It was one of those ceiling-to-floor kind of mirrors, one that nobody remembers buying but it's always been there. For all anyone knew it came with the house when they first moved in - maybe left by the last owners, maybe just a wall feature.
Either way there was always something off about it and the way it reflected things slightly wrongly. It wasn't until someone fell into it and through it that we realised it wasn't a mirror at all - it was a door.
Behind it was a wooden landing and a stairway leading to a basement we didn't even know we had. It wasn't on the original floorplan and we should have reported it right then and there but the thought that the last owners might have left something behind was too tempting for us to ignore.
The wood was damp and smelled faintly of lemons as if someone had just cleaned it. With all the rags on the ground we couldn't even tell if the floor was wooden too. We didn't even notice the fabric rippling around us until someone got pulled under and a gaunt face retreated under the rags once more.
We ran out of there, the sound of rustling cloth following us all the way. It was only when we got upstairs that we realised we had nothing to block the broken door with and the rustling was coming closer...
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