The Mirror in Room 3

I never believed in anything I couldn’t see. That’s what I told myself on the day everything changed. My name is Lily, and I’m fourteen. This is the true story of what happened in my cousin’s old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, and I swear on my grandmother’s grave it’s real.

It was the last week of summer, and my parents sent me to stay with my cousin, Maggie, in a place called Hollow Creek. The house was a crumbling Victorian relic, all creaking boards and peeling wallpaper, surrounded by fields that looked gray even in the sun. Maggie was a year older than me, with a wild streak and a love for the macabre. She’d just gotten her hands on a vintage planchette from a garage sale, and she was itching to try it.

‘Come on, Lily,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘We’ll do it tonight, in the attic. I found a board in the barn. It’s probably older than your grandma.’

I should have said no. But the words came out before I could stop them: ‘What harm could it do?’

That night, we snuck up to the attic. The stairs groaned under our weight, and the air was thick with dust and dry rot. Maggie set up a small table in the center, lit a single candle, and placed the board on top. It wasn’t like the plastic ones from stores. It was made of dark wood, with faded letters and numbers, and in the center was a carved eye that seemed to watch us. The planchette was heart-shaped, with a small glass window in the middle.

We sat cross-legged on the floor, our fingers resting on the planchette. Maggie whispered, ‘We call to the spirits, if any are present, to come forth.’

At first, nothing. Then the candle flickered, though there was no breeze. The planchette twitched, then moved slowly to the word ‘YES.’

I felt a chill crawl up my back. ‘Is anyone here?’ Maggie asked.

The planchette slid to ‘HELLO.’

‘Who are you?’ I managed to say.

It spelled ‘MARY.’

Maggie grinned. ‘Mary, how did you die?’

The planchette moved with a life of its own, tracing letters that made my blood run cold: ‘IN THE MIRROR.’

‘What mirror?’ I asked.

‘ROOM 3.’

We both looked at each other. Room 3 was the spare bedroom at the end of the hall, the one always locked. Maggie had the key on her ring.

‘Should we?’ I whispered.

Maggie’s face was pale in the candlelight, but she nodded. ‘We’re already this deep.’

We closed the session, left the attic, and stood in front of the door. The wood was dark, with a brass knob that felt cold to the touch. Maggie turned the key, and the lock clicked with a sound like a bone snapping.

The room was empty, save for a full-length mirror in the corner, draped with a sheet. Dust motes danced in the moonlight that streamed through the window. Maggie pulled the sheet off, revealing a cracked surface that seemed to absorb the light.

I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to look into it. My reflection stared back, but something was off. The image moved a half-second later than I did. And in the background, I could have sworn I saw a woman in a white dress, standing behind me. But when I spun around, no one was there.

Maggie saw it too. ‘Did you see that?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

Before I could answer, the mirror fogged over, and words appeared, traced in condensation: ‘GET OUT.’

We ran. We locked the door behind us and didn’t sleep that night, huddled together in Maggie’s room under the covers. But the next morning, we found the door to Room 3 slightly ajar, and the sheet on the mirror was back in place.

We tried to forget, to pretend it was a prank. But over the next few days, strange things happened. Footsteps echoed in the hall at night, doors opened and closed on their own, and I started seeing a pale face in every reflective surface—window panes, spoons, even my phone screen when the screen was off.

Maggie became withdrawn. She refused to go near Room 3, and she stopped talking to me. One night, I woke up to find her standing in front of the mirror in the hallway, talking in a low voice. I crept closer and heard her say, ‘I’m not like her. I can be better than her.’

I grabbed her arm, and she jumped, her eyes wild. ‘She wants me to switch places,’ she whispered. ‘Mary. She died in that mirror. She wants to take my place.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked, my heart pounding.

‘Because she’s been telling me,’ Maggie said. ‘All night. Every night. She says it’s cold in there, and she wants to feel the sun again.’

The next day, I found a journal in the attic. Mary’s journal. It was dated 1918, and it spoke of a woman trapped in the mirror, her reflection not matching her motions. ‘I looked into the glass, and she looked back. She had my face, but her smile was wrong. She reached out, and I felt my skin press against the cold surface. I don’t know who I am anymore.’

The final entry read: ‘I’m fading. She’s taking over. If you find this, destroy the mirror. Do not let her out.’

I ran to Room 3 with a hammer. Maggie followed, screaming, ‘No! She promised me! She promised she’d show me the other side!’

I smashed the mirror. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, and for a moment, I thought it was over. But then I saw my reflection in the largest shard, and it was smiling. My reflection. And it didn’t match my horror-stricken face.

I turned to Maggie. She was standing behind me, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at the shard, and her lips moved, ‘Thank you.’

Then I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I looked up. The mirror was whole again, and in it, I saw Maggie’s face, pressed against the glass from the inside, her mouth open in a silent scream.

I ran out of the house, leaving Maggie behind. I never went back. They found my cousin’s body a week later, sprawled in front of the mirror, her eyes glassy and a smile frozen on her face. The mirror was intact, no cracks.

Now, I’m writing this in a room with no reflective surfaces. I’ve covered every window, ripped out every mirror, and I never look at my phone screen for more than a second. But last night, I saw my own reflection in the polished handle of my bedroom door, and it winked at me.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep her out. But I know one thing: never mess with a Ouija board, and never look into a mirror that’s older than your grandmother. Because sometimes, the reflection you see isn’t your own. And if you stare long enough, it might just stare back.