The Reflection in Room 7

When I was seven, my family moved to a small town in the Canadian prairies, into a sprawling old house that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast. My parents managed it, and I had the run of the place. The house was called ‘The Gable House,’ and it creaked and groaned like an old ship. My room was at the end of a long hallway, next to a bathroom that was only used by guests. I never liked that bathroom; the mirror was too large, and the lighting was harsh and yellow.

One night, I woke up with a strange feeling, not of being awake, but of being inside a dream that felt too real. My body moved on its own, like a puppet on strings, and I couldn’t stop it. I was walking down the hallway, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor. I tried to yell, but no sound came out. I passed the guest rooms, all dark and silent, and I knew without seeing that I was heading toward the bathroom.

I stopped at the bathroom door, and my hand reached out to turn the knob. The door swung open, and I stepped inside. The light flickered on without me touching the switch. I saw my reflection in the mirror, but it was distorted, as if the glass were warped. I was small, so I only saw the top of my head. There was a wooden stool in the corner, placed there by my mother for guests’ children. My feet carried me to it, and I climbed up.

I looked at my face in the mirror, and for a moment, it was me—a sleepy-eyed kid with messy hair. But then the reflection blinked, and I didn’t. My reflection smiled, but I wasn’t smiling. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, but I couldn’t move. The reflection’s smile widened, and it reached out a hand, pressing it against the glass from the other side. I watched in horror as a pale, translucent hand emerged from the mirror, fingers long and twisted, reaching for my face.

I screamed, but no sound escaped. The hand touched my cheek, and it was ice-cold, like touching death. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the hand withdrew, and the reflection returned to normal, just my own frightened face staring back. My body finally obeyed me, and I stumbled off the stool, fleeing the bathroom, down the hallway, and back to my room. I dove under the covers and didn’t come out until morning.

The next day, I told my parents, but they dismissed it as a night terror. I tried to forget, but the memory haunted me. A week later, a guest complained about a ‘horrible face’ in the mirror of that bathroom. My father checked, found nothing, but replaced the mirror anyway, saying it was old.

The new mirror was the same size, but the bathroom felt different, colder. That night, I woke again, my body moving on its own. I walked to the same bathroom, climbed the stool, and looked into the mirror. There was my reflection, but behind it, a shadowy figure loomed, with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth. It pressed its palm against the glass, and cracks began to spiderweb across the surface. The glass shattered, and the figure stepped through, its fingers wrapping around my wrist.

I woke up screaming, back in my bed, my wrist bruised. The mirror in the bathroom had been found cracked, but no one remembered it breaking. From then on, the face appeared in every reflective surface I passed—windows, spoons, even puddles. It whispered my name in the dead of night, and I knew it was waiting for me to look one more time.

I never told anyone the full truth, not even my parents. They noticed I avoided mirrors and drew curtains over windows at dusk. I spent years glancing over my shoulder, feeling its cold breath on my neck. When I finally moved away, I thought I’d escaped. But last night, I woke up in the middle of the night, my body moving on its own, heading to the bathroom. And as I looked into the mirror, I saw not my face, but a grinning child with hollow eyes, reaching out to claim me. I am still walking, and the mirror is growing closer.