The Third Floor

When Emma inherited her grandmother's Victorian house nestled deep in rural Maine, it felt like a blessing. The house was charming in a gothic way: faded floral wallpaper peeling at the corners, hardwood floors that groaned with every step, and a fireplace that hissed like it was trying to speak. The forest loomed just beyond the backyard, dense and impenetrable. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Her grandmother had left only one peculiar instruction in her will: "Do not open the door to the third floor."

Emma thought it was just the superstition of an aging woman. The staircase to the third floor was locked with an ornate brass padlock. She ignored it—at first.

But on the third night, the house began to change.

She’d wake up to footsteps above her room, soft and deliberate. Furniture would shift slightly during the day when she wasn’t looking. Once, she found all the cabinet doors in the kitchen open wide, like a scream frozen mid-cry. She started hearing her name in the creak of the walls.

Curiosity bloomed. She found the key in the attic, hidden inside a music box that played a broken, waltzing lullaby. The padlock clicked open with a sound that echoed far too loud for an empty house.

The third floor was not what she expected. It was not dusty or abandoned. It was… pristine. The walls were lined with mirrors, each full-length and gold-framed, stretching endlessly down a narrow corridor. As she stepped inside, the temperature dropped.

Her breath fogged in front of her.

She turned to look at one of the mirrors—and froze. Her reflection blinked a half-second too late. It smiled when she didn’t. Emma stepped back. The reflection stayed still.

Then it tilted its head.

"You shouldn't have opened the door," it said.

Emma stumbled backward, but the hallway had changed. The mirrors were gone. In their place stood wooden doors—old, cracked, and each slightly ajar. From behind them came whispers. Her voice, repeating her name over and over.

She turned, heart pounding, and saw that the door to the staircase was open again. She ran. Down the stairs. Slammed the door shut and locked it. For days after, she tried to pretend it had never happened.

But the world inside the house was… wrong now.

Her reflection in the bathroom mirror blinked out of sync.

The kitchen light switch had moved.

Her favorite mug's handle was suddenly on the left.

And one night, she saw her reflection smiling again.

She wasn’t.

Emma shattered the mirror. But when she looked into the shards, each one reflected a different version of her—some with wide, too-bright eyes, some whispering, some grinning too wide.

Then the door to the third floor reopened on its own.

She tried to nail it shut. Burn it. Block it.

It always came back.

One night, she went up again. Calmly. As though it was the only choice left.

The neighbors say the house is empty now.

But if you walk past it late at night, you might see someone staring down from the third-floor window. She looks like Emma.

But she doesn’t blink.

And if you stare too long, she might start looking like you.