The Reflection Room

The first rule of Holloway Institute was: never speak of the Reflection Room.

However, every student whispered about it. A locked chamber in the basement, door painted pitch black, no handle—just a keyhole that never seemed to rust. No one knew what was inside, only that strange things happened after someone went near it. People talked of headaches, missing time, even seeing their own faces smile back at them—when they weren’t smiling.

Clara Weston, then seventeen, never believed the stories. She was too rational for that. President of the science club. Top of her class. She rejected myths in favor of microscopes. Until the night she heard her name.

When she heard it, she was alone in the library finishing a chemistry paper. A whisper—not loud, not harsh. Just a soft, curious sound.

"Clara..."

She spun. No one. Only shadows stretching from the tall bookshelves. She laughed nervously and packed up, telling herself it was the wind in the vents.

But as she passed the main staircase, the whisper came again, clearer.

“Clara… come see.”

Her footsteps halted at the top of the stairs that led down into the old basement—off-limits, even for seniors. The light at the bottom flickered. She should’ve turned around. Gone back to her dorm. But curiosity—that fatal itch—drew her forward.

She found it easily. Black door. No handle.

The key was already in the lock.

Her heart thudded.

This is stupid, she thought, even as her hand reached out. She turned the key. The door creaked open, revealing... mirrors.

A circular room. Floor, ceiling, and walls—entirely made of reflective glass. She stepped inside, and for a breathless moment, she was surrounded by hundreds of Claras. Every angle, blink, and breath were perfectly reflected. She chuckled. “So this is the big secret?”

But then, one of her reflections didn’t laugh.

She blinked. Looked again.

Every Clara mimicked her—except one.

That one tilted her head slowly, expression blank. And then, almost imperceptibly, smiled.

Clara backed up, bumping into the mirrored wall. Her breath fogged the glass.

Another Clara stepped forward.

Next, another. They’re inside the mirrors, she realized with horror, but they’re not me.

One of the Claras mouthed words.

"You let us in."

The lights flickered. For a second, all the mirrors went dark—like the room had turned into a void.

When they flicked back on, Clara was alone.

She spun. The door had vanished. “Hello?” she called. Her voice echoed too many times.

She ran to the wall, pounded it. It was solid mirror.

She checked her dead phone. The screen showed only her reflection. Except now… she wasn’t sure it was hers.

The girl in the reflection blinked a second too late.

Then she smiled again. Waved.

“Switch,” the reflection whispered.

Clara screamed as the reflection reached forward—out of the mirror—its hand cold and real.

Then everything went black.

They found Clara the next morning, asleep in the library chair, her chemistry paper still unfinished.

She smiled as the teachers shook her awake.

“Must’ve dozed off,” she said. "Weird visions" Her friends observed an anomaly. Her handwriting changed. She didn’t like chocolate anymore—Clara loved chocolate. She stopped texting emojis. She didn’t laugh at the same jokes. Even her blinks were off. A week later, one of her classmates—Sam—walked past the basement stairs and heard whispering.

“Sam… come see…”

He paused.

Clara's voice rose from the shadows below. “Help me.”

Ending Note:

Some rooms don’t have doors to keep things out.

They keep things in....

Hey!!! Look Closely… It’s Not You.

One Step Inside. One Self Left Behind.

Not Every Reflection Is Yours.