They said the mirror in Room 303 was cursed.
Not haunted—cursed.
When Anaya, a forensic photographer, was assigned to shoot the abandoned asylum, she laughed at the rumors.
She'd seen bodies before. Skinned. Burnt. Ripped by animals. Nothing scared her.
That was her mistake.
Room 303 was cold. Not AC cold—death cold.
Inside was a rusted hospital bed, bloodstains etched into the floor, and a full-length mirror bolted to the wall, covered by a thick, black veil.
She took a picture.
The photo showed her standing alone… but the reflection showed another Anaya.
Smiling.
She lifted the veil.
Nothing happened.
Until she blinked.
Now the mirror showed her skin missing.
Her muscles twitching. Eyeballs bulging. Tongue twitching like a dying fish.
Then it blinked.
The reflection blinked first.
She turned to leave. But the door wouldn't open.
She looked back. The reflection was scratching the inside of the mirror, nails scraping raw against invisible glass.
Then it held up a knife.
Not a reflection. The real one.
In her hand.
Blood now poured from her real arm.
She hadn't moved. But the mirror had.
And then the worst thing happened—
The mirror stepped forward.
The wall around it fleshed open like a mouth, tearing with sinew and bone cracks.
The reflection crawled out, skinless and humming. It touched her cheek gently.
And whispered:
> "I've waited so long… for you to open the door."
She screamed and ran, but there was no way out.
The floors pulsed like veins. The ceiling bled.
She fell—face-first into a pit of mirrors.
Each one with a different version of her—
Hanging. Burned. Dismembered. Buried alive.
Then blackness.
They found Anaya's body a week later. Or rather, bodies.
Skinned torsos stitched together.
No face.
Just a cracked camera lying near the mirror.
On the last photo she clicked—
Her reflection was still smiling.