The Riverside Hotel was renowned for its luxury, nestled in a secluded valley, far from the humdrum of modern life. People flocked there for tranquility, indulgence, and the experience of a lifetime. But there was something else, something whispered about in hushed tones—the Reflection Room. It was said to be the hotel’s crown jewel, a room that would show you your heart’s deepest desires. Only select guests were granted access, and those who left rarely spoke of what they saw.
This intrigued Mark Wheeler, a seasoned investigative journalist known for debunking urban legends and supernatural claims. A cynic by nature, Mark believed that there was always a logical explanation for everything. He had built his career exposing charlatans and revealing the truth behind myths. When he heard of the Reflection Room, he knew it was just the sort of story that would boost his career even further. A luxury hotel, a mysterious room, and the promise of untold desires? It screamed scam.
The hotel management was surprisingly accommodating when Mark reached out, granting him a stay and access to the Reflection Room. They knew his reputation but seemed unbothered, confident that their hotel’s reputation would withstand scrutiny. Mark, armed with skepticism and his recording equipment, checked in on a rainy evening.
The hotel was immaculate, a blend of old-world charm and modern luxury. Its corridors stretched long and winding, each turn giving the impression that the hotel was far larger inside than it appeared from the outside. Mark noted the odd architecture with mild interest, but it was the Reflection Room he was here for.
That night, he was led to the room by a bellhop who refused to meet his eyes. The Reflection Room was at the end of a narrow hallway, separated from the rest of the hotel. Its heavy oak door loomed before him, devoid of any markings. The bellhop handed him the key, his hands trembling slightly, and left without a word.
Mark stood before the door, his journalist instincts flaring. He felt an unsettling chill, but shook it off. The supernatural had no place in his world of facts and logic.
With a twist of the key, the door creaked open, revealing a lavish, dimly lit room. Its centerpiece was a massive mirror covering the far wall from floor to ceiling. The air inside felt heavy, oppressive even, but Mark brushed it off as nerves. He was, after all, about to expose this grand hoax.
He set his camera on a tripod, ensuring it was focused on the mirror. He took a deep breath and sat in front of it, waiting for the magic trick to begin.
Nothing happened.
Mark smirked, adjusting his posture, expecting some hidden mechanism to trigger an illusion. But after several minutes of silence, only his reflection stared back at him—calm, skeptical, bored.
“Figures,” he muttered, pulling out his notepad. “Another overhyped myth.”
As he started scribbling notes, something flickered in the corner of his vision. He glanced up at the mirror. His reflection had changed. His heart raced as he saw not the composed journalist, but a disheveled, bloodied version of himself. The figure stood behind him, its neck twisted at an impossible angle, blood seeping from a deep gash across its throat.
Mark jumped to his feet, spinning around—nothing. The room was empty.
His reflection, however, remained in its gruesome state. The broken, battered figure stared back at him with lifeless eyes, blood pooling beneath its feet. Mark blinked, rubbing his eyes, but the image stayed.
The door! He bolted toward the door, yanking at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic set in as the reflection behind him changed once again. Now, his mirror self was on the floor, convulsing violently, foam spilling from his mouth as though poisoned. His chest heaved in terror as he hammered on the door, shouting for help. No one came.
Desperately, he turned back to the mirror, hoping the illusion would fade. Instead, he saw himself slumped in a chair, a bullet wound through his temple, blood splattering the wall behind him. The variations of his death played out in quick succession—each more gruesome, more terrifying than the last. He saw himself burned alive, his body writhing in agony as flames engulfed him. He saw himself drowned, gasping for breath as invisible hands pulled him beneath dark, icy water.
Each time, he looked over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the real horrors manifest in the room. But the Reflection Room remained eerily quiet, save for his racing heartbeat.
Suddenly, the images stopped, and the mirror went dark. Mark’s breath was shallow, his hands trembling. He tried the door again, but it was as if the room itself had sealed him in. He had never been a believer in the paranormal, but now, he wasn’t so sure.
The mirror flickered once more, and Mark braced himself for another gruesome vision. But this time, something was different. He saw himself again, lying on the hotel bed, peacefully asleep. For a moment, he felt a wave of relief—perhaps this was all just a nightmare. But then, the reflection shifted, showing the same hotel room but in decay. The walls were rotting, the floor cracked and broken, and his own body lay in a state of advanced decomposition.
Mark recoiled in horror as the realization began to dawn. This wasn’t his future—it was his past.
He had died here.
Countless times.
Trapped in a loop, the Reflection Room had shown him not what was to come, but what had already happened. The room was feeding on his fear, keeping him locked in an eternal cycle of death and terror. His every attempt to escape had been futile, and each time he returned, it began again—different, but the same.
Mark staggered backward, his mind unraveling as the truth settled over him. How long had he been here? Days? Months? Years? There was no way of knowing. The hotel had drawn him in, just as it had done with so many others, and now it was feeding off him, sating itself on his endless terror.
The mirror shimmered once more, and now he saw the hotel as it truly was—rotting, decrepit, a husk of its former self. The guests, too, were not what they appeared. They were phantoms, echoes of the lives the hotel had claimed over the years. The luxurious façade was nothing but a lie, a trap to lure in the unsuspecting.
Mark’s knees buckled as the final twist hit him.
The Reflection Room wasn’t showing him random deaths. It was showing him all the ways he had already died. The bullet to the head, the poisoning, the drowning, the fire—it had all happened, over and over. And each time, the hotel had brought him back, wiping his memory, starting the cycle anew.
He wasn’t investigating the Reflection Room.
He had always been its prisoner.
The final blow came as the mirror began to glow, pulling him in. He watched in helpless terror as his reflection twisted and contorted one last time, showing him a death he hadn’t yet seen. He was screaming, clawing at his own skin, bloodied and raw, as his body withered into nothingness. His voice echoed around the room, but no one would ever hear him.
And then, the room went dark.
Outside the door, the bellhop straightened his jacket, his hands no longer trembling. The journalist was gone. The Reflection Room had claimed another soul. With a deep breath, he turned to lead the next guest down the hallway, his steps silent on the plush carpet.
The hotel always needed more.
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