The Reflection Room

The Reflection Room

In Room 313, the mirror doesn’t show your reflection—it shows your last breath.

No one spoke about Room 313 at the Halberd Hotel.

It wasn’t listed online. The numberplate was tarnished and crooked. Housekeeping never entered it unless ordered. And when they did, they said it always felt a few degrees colder, like the walls exhaled something the HVAC couldn’t control.

But for Thomas Vellman, a curious and recently heartbroken travel blogger, Room 313 was exactly what he wanted: isolation, mystery, and a good story.

He arrived just after sunset, dragging his worn suitcase behind him. The clerk hesitated when Thomas asked for a “room nobody usually books.” After a moment’s pause, she slid him the brass key to 313, avoiding his eyes.

“This one’s not on the app,” she said, as if that explained everything.
Thomas only smiled. “Perfect.”

The room was old but clean. Victorian wallpaper curled at the edges, and a single window looked over a cracked neon sign that buzzed like a mosquito stuck in a jar. But the mirror—oh, the mirror.

It was an antique, floor-to-ceiling, framed in black iron vines. It stood bolted to the wall across from the bed. Something about it immediately disturbed him—not the way it looked, but the way it looked back.

When he first caught his reflection, he froze. In the glass, he wasn’t standing—he was lying in the bed. Still. Pale. Eyes wide open and unblinking. A shadow leaned over him, obscured, featureless. Then it vanished.

He turned quickly. Nothing. Just the rustle of the curtain in a breeze that shouldn’t have existed.

He tried to laugh it off. “Old glass,” he muttered, and opened his laptop. Maybe the angle was weird. Maybe it was a ghost story built on paranoia.

But as he lay in bed that night, every glance at the mirror showed him the same vision: his body, unmoving. His eyes, dead. And that shadow, always closer than before.


---

By morning, he was convinced it was some kind of trick—a projection, maybe. The hotel was trying to go viral. He’d write it up, snap some photos, and get out.

But something in his gut twisted every time he passed the mirror.

At noon, he video-called his best friend Kara and told her about it. She laughed, but not in a way that dismissed him—more like she didn’t want him to feel crazy.

“Maybe it’s showing your worst fear, not your future,” she offered.

“I’m not afraid of dying in a hotel,” Thomas replied.

“But maybe you should be.”

That night, the vision in the mirror changed. This time, he saw blood. A lot of it. Pooled beneath the bed. The shadow wasn't just hovering now—it was smiling. Even though it had no face, Thomas could feel the grin stretch across it like a wound.


---

He woke at 3:13 a.m. to the sound of whispering.

The room was still. His phone was dead, despite being plugged in. His laptop screen flickered without power. And the mirror—God, the mirror—was glowing softly in the dark, like it was alive.

He approached it.

In the reflection, he saw himself… now standing. But the version of him in the mirror turned its head independently, locking eyes with him. Slowly, it raised a hand and pointed—toward the bed.

Thomas turned. Nothing there.

When he looked back, the reflection was gone. Just him again. Normal. Breathing heavy.

He didn’t sleep again that night.


---

At breakfast, he cornered a housekeeper and asked about the room.

She refused to speak at first. But when he insisted—offering cash, even—she finally muttered, “People don’t stay in that room twice.”

“Why?”

“Because the mirror shows you how it ends. And the ones who see something new… they don’t check out.”

Thomas considered leaving.

But something had shifted in him—some strange pull, a sick curiosity. If he could capture the mirror’s reflection on camera, write the article, maybe he could warn people. Or at least make peace with it.

He set up his camera at dusk, pointed directly at the mirror.

He watched the footage live on his laptop screen. At first, it showed only him pacing. But then—

The image on the laptop started to glitch. Not the mirror itself—just the recording. Static. Flickering. And then, frame by frame, his reflection began to smile. The shadow behind him grew teeth. Long, jagged. Impossible. The reflection of his own body inched toward the mirror, as though trying to come through.

The lights cut out.

The screen went black.

And the last thing Thomas saw before he passed out was his own face in the mirror—eyes wide, mouth screaming silently.


---

They found his body three days later, when guests complained of a smell.

There was no sign of forced entry. No wounds. No drugs or alcohol. Just Thomas, curled beneath the bed, eyes open, jaw unhinged as if in a scream.

The mirror?

Cracked—dead center, like something inside had tried to escape.

They sealed Room 313 after that.

The numberplate is gone now. No records. No online listings.

But sometimes, if you're in the hallway after midnight and the lights flicker, you might hear whispering from behind the door.

Or worse—you might see yourself walk by in the reflection, even if you're standing still.