The Mirror at the End of the Hall

Years ago, I worked the night shift at the Grand Meridian, a sprawling old hotel that had seen better decades. The top floor, the tenth, was a labyrinth of unused ballrooms and a handful of guest rooms, only opened when the hotel was packed to the rafters. Most of the time, it sat silent, gathering dust and the faint, stale scent of old perfume and forgotten cigarettes. That night, I was sent up alone to ‘freshen’ it before a wedding party was due to book the whole floor. The rule was that roomkeepers always worked in pairs, but my partner had called in sick, and they were short-staffed, so I got the job solo.

I wasn’t in the best mood. A few weeks back, I’d been caught in a room watching the big-screen TV, and the manager had given me a stern warning. So that night, my nerves were already on a hair trigger. I kept the TV off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. Every creak of the old building, every flicker of the fluorescent lights, made me jump. I told myself it was just my imagination, that my supervisor was lurking around a corner, waiting to catch me slacking off.

The rooms were laid out in a predictable pattern, but the corner room, 1008, was different. The bed faced a long, ornate mirror that hung opposite the door, not beside it like in every other room. It was an odd design choice, probably from a renovation in the ’80s that never quite matched the building’s old-world charm. I went in to change the sheets, trying not to look at my reflection, but it was impossible to avoid. The mirror caught every movement, every flicker of my eyes.

I was tucking in the corner of the sheet when that feeling of being watched intensified. It wasn’t just a prickle; it was a cold, heavy pressure on the back of my neck. I froze, my hands still on the bedspread. In the mirror, I saw the door behind me. It was ajar, even though I knew I’d closed it. A sliver of darkness, then a shape. I thought it was my supervisor, and my heart hammered. But the shape didn’t move. It was just a shadow, tall and indistinct, standing in the doorway.

I turned around slowly, but the doorway was empty. I let out a shaky breath and turned back to the bed. In the mirror, the shape was still there, now closer to the foot of the bed. I whipped around, but nothing. The room was empty. My skin crawled. I tried to laugh it off, blaming the dust and the dim light, but my hands were trembling as I finished the bed.

I decided to skip the rest of the fancy touches and just leave. I grabbed my cart and headed for the door, but as I reached for the handle, I saw in the mirror that the shape had moved again, now standing right behind me. I could see it clearly: a tall figure in old-fashioned clothing, its face a blur of shadow. It raised a hand, as if to touch my shoulder. I slammed the door open and stumbled into the hall, my heart racing.

I didn’t stop to lock up. I ran to the service elevator and punched the button, glancing back. The door to 1008 was still open, and from the room, a faint, dusty light spilled out. And in that light, I saw the figure step out into the hall, its head tilted as if it was curious. The elevator doors opened, and I dove inside, mashing the button for the lobby.

I never went back to that floor. I quit a week later, telling the manager I had personal issues. But for months after, I’d wake up in a cold sweat, seeing that figure in my mind, standing in the doorway of 1008. I never told anyone, because who would believe me? But sometimes, late at night, I think about that room, and I wonder if the mirror still hangs there, waiting for the next person to walk in alone.