The Mirror in the Yellow Room

The first time I saw Mrs. Calloway, I didn’t know she was dead. I was nine, and my family had just moved into the old Hargreaves house on the outskirts of Dunmore, a town that time seemed to have forgotten. The house was a sprawling Victorian, painted a faded mustard yellow, with a wraparound porch and a tower that overlooked the overgrown garden. It had been empty for years, and my parents got it for a steal. My brother, Sam, and I were thrilled with the space, especially the attic, which we claimed as our own.

Our excitement dimmed a little when we met our neighbors. Across the street was the Dunmore Convalescent Home, a grim, brick building where the elderly went to wait out their final years. The residents would sit on the porch, staring at our house with expressions I couldn’t quite read. Old Mrs. Gable, a hunched woman with a voice like gravel, told my mother, ‘That house has a way of keeping things. You watch yourselves.’ My mother dismissed her as a senile old gossip, but I noticed she started keeping the curtains closed at night.

The house itself was a maze of rooms, each with its own quirks. The best room, we decided, was the Yellow Room, on the second floor. It had a bay window that caught the morning light and a beautiful, ornate mirror that hung on the wall, its frame carved with twisting vines and roses. Sam and I would spend hours there, playing board games on the worn Persian rug, our reflections watching us from the glass.

One Saturday, while my parents were unpacking boxes in the kitchen, Sam and I were in the Yellow Room, arguing over the rules of Monopoly. I had just accused him of cheating when I looked up at the mirror. There, sitting on the bed behind us, was an old woman. She wore a high-collared dress, dark and old-fashioned, and her white hair was pinned up in a bun. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was watching Sam with a faint smile. I felt no fear, only a strange recognition, as if she had always been there.

‘Sam,’ I whispered, not taking my eyes off her. ‘Look at the mirror.’

Sam turned, and his eyes widened. ‘Who is that?’ he asked, his voice trembling.

Before I could answer, our mother called up the stairs, ‘Dinner!’

When we looked again, the woman was gone. We exchanged a glance, and without a word, we ran downstairs. We tried to tell our parents, but they laughed it off, saying it was just a trick of the light or our overactive imaginations. But Sam and I knew what we saw. That night, I couldn’t sleep. My room was at the end of the hall, and the door to the Yellow Room was between us and the stairs. I lay in the dark, listening to the old house groan and settle, and I could swear I heard soft humming coming from behind that door.

Over the next few weeks, we saw her more often. She appeared in the mirror, always sitting on the bed, never moving, just watching. She seemed harmless, but I began to feel a weight in the house, a presence that pressed down on us. Our games in the Yellow Room lost their joy; the room felt cold despite the afternoon sun. Sam started having nightmares, waking up screaming that something was tugging at his feet. My parents grew tense, snapping at each other over small things.

Then, one evening, my mother decided to redecorate. She wanted to swap the bedroom assignments, and she sent me to the Yellow Room to fetch a lamp. As I stepped inside, the air was thick with dust. The mirror seemed to glow in the dim light. The old woman was there, but this time she was not on the bed. She stood in front of the mirror, facing me, her reflection staring directly into my eyes.

‘You must leave this house,’ she said, her voice crackling like old paper. ‘This is not your home. This is my home.’

I tried to run, but my feet were frozen. She raised a translucent hand, and the mirror’s surface rippled. In it, I saw a blur of images: a funeral procession, a woman crying, a man in a dark suit, and then the house, empty, with dust covering everything.

‘Leave, or become part of the house,’ she warned, and then she faded, leaving me staring at my own terrified reflection.

I fled, not stopping until I reached the kitchen, where my parents were having a cup of tea. I told them everything, my voice shaking. This time, they listened. My father, a practical man, went to the Yellow Room with a cross and a bible, but he came back pale and silent, refusing to speak of what he saw. The next day, my mother called a local priest, who performed a blessing, but he too left with a grave expression.

The house grew unbearable. We all felt watched. Sam refused to go upstairs alone, and I began to wake in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps pacing above us, even though the attic was empty. My parents, who had been so excited about the house, started talking about moving. But the estate agent said the house had a clause: no owner could sell within the first year unless they found a buyer willing to take the house ‘as is’.

Desperate, my father called a historian, who came to research the house’s past. We learned that the house had been built in 1885 by a wealthy merchant named Albert Hargreaves. His wife, Elizabeth, had died in the Yellow Room at the age of 90, after a long illness. She had spent her final years seated by the window, watching the world go by, and it was said she had a particular fondness for young boys, having lost her only son to fever. She had been buried in the family plot, but her spirit had never left.

That night, I understood. Mrs. Calloway, as I came to call her, was lonely. She wanted a companion, a child to fill the emptiness of her afterlife. And she had chosen Sam. In the middle of the night, I heard a cry from Sam’s room. I rushed in and found him sitting upright, his eyes wide, pointing at the mirror I had moved into his room to make space for guests. The mirror was of the Yellow Room, and in it, Mrs. Calloway’s face was pressed against the glass, her lips moving in a silent plea.

I grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled him out of the room, down the stairs, and outside. The night air was cold, and we shivered in our pajamas. I told our parents we had to leave now, that we couldn’t wait for the year to pass. They saw the terror in our eyes, and my mother broke down. ‘We’ll go to a hotel,’ she said. ‘We’ll find a way.’

We packed what we could and left that night. As we drove away, I looked back at the house. The yellow paint seemed darker, almost brown, and in the upstairs window, I saw a silhouette. It was the shape of a woman, watching us leave. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t need to.

We moved to a new town, a modern house with no history. Sam and I shared a room, and we never spoke of her. But sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I catch a glimpse of a white-haired figure in the corner of my eye, and I know she’s still looking for us, waiting for us to come back.

Years later, when I was in my twenties, I heard that the Hargreaves house had burned down. They said it was faulty wiring, but I knew better. When they cleared the ruins, they found a dressing mirror, miraculously intact, its glass unbroken. The owner of the salvage company put it up for auction. I was tempted to buy it, just to see her again, but I didn’t. Some things are best left buried.

But even now, I can’t pass a mirror without holding my breath. And sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint humming, and I wonder if she’s followed me, or if she’s content in her new home, waiting for another child to play with. I hope she’s happy. I hope she’s at peace. But I’ll never be sure.

The house is gone, but the memory remains—a mirror, a room, and the ghost of a lonely old woman who wanted more than anything to have a friend. And in the end, I think I was the one who got away, but part of me wonders if I ever truly left.