The Corner Room’s Mirror

I worked the night shift at the old Tremont Arms, a grand hotel that had seen better decades. The top floor, the sixth, was reserved for overflow and the occasional private function. It had a weird lay-out: a long central corridor with meeting rooms and only a handful of guest rooms, each one tucked into a corner. We didn’t use it often, and when we did, we usually worked in pairs. But that night, a private party had booked the ballroom, and I was sent up alone to ‘freshen’ the rooms beforehand.

I was on edge. A few weeks earlier, I’d been caught watching the TV in one of the guest rooms, and my supervisor had given me a stern warning. So, I was determined to do my job without distractions. I started in the first room, making beds, dusting, spraying air freshener. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the hum of the ancient HVAC system and the occasional creak of the building settling. I tried to ignore the feeling that I was being watched, chalking it up to my own anxiety.

I moved through room after room, each one identical except for the room at the very end of the hall. It was a corner room, and its mirror was not next to the door like in the others, but directly opposite it. I remember thinking that was odd, but I didn’t dwell on it. I entered the room and started making the bed. The mirror reflected the door, and I could see the hallway behind me. I kept catching glimpses of movement in my peripheral vision, but when I turned, there was nothing.

I was tucking in the sheets when I felt it again—that prickling on the back of my neck. In the mirror, I saw the door open slightly. I froze, expecting my supervisor to step in. But the door didn’t move any further. I turned around, and it was closed. I stared at it for a long moment, my heart hammering. I told myself it was the wind from the HVAC, but there was no draft.

I tried to focus on my work, but the feeling of being watched intensified. I noticed that the mirror was not just reflecting the room; it seemed to hold something else. When I looked directly at it, I saw my own reflection, but also, just at the edge of the glass, a faint, dark blur. It was as if someone was standing just out of sight, leaning to peek around the corner. I turned sharply, but the corner was empty.

I decided to leave that room for last and went to the others, but the feeling followed me. Every time I turned a corner, I expected to see something. I started to hum to myself to break the silence, but my voice sounded hollow, echoing down the long corridor.

Finally, I returned to the corner room. I had to finish it. I walked in, and the mirror caught my attention immediately. In it, I saw myself, but my reflection seemed wrong. My features were slightly off, as if the mirror was showing me from a different angle, or as if a double existed just behind me. I reached out to touch the glass, and my reflection did the same, but there was a slight delay, just enough to be unnerving.

I stepped back, and my reflection didn’t. It stayed where it was, staring at me. I blinked, and it blinked back. I waved, and it waved. I tried to dismiss it as a trick of the light, but then I saw it smile—a slow, knowing grin that was not my own. I backed away, and my reflection remained, grinning, as I fled into the hallway.

I ran to the stairwell, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. I didn’t stop until I was on the ground floor, gasping for breath. I told myself it was just my imagination, that the stress and the silence had gotten to me. But I couldn’t shake the image of that grin.

The next day, I was back on the ground floor, and I didn’t want to go up there again. But my supervisor asked me to retrieve a forgotten item from one of the rooms. I reluctantly agreed, but I took the stairs slowly, my heart pounding. When I reached the top, the corridor was exactly as I’d left it, but the door to the corner room was ajar.

I pushed it open, and the room was unchanged. The mirror still stood opposite the door. I looked at it, expecting to see my reflection, but instead, it showed me the hallway behind me, empty. I let out a shaky breath, relieved. But then, in the mirror, I saw a figure step out from behind the door, where it could have been hiding. I spun around, but the room was empty.

I looked back at the mirror, and the figure was now standing where I had been a moment before, looking at me through the glass. It wore my face, but its eyes were dark and hollow. It raised a hand and pressed it to the glass, leaving a smudge. I watched, paralyzed, as it leaned in, its breath fogging the mirror. And then, it spoke, my own voice, but distorted, “You shouldn’t have left.”

I ran then, out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the hotel. I never went back. I quit the next day without an explanation. But I still see that reflection sometimes, in shop windows, in the corner of my eye. And I know that the mirror in that corner room is still waiting, and the reflection it holds is not my own, but that of something that wants to come through.