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The Locked Room

 


The rain battered the windows of the old boarding house, its steady rhythm masking every creak of the wooden floors. Mira clutched her umbrella, dripping wet, as the innkeeper handed her the brass key.

“Room twelve,” the woman said, her voice low. “Keep the door locked at night.”

Mira frowned. “Why?”

The innkeeper simply shook her head. “Just… trust me.”

Mira had been traveling alone for days, her train delayed by the storm, and the boarding house was the only place with a vacant room. Tired, she brushed off the warning as local superstition. Still, when she entered Room Twelve, a chill crawled up her spine.

The room was plain—bed, dresser, cracked mirror on the wall—but the air felt too still, as though it had been holding its breath for years. She locked the door anyway, more out of habit than fear, and tried to sleep.

At midnight, she woke.

A soft sound lingered in the silence. Not rain. Not wind. It was a faint scratching, like fingernails dragging across wood. Mira sat up, heart pounding. The sound came from behind the mirror.

She stood slowly, the floorboards groaning under her weight. The scratching grew louder, frantic. She pressed her ear against the cold glass. A whisper seeped through.

“Let me out…”

Mira stumbled back, her throat tight. The innkeeper’s warning echoed in her mind. She grabbed her phone, its dim glow the only light, and dialed the front desk. No answer.

The whisper came again, sharper. “Please. Let me out.”

Mira’s trembling fingers touched the edge of the mirror. The frame shifted slightly under her push, as if it were a door. With a loud click, the mirror swung open, revealing a dark cavity in the wall.

The scratching stopped.

For a long moment, silence reigned. Then, a pale hand shot out.

Mira screamed, slamming the mirror shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She locked it with the small latch she hadn’t noticed before and staggered back, gasping.

The whispers turned to pounding. Fists struck the other side of the glass, shaking it violently.

“LET ME OUT!”

Mira ran to the door, fumbling with the brass key, but it wouldn’t turn. The lock refused to budge, as though someone on the other side was holding it shut.

The pounding behind the mirror grew furious. Cracks began to spider across the glass. Mira’s breath came in short, ragged gasps. She grabbed the heavy lamp from the nightstand, holding it like a weapon.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pounding stopped. The room went dead silent.

The mirror was cracked but still intact. The door behind her finally clicked open.

The innkeeper stood in the hallway, her face pale.

“You opened it, didn’t you?” she whispered.

Mira’s voice shook. “What—what is it? Who’s in there?”

The innkeeper stepped inside, shutting the door quickly behind her. Her eyes darted to the mirror. “Not who. What. That room was sealed years ago. A guest disappeared… and what came back wasn’t human.”

Mira’s blood ran cold.

Before she could speak, the mirror shattered with a deafening crash. Shards flew across the room, and a shadowy figure crawled out—its limbs too long, its face hidden in darkness.

The innkeeper shoved Mira toward the door. “Run!”

Mira stumbled into the hallway, sprinting down the creaking stairs as screams erupted behind her. The storm outside howled, lightning flashing through the cracked windows.

She didn’t look back until she reached the street. The boarding house loomed against the storm, its windows glowing faintly. For one terrifying second, Mira thought she saw the figure watching her from Room Twelve, its hand pressed against the shattered glass.

The rain swallowed her as she fled into the night, the innkeeper’s final words echoing in her ears.

“Once it’s out, it never stops looking for the one who opened the door.”

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