Nikhil had always been fascinated by old houses, especially the Victorian kind, with creaking wooden floors, high ceilings, and walls that seemed to breathe.So suddenly ,when he found an old manor deep in the woods for a bargain price, he couldn’t believe his luck. All it needed was some work, and it would be a beautiful escape destination from the bustling city life.
The house was untouched, filled with layers of dust and echoes of lives long forgotten. But one thing struck Nikhil as strange: in every single room, even the closets, there was a mirror. Some were cracked, others fogged, and a few so antique that their silver had faded to black. But he shrugged it off as the previous owners’ odd taste and thought nothing more of it.
That night, as he lay in bed, he was startled awake by a faint scraping sound. In the silence of the night, it sounded loud, like nails dragging slowly across glass. He turned on the lamp beside his bed and listened, heart pounding. But the noise stopped, and the house was still again.
Then, the next night, it returned—this time louder, closer.
Curiosity got the best of him. He followed the sound down the dark, narrow hallway, watching his shadow flicker in the pale moonlight. He reached the end of the hall, where an old, dusty mirror stood propped against the wall, untouched since he arrived. He could see his reflection in it, pale and tense, as he leaned closer, peering into the inky blackness of the old glass.
And then, he saw her.
A girl with long, dark hair stood behind him in the reflection, her face hidden in shadow, her fingers stretched forward, pressing against the glass from the inside.
Nikhil spun around, but no one was there.
Breath catching in his throat, he looked back at the mirror, hoping it was some sort of trick of the light. But she was still there, now pressing her hands harder against the glass, her fingers clawing at it from the inside, leaving thin, bloody streaks. Her face was still hidden, but he could feel her eyes on him.
He took a shaky step back. The girl mimicked him, stepping back into the darkness within the mirror.
Over the following days, she appeared in every mirror in the house. At first, he would only catch glimpses—her hair, her fingers, the edge of her face. But every night, she grew bolder, standing closer to the glass, her mouth wide in a silent scream. And each time, she’d scratch at the glass with a sound that burrowed into his mind, becoming harder to ignore.
Desperate, Nikhil tried to cover the mirrors, but it only made things worse. Now, he could hear her whispers—soft, pleading sounds that felt like they came from inside his own skull. "Let me out... I just want out."
On the sixth night, Nikhil decided he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a hammer, determined to shatter every mirror in the house. But as he raised the hammer to the first mirror, he felt a cold hand grip his wrist, stopping him.
He froze, eyes widening as he looked at the mirror. She was standing there, gripping him, her eyes hollow, her skin cracked, as if she’d been trapped there for centuries. And before he could scream, she pulled him through the glass.
The silence was immediate, deafening, eternal.
When Nikhils friends came looking for him a week later, the house was empty. They searched every room, every nook and corner,found his half-packed belongings, and left confused, chalking his disappearance up to him getting cold feet about moving so far away.
But if they’d had looked closely into any of the mirrors, they might have seen him there—his face pale, his mouth twisted in horror, as he scratched, slowly and endlessly, trying to find a way out.
