The Mirror Room at Bredsted

The summer I turned seventeen, my parents decided we needed a ‘digital detox’ in the Danish countryside. They’d found a listing for a restored farmhouse near the town of Bredsted, not far from the Limfjord. The photos online showed a cozy, sunlit interior with a view of the water. My father, a retired psychologist with a penchant for the paranormal, was thrilled. My mother, a pragmatic nurse, was just happy to have us all together. I, Erik, was skeptical but willing to trade my phone for a few weeks of fishing and fresh air.

We arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. The drive from the airport had been through increasingly sparse landscapes, the roads narrowing and the villages becoming more like clusters of old stone houses. Bredsted itself seemed to hold its breath. The main street was paved, but the sidewalks were cracked, and the few shops had faded awnings and ‘Closed’ signs in the windows. The farmhouse was at the edge of the town, down a gravel path that wound through a field of overgrown weeds. It was a two-story building with a thatched roof, whitewashed walls, and small, deep-set windows that gave it a slightly blind look. As we stepped out, the silence was absolute.

My father was the first to comment. ‘It’s… quiet,’ he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. My mother shushed him with a look. I just felt a cold prickle on the back of my neck. The air smelled of salt and damp earth, and the distant cry of gulls was the only sound. We carried our bags inside, and the interior was a strange mix of modern renovation and old-world charm. The living room had a large fireplace, a worn leather sofa, and a bookshelf filled with Danish classics. But my room, tucked under the eaves, was different. The previous owners had clearly loved it, but they’d left it almost untouched by the renovation. The walls were papered with a faded floral pattern, and the furniture was dark, heavy oak. And there were the mirrors.

There were at least ten of them, of all shapes and sizes, hung on every wall, on the back of the door, above the bed, even a small hand mirror on the nightstand. Each one had an ornate, tarnished silver frame, and the glass was slightly wavy, giving the reflections a distorted, dreamlike quality. My father said they must have been a collector’s obsession. My mother muttered something about bad feng shui. I just felt odd, like I was being watched from every angle. The paintings on the walls didn’t help. There were three of them, all showing the same woman—a pale, dark-haired beauty in a high-collared Victorian dress, walking along a rocky shore, her gaze fixed on something out of frame.

The first night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like I was falling into the mirrors. The moonlight would catch the glass, and I’d see movement in the corner of my eye. I’d turn, but nothing was there. I put a towel over the largest mirror by the bed, but the others still seemed to gleam in the dark. Around 3 a.m., I heard a faint scratching sound, like nails on glass. I sat up, pulse racing. The scratching was coming from inside the mirror on the closet door. I stared at it, and the reflection of the room seemed to lag a half-second behind my movements. I blinked, and it caught up.

The next day, I tried to put it out of my mind. We went for a walk along the fjord, the water a murky grey under a heavy sky. I asked a local shopkeeper about the house. He stiffened and said, ‘The old Hansen place? No one’s lived there for years. Not since the mistress…’ He trailed off, and my mother interrupted to ask about grocery stores. I wanted to ask more, but my parents were eager to leave.

That evening, I noticed something odd about one of the paintings. The woman in it had moved. I knew it was silly, but the position of her hand, resting on a rock, was different. I took a photo with my phone and compared it to a picture I’d taken the first day. The hands were in different places. I told my father, but he just chuckled. ‘Your mind is playing tricks on you, Erik. It’s the stress of the journey.’ But I saw him later, standing in front of the painting, a frown on his face.

By the third night, the mirrors had become my obsession. I’d stopped covering them, feeling that to do so was an admission of defeat. I lay in bed, staring at my own reflection in the large mirror above the dresser. The reflection seemed to breathe in rhythm with me, but sometimes, I’d see it smile. I’d pinch myself to make sure I was awake. I was. But the reflection never held my gaze for long. It would look away, as if distracted by something else.

On the fifth night, I heard a woman’s voice, soft and sad, singing a tune I’d never heard. I got up, my heart hammering. The singing seemed to come from all the mirrors at once. I walked to the largest one, the one on the closet door. In the glass, I saw not my room, but a shoreline at dusk. The woman from the paintings was there, her back to me, her long dress trailing in the water. She was singing, and her voice was clear, yet distant. I reached out to touch the glass, and it was cold, colder than ice.

Suddenly, she turned around. Her face was beautiful, but her eyes were empty, black pools. She looked directly at me and said, ‘You should not have come.’ Then she reached out and placed her hand on the glass, as if pressing against it. My own hand was on the other side, and I felt a jolt, like an electric shock. I stumbled back, knocking over a chair. The singing stopped, and the room was silent again. The mirror was just a mirror, reflecting my own terrified face.

I ran to my parents’ room and told them everything. My father, for once, looked grave. He admitted he’d felt a ‘presence’ since we arrived, but he’d thought it was just his imagination. My mother insisted we leave in the morning. We started packing, but as I went back to my room, I noticed the painting of the woman had changed again. Now she was holding a small hand mirror, and in the mirror’s reflection, I could see the image of a young man—me—sitting on the bed, his face a mask of fear.

We left Bredsted the next morning. I didn’t look back as we drove away, but I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. It wasn’t until we were back home, a hundred miles away, that I noticed the small hand mirror from my nightstand, tucked into my suitcase, was back with me. I tried to throw it away, but every time I did, it would reappear in my pocket, or on my desk, or in my reflection when I least expected it. The last time I saw it, I caught a glimpse in my bathroom mirror: the woman was standing behind me, her hand on my shoulder, her mouth open in a silent scream. I don’t sleep in front of mirrors anymore. And every time I see a reflection, I’m afraid I’ll see her, waiting to pull me in.