The Room Behind the Mirror

  

In the old part of town, hidden between crumbling alleyways and forgotten shops, stood an antique store that had no name. The locals called it Purani Dukaan, and most avoided it. But Faizan, a curious blogger and collector of oddities, was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Inside, dust floated through shafts of pale light. The air smelled of wood rot and old secrets. As he wandered between rusted clocks and strange dolls, a mirror in the far corner caught his eye.

It was tall, framed in blackened silver, and covered in a white sheet. The shopkeeper, an old man with milky eyes, warned, “Don’t touch that. It’s not for sale.”

But Faizan returned after dark. He had to see what the mirror was hiding.

Alone, he pulled off the sheet. His reflection looked back—but then it blinked.

He hadn’t.

Frozen, he stared as the reflection smiled. Slowly, it reached out and pressed its palm against the inside of the glass. Faizan stepped back in horror.

Then the mirror cracked.

Not shattered—cracked, as if the reflection had punched it from within. A line of blood seeped from the fissure. Faizan ran, heart pounding, but just before he left, he turned back and saw the worst part: his reflection was gone.

It had stepped out.

Now Faizan watches from inside the mirror, screaming silently, as the thing wearing his face walks the world.

And the mirror?

It’s for sale again.

Waiting.