The mirror was still now.
Lena stood frozen, her breath shallow, watching her own reflection stare back at her — alone this time. The face that had smiled moments ago was gone, as if it had never been there. But she knew what she saw. She wasn't imagining things.
She backed away slowly, every instinct screaming at her to leave the room. But the door still wouldn't open. She jiggled the handle, slammed her shoulder into the wood. Nothing. It was sealed shut like it had never been designed to open from the inside.
Her phone.
She fumbled for it in her coat pocket, quickly pulling it out and dialing Cal — her editor, the only person who knew where she was.
One ring. Two. Three.
Static.
Then—click.
"Lena," came a voice, distorted but familiar. "You shouldn't have come here."
Her heart slammed in her chest. "Who is this? Cal?"
No response. Just a hissing sound and what might've been whispering — or wind.
Then: "The room remembers everything."
The call ended.
Lena stared at her phone in disbelief. No signal. Not even a loading bar.
The shadows in the room seemed to shift slightly, like the walls themselves were pulsing. She looked around again — the furniture hadn't changed, but something about it was...wrong. The curtains were moving, though the windows were shut. The lamp buzzed quietly, the light growing dimmer, then bright again.
And then she noticed the photograph.
It was sitting on the nightstand, perfectly placed, almost too neatly. She hadn't seen it when she first entered. Carefully, she picked it up.
Her fingers went cold.
It was a photo of her, standing in that very room — except she looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, like she had been caught mid-scream. She was wearing the same clothes she had on now. Only behind her in the picture… stood the bellboy.
And he was holding something.
She squinted.
A black box — just like the one her key came in.
"No," she whispered. "This doesn't make sense."
Suddenly, a loud knock shattered the silence.
She spun toward the door.
Another knock. Slow. Deliberate.
And then the bellboy's voice drifted through the crack in the doorframe, barely above a whisper:
"Time's up, Ms. Marris."
She backed away, heart pounding, clutching the photograph like it was a lifeline. What did he mean, time's up? She was barely inside the room for ten minutes.
The light above flickered out.
Complete darkness swallowed the room.
Lena turned, trying to find her bearings, her hands outstretched. Her fingers brushed something cold — metal — but it wasn't the lamp.
It was a door handle.
But not the one to the hallway.
She didn't remember seeing a second door.
Carefully, she twisted it.
A groan of ancient hinges echoed through the blackness. The door opened into a narrow staircase descending into pitch darkness.
She hesitated, torn between staying in the locked room or venturing deeper into the unknown. But the choice was made for her.
Behind her, the soft click of a camera shutter.
She turned.
No one was there.
But another photo had appeared on the nightstand.
This time, Lena wasn't standing alone in the picture. There were two other figures behind her — one she couldn't make out… and the other was her, again.
But this Lena had a gash across her cheek and one eye swollen shut.
The room wasn't remembering her.
It was showing her what was about to happen.