THE ROOM THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST
You walk down your hallway, .
There are five doors. There have always been five.
You blink. It's still there.
An old wooden door with no handle.
You try to ignore it. Go to bed.
But your dreams are filled with knocking.
In the morning, the sixth door is still there.
This time, it’s open a crack.
You smell damp wood. And something else. Like rot.
You peer in. It’s pitch black inside.
You whisper, “Hello?”
Something whispers back: “Come home.”
You slam it shut. Or try to.
At 3:33 AM, the lights flicker.
You hear footsteps from the hallway.
You hide under the blanket.
In the morning, the sixth door is gone.
But your hallway is shorter by a foot.
You check the floorplan. There’s no mention of the sixth room.
But the blueprint is smudged. Like something erased it.
That night, the door is back.
This time it's open wide.
Inside, a staircase leading down.
You descend. One creaking step at a time.
The walls are covered in photos of you sleeping.
A mirror stands alone in the room.
Your reflection smiles. You don’t.
It says, “Welcome back.”
Then walks out of the mirror.
You’re frozen. It takes your hand.
“You can rest now,” it says.
You try to scream. No sound comes out.
It pulls you inside the mirror.
You’re now the reflection.
Upstairs, the sixth door closes.
The hallway is normal once more.
Until someone else sees six doors.
And the cycle begins again.