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The Disappearing Room Shaina Tranquilino September 9, 2024

Daniel Mercer stood before the grandiose facade of Ashgrove Manor, his newly purchased estate. The towering spires and weathered stone walls exuded an air of mystery and history. It was an impulse buy, something that felt right the moment he saw it in a listing online. The price was suspiciously low, but Daniel, newly retired and seeking adventure, found the idea of owning a mansion irresistible.

The real estate agent, a thin man with an unsteady smile, had been eager to hand over the keys. “There’s just one thing, Mr. Mercer,” he had mentioned almost as an afterthought. “This house has a… peculiarity. A room that appears and disappears at will. No one knows when or where it’ll show up next.”

Daniel had laughed at what he assumed was an eccentric marketing ploy, but as he stood in the cavernous entrance hall, he wondered if there was some truth to it. The house was silent, the only sound the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors.

For the first few days, Daniel explored his new home. It was filled with forgotten rooms, each one more intriguing than the last. He found a library lined with books whose spines were cracked with age, a ballroom with a chandelier that sparkled with forgotten grandeur, and bedrooms filled with antique furniture. But there was no sign of the disappearing room.

On the fifth night, as a storm raged outside, Daniel was awakened by a low rumble. The house seemed to groan in response to the wind. As he climbed out of bed, he noticed a faint light seeping from beneath a door at the end of the hallway. A door that hadn’t been there before.

Heart pounding, Daniel approached the door. The handle was cold under his fingers, and as he turned it, the door swung open soundlessly. Inside was a small, dimly lit room that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. The walls were lined with old photographs, and in the center of the room stood a table with a single item on it: an old leather-bound journal.

Daniel stepped inside, feeling an inexplicable chill. He picked up the journal and opened it, revealing pages filled with neat handwriting. The entries were dated from the 1920s and told the story of a man named Edward Ashgrove, the original owner of the mansion.

Edward’s journal detailed his obsession with discovering the secret of the house. He wrote of a room that would appear without warning, containing clues to a mystery that had haunted his family for generations. The journal entries became increasingly frantic as Edward described following the room from one end of the house to the other, piecing together cryptic messages left within.

The final entry was particularly chilling: “The room holds the truth, but it comes with a price. I fear what I must do to uncover it.”

Daniel set the journal down, unease creeping into his thoughts. He looked around the room and noticed a photograph on the wall that hadn’t been there moments before. It was a portrait of Edward Ashgrove, standing with a woman and a young child. The woman’s face had been scratched out, but the child’s was clear. It was a boy, no more than six years old, with a striking resemblance to Daniel.

A sudden dizziness overtook him, and when he blinked, the room was gone. He was back in his bedroom, the journal clutched tightly in his hands. The storm outside had intensified, lightning flashing through the windows. Shaken, Daniel realized that the room wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. It was real, and it was playing with him.

Over the next few days, the room appeared and disappeared at random, each time in a different location. Each appearance brought with it new clues—fragments of letters, faded photographs, and strange symbols etched into the walls. The puzzle pieces began to fit together, revealing a dark secret about the Ashgrove family.

Daniel discovered that Edward Ashgrove had been trying to save his family from a curse, one that condemned the firstborn of every generation to a tragic fate. The curse was tied to the house, to the very room that now tormented Daniel. Edward had believed that solving the mystery of the room would break the curse, but he had disappeared before he could finish his work.

The final piece of the puzzle came one night when the room appeared at the very top of the house, in the attic. This time, the room was bare except for a single sheet of paper on the floor. Daniel picked it up and read the words scrawled hastily across it:

“To break the curse, the firstborn must make a choice: Sacrifice the room or themselves.”

Daniel’s blood ran cold. The resemblance between him and the boy in the photograph was no coincidence. He was a descendant of the Ashgroves, the firstborn of his generation. The curse had followed him to the mansion, and now the room was demanding his choice.

With a heavy heart, Daniel knew what he had to do. He couldn’t allow the curse to continue, to let another generation suffer as Edward had. He returned to the room one last time, the journal in hand. As he stepped inside, he felt a sense of finality.

The room seemed to pulse with anticipation as Daniel placed the journal on the table. He whispered a prayer and made his decision.

The next morning, Ashgrove Manor was empty. The neighbors would later claim that they had seen a flash of light from the attic that night, but no one dared investigate. Daniel Mercer was never seen again, and the mansion was left to decay.

Years later, when the estate was auctioned off, the new owner discovered a small, dusty room hidden in the attic. Inside was a single photograph of a man standing before the house, a man who looked strikingly familiar. Beside it was a leather-bound journal, its pages blank, as if waiting for the next chapter of the story to be written.

