The Room That Wasn't There

I arrived at the Briarwood Inn just after sunset, the sky purple- and orange-bruised. It was an older hotel at the edge of the woods, far from the highway — perfect for a couple of days of quiet and writing. I had booked Room 104, a corner room with a view into the woods.

The front desk clerk stared at me bewildered when I told her my room number.

"104?" she repeated, going over the logbook. "We don't have any Room 104. Are you sure?"

I took out the confirmation email on my phone. Her furrowing of the brow deepened.

"I've worked here for three years," she said slowly, "and we don't have a Room 104. The rooms are numbered 103 to 105."

I nervously laughed, thinking it was a typo. But she handed me the key to Room 103 and told me she would handle it with the management later. I was too tired from driving, so I didn't complain.

Room 103 was fine. Quiet, clean, uneventful. But something nagged at me. My confirmation expressly stated 104. Out of curiosity, I strolled down the hall to see for myself.

The hall was dimly lit by flickering wall sconces. I passed Room 103, then 105. No 104.

But where 104 was meant to be… there was a wall. A simple stretch of wallpaper, old and faded. I ran my hand over it. It felt… off. Hollow. Like something was waiting behind it.

Suddenly, the lights in the hall flickered again. I heard a click behind me — my door had shut itself.

I turned back to the wall. And that's when I noticed it.

A door.

Old, wooden, flaking paint and the faint outline of numbers: 104. It wasn't there a few seconds ago. I reached out and took the handle before I could talk myself out of it. It turned easily.

Within, the room was dusty, as if no one had occupied it in years. A grime film covered every surface. Cobwebs hung from the corners. But in the center of the room, the bed was made — newly, neatly.

There was a smell. Not mildew. Not rot. Something sweet… almost metallic.

A mirror hung on the dresser reflected the room perfectly — except for me. I wasn't in the reflection.

My heart was racing.

I backed away, slamming the door shut behind me, gasping for breath. But when I stopped and turned around, the door disappeared.

Disappeared. No door. Just wall.

I ran back to the front desk. The clerk had disappeared. A man in a very old uniform — late 1800s vintage — and a white, weary face was standing in her place. He looked at me as if he had been waiting for me.

"Room 104 does not exist," he said, cutting me off before I could open my mouth.

"I was just in it!" I yelled. "There was a room! There was furniture, a mirror—

Did you look into the mirror?" he asked abruptly.

I froze.

"Then I'm afraid you've already crossed."

"Crossed?"

He sighed, somewhat sadly. "Room 104 isn't for the living."

I stumbled backward, toppling a chair. My breathing went shallow.

"When was the last time you saw your reflection?" he asked gently.

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

Because I hadn't seen it.

Not since I'd entered the room.

I ran to the front door. It would not open. I pounded on it, screamed, cried. The lobby darkened until the lights went out altogether.

When I turned around, I was no longer in the lobby. I was back in Room 104.

This time the bed was not empty.

There was a shape, still under the covers.

It looked like… me.

And then the mirror began to bleed.

THE END