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In Victorian London, journalist Nathaniel Graves investigates a haunted mansion rumored to contain a cursed 'red room.' Upon entering, he encounters a malevolent reflection that leads him to question his reality and sanity. Ultimately, he disappears, leaving behind a notebook with a chilling revelation: 'I became the reflection.'

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Hibban Ahmed
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32 views2 pages

Document 25

In Victorian London, journalist Nathaniel Graves investigates a haunted mansion rumored to contain a cursed 'red room.' Upon entering, he encounters a malevolent reflection that leads him to question his reality and sanity. Ultimately, he disappears, leaving behind a notebook with a chilling revelation: 'I became the reflection.'

Uploaded by

Hibban Ahmed
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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🧛‍♂️ 5.

"The Red Room" – Gothic Horror, Victorian London, 1889

Fog crept through the cobblestone streets like a patient predator. In a corner of
Whitechapel, a crumbling mansion stood untouched by time or reason. Locals whispered
of a “red room” that no visitor ever left unchanged—or alive.

Nathaniel Graves, a young skeptic and journalist, arrived with a lantern and a notebook,
eager to uncover the truth. His article, "Superstition in the Shadows", aimed to debunk the
myth. He paid the groundskeeper a shilling and was led in.

"Third floor. End of the hall," the old man said, not meeting his eyes.

The room was as the rumors claimed—crimson walls, velvet drapes, a heavy mahogany
chair facing a mirror with no reflection. Nathaniel smiled. “Stage tricks,” he muttered.

He sat.

Tick.

The clock struck midnight.

The mirror shimmered.

Suddenly, the air thickened. The reflection returned—but it was not his. A pale figure with
hollow eyes stared back. Nathaniel stood. The figure didn’t. It smiled.

“I don’t believe in you,” he said aloud.

“You don’t need to,” the voice echoed inside his skull.

The walls bled. The drapes moved though the windows were closed. Whispers pressed
against his eardrums like hands on glass.

He ran.

But the hallway was gone.

Only mirrors.

Each one showed different versions of himself—older, hungrier, darker.


One whispered, “All truth is rooted in blood.”

Days later, the mansion stood silent. The groundskeeper found the red room empty—
except for a notebook, open to one sentence:

“I became the reflection.”

And the mirror smiled again.

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