it was taller.

Over the next few days, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. A guest in Room 8 complained of whispers at night. Room 10 said the wall creaked like someone was pacing next door.

No one had checked into Room 9.

One morning, Eleanor unlocked it out of instinct. Everything was in place—but the mirror…

She stepped closer.

There was something inside it.

Not a reflection. A shadow. A figure just beyond the glass, barely visible, watching. Its outline shimmered like smoke.

She gasped and backed away.

By the time the manager arrived, there was nothing. Just Eleanor, shaking, whispering, “It’s watching. It knows.”

He sent her home.

That night, a new guest arrived—Mr. Dalton. Passing through on business. The inn was full.

Room 9 was the only one left.

The receptionist hesitated but handed him the key.

Dalton barely made it to sunrise.

At 4:13 a.m., guests awoke to screaming. When they reached Room 9, they found him unconscious, face-down on the floor. EMTs revived him, but he was never the same. He spoke of cold hands dragging him toward the mirror, a woman whispering from behind the glass:

"Join us."

He checked into a psychiatric clinic the next day.

The room was sealed. Finally.

Or so they thought.

Months later, Eleanor returned, curious. The room was quiet. Still.

But the mirror had changed again.

A crack had formed—long, jagged, running down the middle. And in the silver depths, she saw them: shadows. Dozens. Their faces pressed to the other side of the glass. Pale, desperate, reaching.

And in the center, Amy.

Her mouth opened, silently mouthing two words:

“Help me.”

Eleanor stepped back.

She ran.

Today, Room 9 remains locked, untouched. But on quiet nights, when the wind moves just right, you can hear them—the whispers from behind the glass. Soft. Pleading.

And if you dare to look into the mirror, you might see someone who isn’t you.

Looking back.

Waiting.