It was a stormy night when Sarah moved into the old house on the edge of town. She had always loved quiet places, and the house seemed perfect—except for one thing. There was a locked door at the end of a long, dark hallway, and the realtor had told her it was simply a storage room. But every night, as the wind howled outside, she heard faint whispers coming from behind that door.
The whispers grew louder over the next few nights, like a conversation just out of earshot. Curious, Sarah searched the house for the key but found nothing. Eventually, she called a locksmith, who reluctantly agreed to help. As the locksmith worked on the door, he paled and muttered something under his breath. "I've heard of houses like this. Some doors... shouldn't be opened."
The door finally clicked open with a creak, revealing a small, dusty room. The only thing inside was an old mirror, standing in the middle of the floor. It looked out of place—too clean, almost new. Sarah stepped inside, her breath catching in her throat as she saw her reflection. For a moment, her reflection didn't move. It just stared back at her, smiling faintly, as if waiting for something.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her. She spun around, but the door wouldn't budge. She pounded on it, screaming for help, but her voice was swallowed by the darkness. The whispers were louder now, surrounding her, echoing through the room.
She turned back to the mirror, and her blood ran cold. Her reflection was no longer hers. The figure in the glass had dark, hollow eyes, and its smile had stretched into something inhuman. It began to move, stepping closer, pressing its hands against the other side of the glass as if trying to push through.
Then the whispers stopped. In the silence, the reflection spoke in a voice that wasn't her own: "It's your turn."
The mirror shattered.
When the locksmith returned the next morning, the room was empty. No sign of Sarah, no broken glass—just a spotless mirror standing in the center of the floor, waiting for the next visitor.
