The Quiet Room

Emily and Dan Morgan moved into the old Victorian house on a whim. It was a steal, really. Everyone told them the same thing: “It’s too cheap to be true.” But the realtor had smiled tightly and offered vague reassurances. "Old houses just want to feel lived in again," she’d said.

The house had four bedrooms, a creaky staircase, and antique doorknobs that clicked like bones when turned. But it was the fifth room that stood out—the one the blueprints didn’t list.

Tucked between the master bedroom and the upstairs guest room was a narrow wooden door with a tarnished brass knob. Inside was a square, windowless chamber. The wallpaper was floral, once pink, now the shade of spoiled milk. There were no outlets, no vents. Just a tall mirror and a wooden chair with a split seat cushion.

“No windows?” Emily had asked.

Dan shrugged. “We’ll use it for storage.”

But they never did.

The first night, the dream came.

Emily sat in the chair, watching herself in the mirror. But her reflection didn’t quite match. It blinked too slowly. Its smile came a second too late. Then something moved behind her—tall, dark, hunched—and reached out. She woke up gasping.

Dan dismissed it. “New house jitters.”

But Emily kept dreaming of the room. Not just at night. During the day, she'd find herself standing outside its door, hand hovering over the knob, unsure how she'd gotten there.

Then the mirror started moving.

Some days it leaned slightly, or fogged up despite the dry air. Other days, she’d see faint smudges across the glass—fingerprints too long, too narrow. Once, she swore the chair had turned to face the door on its own.

She told Dan. He laughed it off. But agreed to remove the mirror.

They carried the mirror outside together, arms aching from its weight. They left it at the curb, wrapped in a blanket.

The next morning, it was back in the room.

Same position. Same smudges.

Dan stormed around the neighborhood, furious. “Someone’s screwing with us.”

But Emily knew better.

The room got colder.

They stopped using the second floor. At night, the door creaked open on its own. They kept it shut with a chair propped against the handle. Once, Emily found it wide open, the chair knocked over. Dusty footprints led into the room—but none led out.

She started sleepwalking. Dan found her standing in the hallway at 3:12 a.m., whispering to the door.

They brought in a priest. He refused to enter the room. Told them, “This is not a place for prayers.”

Then one night, Dan awoke alone.

Emily wasn’t in bed.

The door was open.

Inside, she sat in the chair, facing the mirror, her face blank.

“Emily?” he said.

She turned slowly. Her lips curled into a soft smile.

But in the mirror—her reflection didn’t move.

It just stared at him.

Dan stepped backward, horror crawling up his throat. The mirror fogged over as if breathing. The reflection of Emily in the glass stood up, even though Emily herself remained seated.

It walked toward the frame, arms limp, eyes hollow.

Dan slammed the door and didn’t stop running until he hit the front lawn.

They moved out the next morning.

Emily didn’t speak much. She seemed… distant. Dull. Her voice was slower. Her eyes rarely blinked.

Dan told himself it was trauma.

Weeks passed in a small hotel on the other side of town.

Then one day, a package arrived for Dan at the front desk. No return address. Inside was a hand mirror, delicately carved, old and cold to the touch. On the back, a slip of paper was taped:

“You took her. She’s staying.”

Dan dropped the mirror—but it didn’t break. He caught his own reflection.

And it smiled back at him…

before he did.