The Woman in the Mirror: My Stay at Himuro Mansion

I never believed in ghosts. As a travel writer, I've stayed in many places. From jungle lodges to old castles, I've heard all the ghost stories. They were fun for my blog but just stories.

That all changed at Himuro Mansion.

A month ago, I received an invite to the mansion's grand opening. The mansion is a historic Japanese estate turned luxury hotel near Tokyo. Its dark past makes it perfect for my readers, so I was excited to explore it.

But if I had known what was waiting for me, I wouldn't have gone.

The day I arrived, the sky was a pale, overcast grey. A dense, creeping mist surrounded the mansion, softening its sharp, sloping rooflines. As my taxi wound its way through a grove of cedar trees, I felt a strange heaviness settle over me. The air seemed unnaturally still, and even the sound of birds faded as the car approached the wrought iron gates.

The mansion itself was stunning: a towering wooden structure with an intricate tiled roof and weathered stone lanterns lining the gravel pathway. Inside, the scent of aged wood and incense lingered. The receptionist, a woman dressed in a crisp black uniform, greeted me with a deep bow. Her voice was soft and polite, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Welcome, Miss Amelia Fox. We are honoured to have you as our guest,” she said.

I was shown to my suite, the "Moon Blossom Room." It was luxurious: hand-painted shoji screens, a plush four-poster bed, and a soaking tub with a view of a serene garden. Yet there was something about the room that unsettled me. The mirror on the far wall immediately caught my attention.

It was an antique piece, its wooden frame blackened with age. The glass was cloudy, warped in places, and as I stared at it, I felt the faintest prickle of unease. My reflection stared back at me, but something about it felt off.

“Get a grip,” I muttered to myself. “It’s just a mirror.”

I shook off the feeling and focused on my assignment. After all, my readers expected me to deliver a detailed review, not spooky conjecture.

That first night, I struggled to sleep. Something about the silence of the mansion felt wrong—too complete, too hollow. I woke suddenly around 2 a.m., heart pounding for no discernible reason.

And then I heard it.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

It was faint but distinct, like fingernails dragging across wood. The sound came from the wall behind the bed. My throat tightened as I strained to listen. It wasn’t the kind of sound an old building makes when it settles, nor was it the scurrying of an animal. It was deliberate.

“Hello?” I whispered into the darkness.

The scratching stopped.

I stayed frozen for several minutes, my breath shallow, every nerve on edge. Finally, I convinced myself it was nothing—just the product of a long day of travel and an overactive imagination. I lay back down, but as I glanced toward the mirror, my blood turned to ice.

My reflection wasn’t there.

The next morning, I tried to laugh off the events of the night before. I chalked it up to jet lag and nerves. Over breakfast, I asked a few of the other guests if they’d experienced anything strange. Most shook their heads and avoided eye contact, but one man—a businessman in his forties—hesitated.

“Did you—” he started, but his wife interrupted him with a sharp look. He clamped his mouth shut, and the tension in the dining room grew palpable.

I decided to explore the mansion.

The hallways were endless, twisting and turning in ways that made the layout feel like a maze. The walls were lined with faded tapestries and old black-and-white photographs of unsmiling faces. Every so often, I’d feel the distinct sensation of being watched. When I turned, the corridor would be empty, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of unseen eyes.

Eventually, I stumbled upon a door at the end of a narrow hallway. Unlike the ornate doors throughout the rest of the mansion, this one was plain, made of rough, splintered wood. It was locked.

Something about it unsettled me. I stood there for a long time, my hand hovering over the doorknob, before I forced myself to walk away.

That night, the scratching came back.

It started softly, then grew louder. This time, it wasn’t just coming from the wall. I heard it above me, below me, in the corners of the room. It was everywhere, a maddening symphony of claws on wood.

I turned on the lights, but they flickered, casting sickly yellow shadows. My heart raced, and my hands trembled as I stood in the centre of the room, clutching my phone.

And then the scratching stopped.

I turned to the mirror.

At first, I only saw myself, pale and wide-eyed. But then the glass began to ripple, like water disturbed by a stone. A shadow emerged—no, a woman. Her face was gaunt, her skin pale and stretched tight over sharp bones. Her eyes were dark, empty pits, and her mouth twisted into a smile that was too wide, too wrong.

She raised one skeletal hand and pressed it against the inside of the glass.

And then she smiled.

I screamed, stumbling backwards and knocking over a lamp. When I looked again, the mirror was normal. My reflection stared back at me, terrified but alone.

By the next morning, I was done. I packed my bags and marched to the front desk, determined to leave.

“I’m sorry, Miss Fox,” the receptionist said, her expression placid. “You’re not scheduled to check out until tomorrow.”

“I don’t care. I’m leaving now.”

Her too-perfect smile widened. “It’s against policy to leave early. Please enjoy the rest of your stay.”

There was something in her tone that made my stomach twist.

Defeated, I returned to my room. My phone had no signal, and the landline was dead. I considered walking into town, but the mist outside had thickened into a dense, impenetrable fog. I felt trapped.

That’s when I heard the scratching again. This time, it was coming from inside the locked door I’d found earlier.

I don’t know what possessed me to go back there. Curiosity? Desperation? Whatever it was, I found myself standing in front of that door again, heart pounding.

I found a crowbar in a storage closet and pried the door open.

The stench hit me first—a sickening mix of rot and iron. Inside, the room was dark, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw the source of the smell: dried blood stained the walls and floor. In the centre of the room was an ancient stone wall.

The scratching came from inside.

“Hello?” I called, my voice shaking.

The scratching stopped.

And then something moved.

A pale hand emerged, followed by another. Then a head, its face obscured by matted black hair. Whatever it was, it began to climb out of the well, its movements jerky and unnatural.

I ran.

I spent the rest of the night barricaded in my room. The scratching never stopped. Sometimes it was at the walls, sometimes at the door. Once, I heard low, guttural breathing just outside.

By the time my scheduled check-out day arrived, I was barely holding it together.

That morning, the receptionist handed me a small envelope. “A gift from the owner,” she said with that same chilling smile.

I didn’t open it until I was on the train back to Tokyo.

Inside was a photograph. It showed me asleep in bed, taken during my stay at Himuro Mansion.

But I wasn’t alone.

Standing over me was the woman from the mirror, her mouth twisted into that grotesque smile.

I threw the envelope out the window, but the feeling of dread stayed with me. Even now, I can’t shake the sense that I brought something back with me.

Sometimes, when I glance into a mirror, I see her.

And sometimes… she smiles first.

This story was written with the help of AI.