The Ghost in the Mirror Shaina Tranquilino September 10, 2024

Detective James Harlan had seen his fair share of strange cases, but nothing could have prepared him for the mirror. It was a cold, gray evening when he first encountered it. The sky threatened rain, and the shadows of the city loomed long and distorted as Harlan stood in front of the old curiosity shop on the corner of Willow Street. The store was set to be demolished the following week, its last few days spent selling off an assortment of peculiar antiques and oddities.

Harlan wasn't one for curiosities, but something had drawn him inside—an invisible pull that led him through the cluttered aisles to the back of the store, where an ornate, dusty mirror stood propped against the wall. The mirror’s frame was heavy and intricately carved, dark wood curling into what seemed like a thousand twisted faces, each one more grotesque than the last.

The shopkeeper, a frail old man with sunken eyes and trembling hands, had appeared beside him as if summoned by his curiosity.

"Ah, the mirror," the shopkeeper rasped, his voice a mere whisper of sound. "You're the first person to show any interest in it. Most people avoid it… say it gives them the creeps."

Harlan, skeptical but intrigued, asked, "What's the story behind it?"

The old man hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he studied the detective’s face. "They say it’s cursed, haunted by a restless spirit. It belonged to a woman who… who was murdered many years ago. They say if you look into it long enough, you can see the past… see things that shouldn’t be seen."

Despite the chill creeping up his spine, Harlan found himself drawn to the mirror. It was as if it had a voice of its own, whispering to him, beckoning him to look deeper, to see what lay beyond the surface.

The shopkeeper’s bony hand gripped Harlan’s arm, his voice a desperate warning. "Take it if you must, but know this: the mirror demands a price. It will give you what you seek, but it will take something in return."

Harlan, always one to dismiss superstition, paid the old man and took the mirror with him. He told himself it was just a peculiar antique, nothing more. A piece of history to decorate his apartment.

But as soon as he hung the mirror on the wall of his living room, strange things began to happen.

At first, it was subtle—a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a faint whisper on the edge of his hearing. But as the days passed, the visions became clearer, more intense.

One night, as he sat alone with a glass of whiskey, Harlan found himself staring into the mirror, unable to look away. The room around him began to fade, and in its place, a scene unfolded within the glass.

He saw a woman, her face pale and frightened, running through the woods. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she glanced over her shoulder, terror etched into her features. Behind her, a figure loomed, a man with a knife glinting in the moonlight.

Harlan watched in horror as the man caught up to her, dragging her to the ground. The woman’s screams echoed in his mind as the knife descended, again and again, until the woods were silent.

The vision faded, leaving Harlan staring at his own haunted reflection, his heart pounding in his chest. He recognized the scene—it was an unsolved murder from twenty years ago, a cold case that had haunted the precinct for years.

Driven by an obsession he couldn’t explain, Harlan dove into the old case files the next day. The details matched perfectly. The victim, the location, even the murder weapon. The mirror had shown him the truth, the answer to a mystery that had eluded detectives for decades.

He began to spend every night in front of the mirror, searching for more. And the mirror obliged. Each time he looked into it, another crime unfolded before his eyes—unsolved murders, disappearances, cold cases long forgotten by the world. Harlan solved them all, bringing justice to victims whose voices had been silenced for too long.

But with each case he solved, Harlan felt something slipping away from him. His energy, his spirit, his very sense of self seemed to dwindle. The mirror took its toll, draining him bit by bit, just as the old shopkeeper had warned.

One evening, after months of this relentless pursuit, Harlan looked into the mirror and saw a face he recognized all too well—his own.

He was standing in his apartment, holding a gun, his eyes empty and hollow. Before him, a man lay crumpled on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. Harlan’s hand trembled as he watched the scene unfold, as he watched himself commit a crime that hadn’t yet happened.

He staggered back from the mirror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The mirror had shown him the future, and it was a future he could not escape.

Desperate, he tried to rid himself of the mirror, to break the curse that had ensnared him. He took a hammer to it, smashing the glass into a thousand glittering shards. But even in the broken pieces, he could still see the scenes playing out, could still hear the whispers of the past echoing in his mind.

There was no escape. The mirror had claimed him, body and soul.

In the days that followed, Harlan’s colleagues noticed the change in him. He became distant, paranoid, his once sharp mind dulled by an unseen weight. They didn’t understand what had happened to him, didn’t know about the mirror or the horrors it had revealed.

And then, one night, Harlan disappeared.

They found his apartment empty, the shattered mirror lying in a heap on the floor. But of Harlan, there was no sign. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.

The cold cases he had solved were closed, the victims finally at peace. But the price had been steep, too steep. Detective James Harlan was never seen again, his fate sealed within the haunted glass that had lured him to his doom.

