Fan Fiction
The Mirror in Room Nine. AI-Generated.
I never believed in haunted hotels—until I stayed in Room Nine. It was late November, and I was driving through northern Vermont for a photography project when a blizzard rolled in faster than expected. My car skidded near a curve, and I barely made it to a small roadside inn with a flickering neon sign: The Elkwood Lodge – Since 1923. Inside, the place was cozy, warm, and smelled of cinnamon and old wood. The innkeeper, a stooped man with clouded eyes, handed me a brass key without asking for my ID or credit card. "Room Nine. Top of the stairs, end of the hall," he said. I asked if he had Wi-Fi. He smiled faintly. "You won’t need it tonight." The hallway upstairs felt strangely long. Paintings of forgotten people lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow me. Room Nine was at the end, just as promised. Inside, the room was plain: a bed, a desk, and a large antique mirror facing the window. I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. Snow pattered against the windowpane like a lullaby. I didn’t notice anything wrong until just before I fell asleep. The mirror. Its reflection didn’t quite match the room. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. But when I turned off the lamp, the mirror still showed faint flickers—as if candlelight danced behind me, though there were no candles in the room. I got up, flicked on the light, and walked to the mirror. I expected to see myself. Instead, I saw someone else. A woman. Pale, wearing a dark dress with lace around the collar. She stood behind me, unmoving. I spun around. No one. Heart racing, I looked back at the mirror. She was gone. I should have left. Any sane person would’ve. But I told myself I was overtired, maybe even dreaming. So I went back to bed. Around 2:00 a.m., I woke up gasping. My chest felt tight. The room was cold—too cold. The window was open. I was certain I had closed it. I got up to shut it, and that’s when I heard a whisper. “Stay.” I froze. “Stay with me…” The voice came from the mirror. I turned slowly. The woman was back—but this time, she was closer, her hands pressed against the inside of the glass. I stepped toward it, unsure why I wasn’t screaming or running. Her mouth moved silently, and then she raised one hand and pointed at the desk drawer. I opened it. Inside was a faded photograph: her face, unmistakable. And behind her… Room Nine, unmistakably newer, brighter, alive. On the back was a name: Margaret Ellison, 1931. Beneath the photo was a yellowed news clipping. "Local Woman Missing in Snowstorm—Feared Dead. Last seen checking into Elkwood Lodge. No body ever found." I looked back at the mirror. Now, she was right up against the glass, her hand flat as if trying to push through. “No one ever came for me,” her voice echoed softly. “But you came…” My chest tightened again. My breath caught. The mirror began to frost over from the edges inward, but her face remained clear, watching. I backed away and grabbed my bag. I didn’t stop to look again. I ran down the hallway, down the stairs. The lobby was empty. No lights. No innkeeper. I burst through the door into the storm, barely seeing a foot ahead. My car was buried, dead. I ran until I saw the headlights of a snowplow, waved it down, and never looked back. --- The Elkwood Lodge doesn’t show up on any GPS now. I even returned in the spring—but the place wasn’t there. Just a clearing of snow-damaged trees. No inn. No road sign. Nothing. But I still have the photo. Sometimes, when I glance into my mirror at home, I swear I see Margaret watching. And sometimes… I hear her whisper: “Stay with me.” Start writing...
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
He Left Without a Word — So I Wrote the Ending Myself
I never saw it coming. The day he walked out without a word, without a glance back, became the day my world quieted — but not in the way I expected. It wasn’t peace. It was a hollow silence, a gaping hole where his voice used to be. The unanswered questions echoed louder than anything he'd ever said. We weren’t perfect, but we had history. Years of whispered dreams, shared fears, late-night talks, and plans for a future that suddenly felt like a cruel joke. When he left, he didn’t say why. No “I’m sorry,” no “I can’t do this anymore.” Nothing but silence. At first, I waited. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. I sat by the phone, replayed every conversation in my mind, searching for a sign, a clue, any reason for the sudden void. But his silence was a wall—thick, unyielding, and cold. Friends told me to move on. “Forget him,” they said. But how do you forget someone who became your whole world? How do you erase the person you loved so deeply when their absence shouts louder than their presence ever did? So I did what felt impossible. I picked up a pen. The letter I wrote wasn’t for him — it was for me. I poured out everything I’d been holding inside: the pain, the confusion, the anger. The nights I cried alone, wondering if I was enough or if I had missed the signs. The dreams that crumbled like ash in my hands. The hope that maybe, someday, he’d explain. But most importantly, I wrote the ending I deserved. I wrote a story where I was no longer waiting for his return or his apology. A story where I was whole on my own, where my happiness wasn’t tied to someone who chose to disappear. I wrote about forgiveness—not just of him, but of myself, for holding on so tightly to something that wasn’t mine to keep. The first words felt like a release: “I forgive you for leaving, and I forgive myself for loving you too much.” Writing became my salvation. Each page was a step away from the silence he left behind. I gave myself permission to grieve, to heal, to rebuild. Months later, I sealed that letter — the one I never meant to send — and tucked it away in a drawer. It wasn’t about closure from him. It was closure from the past. For the first time, I felt light. Not because he returned or apologized, but because I stopped waiting for what would never come. I started to live for me. I took up painting, something I’d always dreamed of but never had the courage to try. I reconnected with friends I’d lost touch with, and I traveled to places I once only imagined. I learned that sometimes, the silence left by others is a space where your own voice can finally be heard. One quiet evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I found myself smiling at the thought: He may have left without a word, but I wrote the ending myself — and it’s beautiful. Thank you so much for reading 🥰! If you like my story please leave a comment. Thanks ❤️.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Fiction
Quirky, Domestic Humor
Sunday began like any other disaster: with the sound of the washing machine growling like it had swallowed a small animal. Dani blinked blearily at the clock. 8:14 a.m. Too early for laundry-related hauntings, but just late enough that she couldn’t pretend it was still Saturday night.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Digital Dust
The data morgue smelled like ozone and loneliness. Maya adjusted her luminescent hazmat suit’s hood, the hiss of filtered air her only companion. Before her stretched Server Vault 7—miles of abandoned user profiles, decaying chat logs, and forgotten memories scheduled for permanent deletion. Her job: scrub digital graves clean.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
When the Windows Forgot to Close
The town of Wrenfield was the kind of place where even the birds knew not to sing too loudly. It wasn’t haunted by anything so cinematic as ghosts or murder, but rather by a silence that felt too heavy for its size—like a hush waiting to break.
By junaid aliabout a year ago in Fiction
