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The Forbidden Third Floor

The Forbidden Third Floor [Summary] Mira, a freelance journalist, defies her landlady's warning about the locked third floor of her boarding house. After hearing mysterious footsteps at night, she records a chilling message: "Don’t come up here, Mira." Driven by curiosity, she breaks into the forbidden space, discovering an eerie mirror that reflects a sinister version of herself. As her true reflection vanishes, she realizes the danger of her trespass. #mystery #supernatural #horror #journalist #boardinghouse [Script] Mira was never supposed to go to the third floor. When she moved into the century-old boarding house, the landlady, Mrs. Langford, had been clear: "The first two floors are yours. But the third? Locked, off-limits, and dangerous." Mira, a freelance journalist, wasn’t one to follow rules blindly. Especially not cryptic ones. So, of course, she was curious. The first few weeks were uneventful. The house creaked at night like old bones shifting. The power flickered during storms. But it was quiet. Then, at exactly 2:33 a.m. every night, she started hearing it. Footsteps above her room. Not the soft creak of old wood, but deliberate, heavy steps. Pacing. Stopping. Dragging. She asked Mrs. Langford, who smiled too tightly and said, "Old houses make sounds. Get used to it." Mira wasn’t satisfied. She stayed up one night, recorder in hand. At 2:33, the footsteps began. She pressed record. The steps grew louder, closer. And then—three knocks on her ceiling. She froze. The next morning, she played the recording back. Static. Then a voice she didn’t remember hearing during the night. “Don’t come up here, Mira.” She dropped the recorder. That night, she brought a flashlight and bolt cutters. She waited until 2:30, then crept up the stairs. The third floor was colder, darker. The door at the top was padlocked, but she broke it with one sharp snap. [Prompt] The Third Floor" Mira was never supposed to go to the third floor. When she moved into the century-old boarding house, the landlady, Mrs. Langford, had been clear: "The first two floors are yours. But the third? Locked, off-limits, and dangerous." Mira, a freelance journalist, wasn’t one to follow rules blindly. Especially not cryptic ones. So, of course, she was curious. The first few weeks were uneventful. The house creaked at night like old bones shifting. The power flickered during storms. But it was quiet. Then, at exactly 2:33 a.m. every night, she started hearing it. Footsteps above her room. Not the soft creak of old wood, but deliberate, heavy steps. Pacing. Stopping. Dragging. She asked Mrs. Langford, who smiled too tightly and said, “Old houses make sounds. Get used to it.” Mira wasn’t satisfied. She stayed up one night, recorder in hand. At 2:33, the footsteps began. She pressed record. The steps grew louder, closer. And then—three knocks on her ceiling. She froze. The next morning, she played the recording back. Static. Then a voice she didn’t remember hearing during the night. “Don’t come up here, Mira.” She dropped the recorder. That night, she brought a flashlight and bolt cutters. She waited until 2:30, then crept up the stairs. The third floor was colder, darker. The door at the top was padlocked, but she broke it with one sharp snap. Inside: Dust. Furniture draped in sheets. Silence. Then she saw the mirror. It was enormous, ornate. And in it, she saw not her own reflection—but herself, standing behind her, smiling. She spun around. No one. She looked back. The mirror now showed her… walking away. Into the room. Her real reflection never came back.