And somewhere, in a forgotten corner of the city, a new curiosity shop opened its doors, with a new old mirror standing in the back, waiting for its next victim.

The Forgotten Cellar Shaina Tranquilino October 5, 2024

The Harrisons moved into the old Victorian house on the outskirts of town with the kind of enthusiasm that accompanies a fresh start. The house was a bargain—too good to pass up. Rebecca, her husband Gerald, and their son, Caleb marvelled at the high ceilings, the vintage wallpaper, and the spacious rooms. It felt like a dream, albeit one wrapped in a bit of dust and cobwebs.

The cellar door was the only thing out of place. It sat at the end of a narrow hallway in the kitchen, locked with a heavy, rusted chain. Rebecca had asked the realtor about it, but all she’d said was that the previous owners had forgotten about it. The key, like the history of the house, was lost to time.

"It’s just a storage space," Gerald had said, brushing off Rebecca's concerns. "We can deal with it later."

But on the first night, Rebecca heard it—the whispers.

She had been lying in bed, half-asleep, when a soft, disembodied murmur floated up through the floorboards. She strained her ears, thinking it was the wind or maybe the house settling. The house was old, after all. But the longer she listened, the clearer it became.

“Please... let me out...”

Rebecca sat up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest. The voice was faint, almost pleading, rising from somewhere deep below the house.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, shaking Gerald awake.

"Hear what?" he mumbled, rolling over.

"The whispering... from downstairs."

He frowned, still half-asleep. "Probably just the pipes. This place is ancient."

Rebecca wasn’t convinced, but she let it go, hoping it was just her imagination playing tricks on her in the unfamiliar home.

The next night, the whispering came again, louder this time. And this time, she wasn’t the only one who heard it.

"Mom?" Caleb’s small voice quivered from the doorway of their bedroom. "There’s someone downstairs. I heard them."

Rebecca's skin prickled with dread. She glanced at Gerald, who had now fully woken, his brow furrowed. They sat in silence for a moment, listening. There it was again—a faint, desperate whisper.

“Please... help me…”

Rebecca's stomach turned. It was coming from beneath the floorboards, from the cellar.

"We need to see what’s down there," Rebecca said, her voice barely above a whisper. Gerald hesitated, but the unease in his eyes mirrored her own.

Armed with a flashlight and a crowbar, Gerald made his way to the cellar door the next morning. Rebecca stood behind him, her heart in her throat as he forced the rusted chain from the door. The heavy wooden door groaned open, releasing a rush of cold, damp air that smelled of earth and something else—something rotten.

The stairs creaked as Gerald descended, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness. Rebecca followed, holding Caleb’s hand tightly. The cellar was larger than they had imagined, the walls lined with crumbling stone and ancient wooden beams. But something else caught their attention—a large, decrepit trunk in the corner, covered in dust.

Rebecca's pulse quickened as they approached it. The whispers had stopped, but the air felt thick with an unspoken presence. Gerald knelt down, hesitating before unlatching the trunk.

It creaked open slowly.

Inside, there were no treasures or old clothes as they had expected. Instead, the remains of a person—a skeleton, curled up, bound in chains—lay within. Rebecca gasped, stepping back in horror, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Who... who is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before Gerald could respond, the whispering began again, louder now, filling the cellar with an oppressive weight.

“Please... set me free...”

The voice was coming from the skeleton. Rebecca's blood ran cold as the realization dawned on her. The whispers weren’t just voices in her head. They were real.

As if responding to the plea, the chains around the skeleton began to rattle, slowly unwinding themselves from the brittle bones. Rebecca stumbled back, dragging Caleb with her as Gerald froze in place, his eyes wide with terror.

“We have to go!" Rebecca screamed, her voice shaking. She pulled Gerald toward the stairs, but the air grew thick, almost solid, as if something unseen was holding them in place. The whispers intensified, turning into anguished cries.

"Let me out... let me out!"

Suddenly, the cellar door slammed shut above them, plunging the room into darkness. Rebecca's flashlight flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows on the walls as the temperature dropped further. She felt an icy hand brush her arm, the faint whisper now right in her ear.

“Stay with me…”

With a burst of panic-fueled strength, Gerald lunged toward the door, yanking it open. They scrambled up the stairs, slamming the door behind them. The whispers were muffled now but still persistent, like a voice trapped beneath layers of earth, desperate to be heard.

They left the house that night, too afraid to stay another minute in the presence of whatever haunted the cellar.

Weeks later, the house stood empty, its windows dark and its doors locked. No one spoke of the Harrisons or the skeleton in the cellar, as if the house itself had swallowed their secret. But on quiet nights, if you stood close enough, you could still hear the whispers rising from below.

“Please... help me... let me out…”

The house waited, patient and silent, for the next family to come.