Chris sat in the control room of his haunted house, his eyes locked on the surveillance footage. The night had been chaotic, but one moment in particular haunted him—the second Jason Hill had passed out in front of the antique mirror in the West Wing. The events didn't sit right with him, and the eerie silence in the footage only made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
A chill swept through the room as Chris rewound the video again. Jason had entered the room at 9:24:11, his panic evident as he stumbled through the house. But by 9:24:14, something strange happened—Jason, who moments before had been trembling with fear, froze in front of the mirror, his eyes locked onto his own reflection. For three long seconds, the young man stood as though entranced.
"What happened to him?" Chris muttered to himself, watching Jason's hand slowly rise—his left hand. But that didn't make sense. Chris recalled handing Jason a bottle of water earlier in the evening; the man had instinctively reached for it with his right hand. Jason wasn't left-handed.
As the time ticked on in the footage, a shiver ran down Chris's spine. By 9:24:20, Jason had already moved unnervingly close to the mirror, as though something unseen were pulling him in. At that precise moment, Wendy Xu, one of the haunted house actors dressed in a traditional red bridal gown, ran into the room. The footage showed a brief flash in the mirror, something dark and shadowy, before Jason collapsed to the floor.
Chris leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing over the black smartphone in his pocket. The same phone that had triggered a cascade of bizarre and dangerous events inside his haunted house. Ever since he had taken on the nightmare-level challenges the phone presented, Chris had noticed subtle changes—mirrors that seemed to hide more than just reflections, and shadows that moved when they shouldn't.
The mirror was the key.
"I can't leave that thing uncovered," he muttered to himself. He glanced at the monitor once more, considering the implications. The entity in the mirror had tried to pull Jason in, and it wouldn't stop until it succeeded. "I have to deal with this... but first, I need to cover the mirrors."
Chris grabbed several pieces of thick black fabric from the prop room and made his way into the haunted house. The dark corridors were eerily silent, the only light coming from the flickering, paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. When he reached the West Wing, Wendy was already there, cleaning up the scattered props and fake money strewn across the floor.
"Boss, you didn't have to come. I was just about to finish up," Wendy called from across the room, her voice light despite the chilling atmosphere.
"I need to talk to you about something. Don't go near any mirrors for now, and I'm temporarily removing all the mirror-related props. Something's wrong with them," Chris explained, carefully draping the black cloth over the large antique mirror that had drawn Jason in earlier.
Wendy's brows furrowed in confusion, but she knew better than to question Chris when he had that serious look in his eyes. "Sure thing, boss. I'll steer clear."
Once the mirrors were covered, Chris returned to his control room. He pulled out the black phone, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. The mirror monster, whatever it was, had been triggered by this phone, just like the other supernatural occurrences inside his haunted house.
As the phone's screen lit up, a notification popped up, revealing a new trial mission: Midnight Escape. The description was chilling.
"A deranged patient has escaped from a nearby psychiatric ward. Armed with scissors and a hammer, he roams the halls of a dilapidated apartment complex. Survive the night and uncover the truth."
The location was a run-down apartment in the outskirts of town. The mission required Chris to be there by midnight, find the escaped patient, and survive until dawn. The timer on the phone indicated less than three hours until the trial would begin.
"Survive until dawn… of course," Chris muttered. It felt like a game, one where he had no choice but to play. The black phone was never kind when it came to these challenges—each trial was worse than the last, and each time, the stakes seemed to get higher.
He accepted the mission with a quick swipe, feeling a sense of inevitability wash over him. There was no turning back now.
Later that night, Chris found himself standing in front of the crumbling entrance of Westside Apartments. The building loomed over him like a hulking beast, its windows dark and shattered. This was no ordinary trial, and he knew it. If the previous ones had taught him anything, it was that survival wasn't guaranteed.
He stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, and a strange stillness filled the space, as though time had forgotten this place. The only sound was the faint drip of water from somewhere deep within the building.
As he moved deeper into the apartment complex, the feeling of being watched grew stronger. He gripped the flashlight tightly, sweeping the beam across the dilapidated walls. His heart raced with each step.
Then, suddenly, a sharp noise pierced the silence—the unmistakable sound of metal scraping against concrete. Chris stopped in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat.
From the shadows emerged a man, disheveled and wild-eyed, holding a pair of rusted scissors in one hand and a hammer in the other. His gaze locked onto Chris, and a chilling grin spread across his face.
"So… you're the next one?" the man said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Chris's mind raced. He needed to stay calm, to think his way out of this. He slowly backed away, keeping his flashlight trained on the deranged man. The phone had warned him—this was no ordinary person. He was the predator, and Chris was his prey.
The man lunged, scissors gleaming in the dim light. Chris barely dodged the attack, his heart pounding as he sprinted down the hallway. He could hear the man's footsteps behind him, relentless and growing closer.
Turning a corner, Chris spotted a small utility closet. He threw himself inside, slamming the door shut and holding his breath. The sound of footsteps stopped just outside the door, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Chris thought the man had found him.
But then, silence.
Chris waited for what felt like an eternity before cautiously opening the door. The hallway was empty, but he knew the man was still out there, lurking in the shadows. The trial wasn't over yet.
The hours dragged on as Chris evaded the man, hiding in the dark corners of the apartment complex. Each encounter left him more shaken, the man's cold, calculating gaze haunting his every step.
As dawn approached, Chris's body ached from exhaustion, but he knew he couldn't stop. He had to survive.
Just as the first rays of sunlight began to break through the cracks in the building, the man appeared once more, his wild grin wider than before. But something had changed. His movements were slower, more lethargic. The darkness that had fueled him all night seemed to be fading with the light.
Chris stood his ground, his heart hammering in his chest. The man took one last step toward him, then collapsed to the floor, the life draining from his body as the sun finally rose.
Chris exhaled, relief washing over him. The trial was over. For now.
Back at the haunted house, Chris sat alone in his control room, the weight of the night's events heavy on his shoulders. The black phone buzzed with a new notification—another reward for completing the trial.
He glanced at the screen, but his mind was elsewhere. The mirror, the patient, the haunted house—it was all connected somehow. And whatever was coming next, Chris knew he had to be ready.
There was no escaping the game.