The Violet Room

It was supposed to be a simple research trip. Four of us, graduate students in folklore, had come to the remote town of Ashford to document the oral histories of the mining families that once thrived there. The old boarding house, converted into a bed-and-breakfast, was our base. It had a certain charm, with its creaking floorboards and faded floral wallpaper. But the moment we stepped into room 7, our designated study, a chill settled in the air that no radiator could chase away.

Maya was the first to notice the mirror. It was an oval, gilt-framed piece that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. In its dim surface, her reflection looked wavy, like she was underwater. She laughed it off, but I saw her rub her arms as if she were cold. The wallpaper in that room was a deep violet, with a pattern of wilting roses that seemed to shift in the corner of your eye.

The first night, we stayed up late transcribing interviews. My note-taking companion, Daniel, kept glancing at the doorway. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked, pointing. We all looked, but saw nothing. I attributed it to fatigue. But then the scent came—a cloying, metallic sweetness, like dried blood. It was strongest near the vanity table, where a dusty perfume bottle sat empty.

That night, I woke to a sound like dripping water. The ensuite bathroom light was off, but the door was ajar. I pushed it open and saw the bathtub. The porcelain was stained with a rust-colored ring, and the faucet was dripping slowly, each drop echoing. I turned it off, but as I did, I caught my reflection in the small mirror above the sink. For a split second, my face looked older, gaunt, with hollow eyes. I blinked, and it was normal.

The next morning, Daniel was pale. He confessed he hadn’t slept. He said he’d felt a presence sitting on the edge of his bed, a weight that shifted and breathed. He’d seen a shadow in the shape of a woman, but when he reached for his flashlight, it vanished. He’d also found scratch marks on his forearm, thin red lines like from fingernails. He showed us, and they were fresh.

We tried to work, but the unease grew. I noticed that the violet wallpaper seemed more vivid, almost pulsing. In the corner, a cluster of roses appeared to have bloomed, their petals a deep crimson. Maya, trying to be pragmatic, suggested we check the room’s history. The innkeeper, a taciturn woman named Mrs. Gable, was evasive, but we found an old newspaper in the library.

The article was from 1921. A woman named Eleanor Vance had rented the room. She was found with her wrist slashed in the bathtub. The coroner’s report mentioned a possible intruder, but nothing was proven. The article also noted that the room was known for ‘unpleasant occurrences’—guests would leave early, complaining of cold drafts and the feeling of being watched.

That second night, we took turns keeping watch. Around 2 a.m., I was on duty. The room grew colder, and the air thickened. I saw a mist gather near the bathtub, taking a humanoid shape. The scent of blood intensified. I tried to wake the others, but they were in deep, thrashing sleep. Then the mirror on the vanity fogged over, and writing appeared in the condensation: ‘Get out.’

When morning came, Daniel’s face was ashen. He showed us his arm—the scratch marks had formed the word ‘MINE’ in thin red letters. Maya was trembling. She said she’d seen a woman in a white nightgown standing at the foot of her bed, her wrists streaming crimson, whispering, ‘Stay.’ We decided to leave early, but as we packed, the door to the room slammed shut and locked. The key turned on its own, and we heard a woman’s laugh—low, guttural, and triumphant.

The innkeeper had to force the door open with a crowbar. She had a grim look. ‘She’s took a liking to you,’ she said. ‘Better leave now.’ We fled, but as we drove away, I looked back at the inn. In the second-story window of room 7, there was a figure—a woman in white, watching us. I didn’t tell the others until we were miles away.

We all have the marks to this day. Mine is a thin white scar on my left wrist, as if from an old slit. Daniel’s is the word ‘MINE’ that never faded. Maya has a patch of hair that turned white as snow. Our lives are marred by that trip. We never speak of it, but the violet room haunts our dreams. And when the wind howls through the pines, I swear I can still smell the metallic sweetness of blood, and hear her whispering, ‘You’ll come back. They always come back.’