The autumn chill crept into the old stone building of St. Benedict's Medical University, as a young man named Ethan began his first year. The building, a relic of the past with its creaking floors and gothic architecture, stood as both a monument to knowledge and a keeper of secrets.
Ethan, like all first-year students, was eager to prove himself. The tradition of watching over the surgeon practice room—a dimly lit chamber filled with rows of surgical instruments and skeletal models. Students whispered about strange things that happened in the room, tales of shadows flitting across the walls, disembodied laughter echoing through the halls, and voices that seemed to drift from nowhere, as if the room itself had a pulse.
Ethan's turn came on a particularly blustery October night. As he stepped into the practice room, the door creaked ominously behind him, sealing him into the center of the university's legends. He set about his tasks immediately, inspecting the instruments, ensuring that everything was in its rightful place.
The hours passed by slowly, the silence occasionally broken by the distant clatter of the rain against the windows. Midnight passed without incident, and Ethan allowed himself to relax, dismissing the stories as mere exaggerations. "Rumors are just rumors", he whispered to himself then slowly looked around, nothings strange.
As the clock struck 3 a.m., Ethan felt a sudden urge to explore the room more thoroughly. He walked between the rows of tables, his eyes searching the shelves lined with anatomical charts and preserved specimens. It was then that he noticed it—a large, old mirror standing against the far corner. Its frame was decorated with antique designs, the glass so polished that it reflected the dim light to brighten the whole corner.
Being attracted to it, Ethan approached, his reflection wavering slightly as if the mirror itself were breathing. He found himself captivated by his own image, it made him want to dance, a slow, graceful movement that seemed to come from deep within him.
As he danced, the room seemed to shift and change; the whispers of laughter grew louder, enveloping him in a symphony of ghostly echoes. The mirror's surface rippled, and for a moment, Ethan could swear he saw another figure dancing alongside him—a shadowy partner whose features were indistinct, yet very familiar, right behind him. It was trying to sync its movement with him, but always a second behind him. He stopped immediately to check, nothing happened. There was no shadow or anyone behind him, no laughter or voice around him. Maybe he was too tired, he felt dizzy or it was just his imagination. He stepped back slowly, then ran back to the table to finish the shift.
When dawn broke, Ethan emerged from the practice room, weary but exhilarated. He could hardly wait to share his experience with his classmates. Over breakfast, he recounted the strange beauty of the mirror and the mysterious dance that had ensnared him.
His friends listened carefully, their expressions shifting from curiosity to disbelief. When Ethan finished, a heavy silence hung over the table before one of his classmates, Sarah, spoke up.
"Ethan, there's no mirror in the practice room," she said, her voice a mix of concern and skepticism.
Ethan laughed, thinking it was a joke, they were trying to scare the new guy like him, but as he looked around at their serious faces, doubt began to creep in. "No, I'm serious," he insisted. "I saw it. I danced in front of it!"
Another classmate, Mark, shook his head. "We all take turns in that room, Ethan. There's never been a mirror there. Maybe you were just tired or the shadows played tricks on you."
Confused and determined to prove himself right, Ethan took all his friends back to the practice room. They searched every corner, every shadowed corner, but there was no mirror, or any sign that one had ever been there.
Ethan stood in the center of the room, his mind racing. Had it all been a dream? A hallucination brought on by sleepless night? Yet, the memory of the dance, of the mirror's cool, reflective surface, felt so real.
In the days that followed, Ethan couldn't shake the feeling that something was missed. He began to research the history of the practice room, digging through old university records and archives. What he discovered chilled him to the bone.
Decades ago, a gifted medical student named Lawrence had gone mad in that very room, claiming he could see visions in a grand mirror that no one else could see. He spoke of a dance with shadows, a ritual that ensnared his soul. Lawrence had disappeared one night, leaving behind only whispers of madness and mystery.
Ethan felt a cold shiver as he realized the implications. The mirror was not of this world; it existed somewhere between reality and nightmare, a portal to a realm where shadows danced and laughter lingered. It chose its moments, its victims, and perhaps it had chosen him.
Though Ethan continued his studies, he could never forget the mirror. Sometimes, late at night, he would find himself go back to the practice room, hoping to catch a sign of that mirror, to hear the laughter once more. But the mirror remained unknown, a specter that haunted his mind. He became obsessed with it, addicted to it.
In the next years, those who watched over the practice room still whispered of shadows and laughter, of voices that seemed to belong to Ethan. He never admitted that he was there every night, ran around to find the non-existed mirror, but everyone knew about it, they chose to stay away from him. And somewhere, within the depths of the university, the mirror and Ethan waited patiently for its next dance partner, hidden in the shadows of St. Benedict's turbulent history.