The Amber Room

I am writing this on a crumpled receipt, the only paper I could find in the dark. The power’s been out for three days, and the phone lines are dead. My name is Elara, and I don’t have much time. If you’re reading this, stay away from the Amber Room.

It started six weeks ago, when my partner, Julian, and I moved into the old Meridian House. We were looking for a fresh start, a place with history. The house had been on the market for years, its previous owner, a reclusive antique dealer, had died under mysterious circumstances. The realtor was eager to sell, and we got it for a steal. The house itself was beautiful, all dark wood and stained glass, but there was one room we were told to avoid: the study, which the dealer had called the Amber Room, not for its color, but for the collection of amber trinkets and fossils he kept there. We were warned that the room was ‘in need of restoration’ and that the floor was unstable, but we were curious.

The first week was uneventful. We explored the house, dusted the shelves, and found the Amber Room locked. Julian picked the lock, and we stepped inside. The room was a time capsule, filled with glass cases of amber specimens, from small beads to a massive, fist-sized piece glowing with a trapped insect. But what caught our attention was a large, ornate mirror on the far wall, its frame carved with twisting vines and tiny, screaming faces. As we looked into it, the glass seemed to ripple, and for a moment, I thought I saw a figure behind us. We shrugged it off, attributing it to dust and nerves. We left the room, but we didn’t lock it.

That night, I had my first nightmare. I was in the Amber Room, and the mirror was not reflecting the room, but a vast, dark forest. A woman with long black hair stood at the edge of the trees, her back to me. She turned slowly, and her face was a void, a blackness that seemed to swallow the light. She reached out a hand, and I felt a cold touch on my stomach, like a claw. I woke up gasping, and there, on my stomach, were three thin scratches, as if from a fingernail. Julian was still asleep, so I didn’t wake him. But the next night, it was his turn.

Julian had a similar dream, but in his, the woman was whispering, her voice like wind through dead leaves. He woke up with scratches on his arm, and we both tried to rationalize, blaming our cat or an allergic reaction. But the scratches were too precise, too deep. Then the objects started moving. A lamp in the living room toppled over in the middle of the night, waking us both. The next morning, I found my keys in the freezer, and Julian’s watch in the toilet bowl. We started to feel uneasy, and our moods darkened. We snapped at each other over trivial things, and our friends at work said we looked haunted, which we were.

I tried to research the house’s history, but the internet was spotty, and the library only had a few references. The last owner, a man named Gregor Vasile, had a reputation for collecting esoteric objects. He was found dead in the Amber Room, his body covered in scratches, and a look of terror on his face. The official cause was a heart attack, but the coroner noted unusual marks. I became obsessed, and Julian grew frustrated. He wanted to leave, but I wanted to understand. I started spending time in the Amber Room, staring into the mirror, trying to see the woman. And one evening, she appeared.

I was alone in the house, and the power flickered. I went to the Amber Room, and the mirror was foggy, as if from breath. I wiped it, and the reflection was not mine. It was the woman, and she was standing right behind me in the reflection, but when I turned, no one was there. I spun back, and she had moved closer. Her face was still a void, but I could see her lips moving, forming words I couldn’t hear. I felt a cold hand on my back, and I bolted from the room. That night, the attacks began in earnest. Julian and I were both scratched, and our bedroom door slammed open at 3 AM. We decided to leave in the morning, but when the sun rose, we found our car’s tires slashed, and our phones and laptops missing. The feeling of being watched was overwhelming.

We locked ourselves in the bedroom, barricading the door with furniture, but we could hear footsteps in the hall, and a low, guttural chuckle. The power went out, and we were plunged into darkness. We lit candles, but they kept going out. Julian tried to call for help, but the line was dead. We waited, huddled together, as the sounds grew closer. The door rattled, and we knew it wouldn’t hold. I decided to confront the entity, to find out what it wanted. I armed myself with a kitchen knife, and I told Julian to stay. I went to the Amber Room, and the mirror was waiting.

In the mirror, I saw the woman, and she was smiling now, a lipless smile. She spoke, and her voice was in my head, a rasping whisper. ‘You took my room,’ she said. ‘Now I will take your lives.’ I realized then that the mirror was a prison, and she had been trapped there, and our opening the room had set her free, but she was bound to the mirror. I threw a chair at it, but the glass didn’t break. The woman laughed, and I felt a searing pain on my cheek. I looked in the mirror, and I had a deep gash, bleeding. She was reaching out of the mirror, her hand becoming solid. I stepped back, and I saw behind her, in the reflection of the room, the true horror: there were dozens of faces, all of them screaming, trapped in the amber. And I realized that the amber wasn’t just a collection, it was a prison, and this woman was the warden.

I ran back to the bedroom, but the door wouldn’t open. I pounded, and Julian shouted that he couldn’t open it. I turned, and she was in the hallway, a black silhouette. I slashed at her, but the knife passed through her like smoke. She laughed, and I felt a cold grip on my throat. ‘You will join the others,’ she hissed. I struggled, and I remembered the amber, the one with the insect. I thought, if the insect was a soul, then maybe the amber could trap her. I broke free and ran to the Amber Room, grabbed the large piece of amber, and hurled it at the mirror. The mirror shattered, but the amber piece didn’t break; it fell to the floor, and the woman screamed, a sound that shook the house. The mirror was gone, but in the shards, I saw her face contorted, and then it faded. The house fell silent, and the power flickered back on.

Julian found me crying, and we embraced. We thought it was over, but as we started packing, I noticed the amber piece was warm. I picked it up, and inside, I saw the face of the woman, her eyes wide with anger. She wasn’t destroyed; she was now in the amber. But I felt a pull, a temptation to look closer. I put it in a box, and we left the house. We drove for hours, but every time I looked in the rearview mirror, I thought I saw the house watching us. We got a motel room, and I wrapped the amber in cloth and hid it in my bag. But that night, I dreamt of the woman, and she was clawing her way out of the amber, her fingers cracking the surface. I woke up, and the amber was glowing, and the scratches on my arm had multiplied. We are on the run now, but I know she will find us. I am writing this down because it is the only way to warn others: if you ever see an amber piece with a woman’s face, do not take it. Throw it into the deepest ocean, but even then, I fear it’s too late. She has my scent, and she will not stop until I am in the amber with her, screaming forever.