The Reflection Room

There was a house at the end of Elder wood Lane that no one talked about anymore. Children crossed the street to avoid walking past it. Teenagers dared each other to peek through its shattered windows. Adults simply whispered, “That’s the Lockwood place,” and changed the subject.

But to Ava, it was a curiosity too tempting to resist.

A graduate student researching local folklore, Ava had heard about the “Reflection Room” from an old newspaper buried in her university archive. The article, dated 1929, described a series of strange disappearances all linked to the Lockwood House. The only consistent detail? A mirror in the back room—where reflections moved on their own.

The article claimed the room had been sealed shut. But over time, history faded, and the legend became a ghost story parents told to scare their kids into behaving.

Ava didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in forgotten stories waiting to be retold.

On a rainy Thursday afternoon, she arrived at the Lockwood House, camera and notebook in hand. The porch groaned under her weight. The front door, long rusted, gave way with a push.

The air inside was stale, as if the house had been holding its breath for decades.

She stepped carefully, her boots crunching over broken glass. Graffiti and dust covered most of the walls, but something about the back hallway felt… untouched. No vandalism. No grime. As if the house itself guarded it.

A narrow door waited at the end.

It wasn’t locked.

Inside, the Reflection Room was perfectly preserved. No cobwebs, no dust. The floor shone like polished marble. A single, large mirror hung on the far wall, its surface silver and smooth as liquid.

Ava raised her camera.

The screen stayed black.

She frowned and tapped it. Nothing.

Her phone wouldn’t turn on either.

Then she noticed something strange.

In the mirror, she was smiling.

But she wasn’t smiling.

Her reflection’s grin was wide, unnatural. The eyes in the mirror gleamed—too dark, too knowing. Ava’s stomach twisted.

She turned to leave.

The door was gone.

Not closed. Gone.

Just a blank, endless wall behind her.

Panic surged in her chest. She reached out and touched the mirror. It was warm, almost alive.

Her reflection tilted its head, though she hadn’t moved.

Then, it stepped forward.

Ava stumbled back, heart pounding, but the reflection didn’t stop. It pressed a hand against the inside of the glass, palm to palm with her.

And then—it spoke.

“You don’t belong here,” it said with her voice. “But I do.”

The glass rippled like water.

The reflection pushed through.

Ava screamed.

Too late.

The thing stepped out of the mirror, identical to her in every way—except for the grin. She tried to run, but the room warped around her, stretching, spinning. Her limbs felt heavy, like drowning.

The last thing she saw before darkness took her was her doppelganger walking away—out of the room, out of the house—wearing her face.

Two days later, Ava’s friends received a text.

> “Found something big. House isn’t dangerous after all. Meet me at 8?”

They never saw her again.

Months passed. Ava’s name faded from search results. Her accounts posted occasionally, but friends said her tone was “off.” Colder. Robotic.

And the Lockwood House? It remained quiet. The door to the Reflection Room had returned.

Waiting.

🩸Conclusion:

“The Reflection Room” isn’t just a horror story—it’s a warning. Ava went looking for history and became part of it. Her curiosity opened a door that had been wisely shut for nearly a century. Some places aren’t forgotten—they’re hidden. For a reason. The mirror didn’t show the truth—it took it. Ava’s identity was stolen by something ancient and cruel, something that knows how to wear a face but not a soul. Now, it walks among us, blending in, hollow-eyed and watching. And the room? It waits patiently for the next curious visitor who dares to look too deeply into a reflection that smiles back just a little too wide.