The Fifth Floor Mirror

The Redwood Inn was a place where time seemed to slow, its corridors lined with faded floral wallpaper and brass sconces that flickered with bulbs on the verge of death. I was there for a work conference, stuck in a room on the fifth floor—a floor the elevator buttons skipped, accessible only via a narrow staircase behind the ice machine. My sister, Lena, had tagged along for a mini-vacation, and we’d been given the last available room: 512.

I’d fallen asleep around one in the morning, the hum of the air conditioner a false lullaby. I woke with a start, the digital clock glowing 3:33 AM. A pressure in my bladder urged me out of bed, but as my eyes adjusted, I caught a glimpse of the bathroom doorway—a tattered silhouette, elongated and tilted, as if it were peeking out. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a robe draped over the hook, but my heart hammered as I shuffled past the dark threshold anyway. I couldn’t hold it, and the bathroom felt oddly cold, the mirror fogged despite the air being dry.

After I flushed and washed my hands, I flicked off the light. In the mirror across the room, the one above the dresser, a shape stood behind me—a tall, thin figure with limbs that bent at wrong angles, its head cocked as if listening. I spun around, but the space was empty. The figure vanished, but the mirror’s surface rippled, like water after a stone drops, and then stilled. My breath caught. Lena stirred in her bed, groggy, and murmured, ‘Did you see something?’ I lied, ‘No, just the light.’ I pulled the covers over my head, my skin prickling, and eventually, exhaustion claimed me.

Morning came, pale and gray through the thin curtains. I woke with a jolt, the memory of the night sharp in my mind. I didn’t want to linger. I threw off the covers, grabbed my phone, and bolted for the door. ‘I’ll get the car,’ I called to Lena, who was still half-asleep, her hair a mess. She gave me a confused look as I disappeared down the hall. I didn’t wait for the elevator; I took the stairs, three at a time, past the second floor, the first, and burst into the lobby, almost colliding with a housekeeper. I ran across the parking lot, fumbling for the keys, and locked myself in the car, panting.

Minutes later, Lena emerged from the hotel, rolling our suitcase, a strange expression on her face. She got in and asked, ‘What was that about? I saw you hightail it like something was chasing you.’ I couldn’t find the words. I just started the engine and pulled away, the hotel shrinking in the rearview mirror. But as we drove, I noticed a small scratch on Lena’s forearm, a thin red line that hadn’t been there the night before. ‘Did you get that in the room?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. She looked at it, puzzled, and said, ‘Weird. I must have brushed against something.’ But I saw her shiver.

I never told her the full truth. I said I saw a reflection and felt sick. She accepted it, but the rest of the trip, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed us. Every time I looked into a mirror, I expected to see that crooked figure again. And when we got home, I found a receipt in my jacket pocket from the Redwood Inn, dated a week after we’d checked out. On the back, in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘You left the light on.’ I haven’t stayed in a hotel since.