The Mirror Room

The key turned with a grinding click, and the door swung open to reveal a room that shouldn't exist. Every wall, every surface, covered in mirrors. Sarah stepped into the mirror room, her breath catching in her throat. The late afternoon sun filtered through a single grimy window, casting strange shadows that seemed to move independently of any source. She had inherited this Victorian mansion from her great-aunt Margaret, a woman she'd met only once as a child—a strange, reclusive figure who spoke in whispers and always seemed to be looking over her shoulder. The lawyer had been clear: she could sell the house, but she had to spend one night inside first. Some peculiarity in the will, he'd explained with an uncomfortable shrug. And this room, the mirror room, had been specifically mentioned. "You must see it," the will had stated. "You must understand." Sarah's reflection stared back at her from a dozen angles. Hundreds of Sarahs, actually, thanks to the way the mirrors faced each other, creating infinite corridors of herself stretching into impossible distances. She took another step forward, and all her reflections moved with her—except one. In the mirror directly ahead, her reflection remained still, watching her with eyes that seemed darker than they should be. Sarah froze, her heart hammering. She raised her hand slowly. The reflection didn't move. She blinked. It didn't blink. "Hello, Sarah," the reflection said. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing through the chamber of glass and silver. Sarah stumbled backward, but the door had closed behind her. She spun around, fumbling for the handle, but her fingers found only smooth mirror surface where the door should have been. "Don't be afraid," the reflection continued, and now Sarah could see that other reflections were different too. In one mirror, she looked older, with gray streaking through her hair. In another, she appeared as a teenager. In a third, she didn't appear at all—just an empty room filled with mirrors. "What's happening?" Sarah demanded, fighting to keep her voice steady. "The mirrors show truth," her reflection answered. "They show what is, what was, and what might be. Great-aunt Margaret understood this. She spent years learning to read them, to see beyond the surface. But she also learned their danger." "What danger?" The reflection smiled, and it wasn't Sarah's smile. "The mirrors don't just show—they take. Every time you look, they capture a piece of you. A moment, a possibility, a choice. Margaret looked too long, gave too much. By the end, there wasn't enough left of her to exist in just one reflection. She scattered herself across the mirrors, living in fragments." Sarah's blood ran cold. "Why are you telling me this?" "Because you're family. Because the mirrors recognize you. They want you too." The reflection pressed its hand against the glass from the inside, and Sarah watched in horror as the hand began to push through, breaking the barrier between reflection and reality. "Every generation, one of our line inherits this house," the reflection continued. "Every generation, the mirrors call. Some resist. Some flee. Some, like Margaret, give themselves over completely. But you, Sarah... you have a choice. You can leave right now, seal this room forever, and never look back. Or you can stay and learn their secrets. They offer knowledge, power, the ability to see all possible futures and step into any of them. But the price is yourself." Sarah stared at the hand emerging from the mirror, fingers stretching toward her. Behind it, she could see other hands pressing against the glass—her own hands, from countless reflections, all reaching out. And beyond them, deeper in the mirror world, she could see other figures. Her great-aunt Margaret, fractured into a thousand pieces. Other ancestors she'd never known, all trapped in the silver void between reflection and reality. She had perhaps seconds to decide. The door would reappear only if she truly chose to leave, the reflection had implied. But if she stayed, if she touched that hand and let the mirrors pull her in... Sarah thought of her ordinary life—her job, her apartment, her friends. She thought of the mystery that had always surrounded her family, the strange gifts they were rumored to have, the way they always knew things they shouldn't. She thought of Margaret, alone in this house, lost in the mirrors. And she thought of herself, and what she wanted, and whether some prices were simply too high to pay, no matter what they purchased. The hand was inches from her face now, cold air radiating from the glass. Sarah took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and made her choice. When she opened them again, sunlight flooded the room. The door stood open behind her, and the mirrors showed only normal reflections—dozens of Sarahs, all moving in perfect synchronization, all watching her with eyes that were once again her own. She walked out of the mirror room, closed the door, and locked it. The key felt heavy in her hand. That night, as per the will's requirements, she slept in the master bedroom. She dreamed of mirrors and reflections, of paths not taken and lives not lived. When she woke the next morning, she found a letter on the nightstand in her great-aunt's handwriting: "You chose wisely. The mirrors are sealed now, for this generation at least. But know this: the gift runs in our blood. You will see things others don't, know things you shouldn't. Some doors, once shown to us, can never be fully closed. Use it wisely. Don't make my mistakes. And whatever you do, never, ever look too long at your reflection. - Margaret" Sarah folded the letter and looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Just for a moment, she thought she saw something else—a flicker of movement, a shadow of another life. But when she blinked, it was gone. She left the house that morning and never returned. She sold it to a developer who tore it down to build apartments. Sometimes, residents of those apartments report strange things about their mirrors. But Sarah doesn't listen to those stories. She has her own relationship with mirrors now—careful, controlled, never staring too long. And sometimes, just sometimes, when she needs to see something clearly, to know something important, she'll glance at her reflection and see just a little bit more than she should. The mirrors gave her that much before she walked away. Just enough to be useful. Just little enough to stay herself. Most days, she thinks she made the right choice. But on dark nights, when she's alone, she wonders about the other Sarahs—the ones who stayed, the ones who reached out and took that hand. She wonders what they learned, what they became, what they saw in the infinite corridors of the mirror world. And she wonders if any of them wonder about her.