My Reflection Smiled Before I Did I shouldn’t be writing…
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My Reflection Smiled Before I Did
I shouldn’t be writing this.
Three days ago, my friends Jonas, Eli, and I decided to explore the Whitmore house—the old, decaying building at the end of Fern Road that everyone warns you to avoid. I never wanted to go. Jonas dared me. Eli was reluctantly curious. But I thought I could handle it.
The house sat alone on a cracked path, swallowed by wild grass and twisted trees. The front door stood half-open, framed by rotted wood and peeling paint like a warning carved into the house itself.
Inside was silent—too silent. The kind of silence that swallows every sound, making your own heartbeat thunder in your ears. We searched room after room, the air thick with dust and decay, until I found the basement door behind a torn patch of wallpaper. The hinges groaned complainingly as we pried it open.
A narrow stone staircase spiraled down into cold darkness. We clung to the damp wall, descending with only our flashlights to cut through the black.
At the bottom was a long corridor. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the rusted hospital beds or broken wheelchairs scattered in the dust—it was the smell. Sharp and biting, like old disinfectant mixed with damp concrete, and underneath that, something sweeter but suffocating—like a bouquet of flowers left sealed in a box for too long.
The fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead as we moved carefully forward. Patient charts lay scattered, stained with age and water. The air was thick, almost breathing—alive, but something deeply wrong.
I wanted to turn back, but Jonas shrugged and kept going. Eli's expression flickered between fear and fascination.
We reached a nurses’ station with a cracked wooden desk. Jonas, confused, scratched his initials into the wood: J.L.
We kept walking but soon realized the corridor had looped back. The nurses’ station was there again. And again. Each time, Jonas’s initials faded as if they’d never been etched.
Fear crawled up my spine. The hospital beneath the house wasn’t just abandoned—it was twisting, warping around us like a living maze.
Then we found the mirrors. Dozens of them, lining a small, dim room like eyes watching our every move. Each surface warped the light, making shadows bend and breathe strangely.
I stared into my reflection—and it blinked half a second late. It smiled at me even before I did. The smile felt wrong—unnatural.
Jonas stood frozen, staring into one mirror. Slowly, his reflection raised a trembling hand, reaching out toward the glass. Jonas didn’t notice at first. When he did, he screamed—sharp and terrified—before the glass rippled like water and his body was swallowed whole.
Panic hit Eli like a tidal wave. He turned and ran down the corridor but abruptly stopped, staring into a dark window at the hall’s end.
“Mara,” he whispered. “There’s someone in there.”
I looked, but the glass reflected only us. When I turned back, Eli was gone.
I was left alone in the twisting hospital beneath that rotting house. Heart hammering, I stumbled through endless hallways until I somehow found the stairs leading back up.
I ran, bursting into the cold night air, but the terror didn’t leave me. I called the police and told them everything. They searched the house yesterday.
They said there is no basement.
Last night, I covered my bathroom mirror with a towel before bed. This morning, the towel was on the floor. I looked up just in time to see my reflection smile—before I did.
If you find this, please believe me: the reflections aren’t merely reflections. They are watching. They are waiting.
And I don’t know if I’m really free.
#entertainment
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I shouldn’t be writing this.
Three days ago, my friends Jonas, Eli, and I decided to explore the Whitmore house—the old, decaying building at the end of Fern Road that everyone warns you to avoid. I never wanted to go. Jonas dared me. Eli was reluctantly curious. But I thought I could handle it.
The house sat alone on a cracked path, swallowed by wild grass and twisted trees. The front door stood half-open, framed by rotted wood and peeling paint like a warning carved into the house itself.
Inside was silent—too silent. The kind of silence that swallows every sound, making your own heartbeat thunder in your ears. We searched room after room, the air thick with dust and decay, until I found the basement door behind a torn patch of wallpaper. The hinges groaned complainingly as we pried it open.
A narrow stone staircase spiraled down into cold darkness. We clung to the damp wall, descending with only our flashlights to cut through the black.
At the bottom was a long corridor. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the rusted hospital beds or broken wheelchairs scattered in the dust—it was the smell. Sharp and biting, like old disinfectant mixed with damp concrete, and underneath that, something sweeter but suffocating—like a bouquet of flowers left sealed in a box for too long.
The fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead as we moved carefully forward. Patient charts lay scattered, stained with age and water. The air was thick, almost breathing—alive, but something deeply wrong.
I wanted to turn back, but Jonas shrugged and kept going. Eli's expression flickered between fear and fascination.
We reached a nurses’ station with a cracked wooden desk. Jonas, confused, scratched his initials into the wood: J.L.
We kept walking but soon realized the corridor had looped back. The nurses’ station was there again. And again. Each time, Jonas’s initials faded as if they’d never been etched.
Fear crawled up my spine. The hospital beneath the house wasn’t just abandoned—it was twisting, warping around us like a living maze.
Then we found the mirrors. Dozens of them, lining a small, dim room like eyes watching our every move. Each surface warped the light, making shadows bend and breathe strangely.
I stared into my reflection—and it blinked half a second late. It smiled at me even before I did. The smile felt wrong—unnatural.
Jonas stood frozen, staring into one mirror. Slowly, his reflection raised a trembling hand, reaching out toward the glass. Jonas didn’t notice at first. When he did, he screamed—sharp and terrified—before the glass rippled like water and his body was swallowed whole.
Panic hit Eli like a tidal wave. He turned and ran down the corridor but abruptly stopped, staring into a dark window at the hall’s end.
“Mara,” he whispered. “There’s someone in there.”
I looked, but the glass reflected only us. When I turned back, Eli was gone.
I was left alone in the twisting hospital beneath that rotting house. Heart hammering, I stumbled through endless hallways until I somehow found the stairs leading back up.
I ran, bursting into the cold night air, but the terror didn’t leave me. I called the police and told them everything. They searched the house yesterday.
They said there is no basement.
Last night, I covered my bathroom mirror with a towel before bed. This morning, the towel was on the floor. I looked up just in time to see my reflection smile—before I did.
If you find this, please believe me: the reflections aren’t merely reflections. They are watching. They are waiting.
And I don’t know if I’m really free.
#entertainment
source
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