Goth Girl Discovers Her Roommate’s Chilling Secret Mirror

Welcome to Dorm Life, Baby

The first thing Georgie Perkins noticed about college wasn’t the ivy-wrapped buildings or the overly enthusiastic welcome banners—it was the damn smell of floor cleaner. Sharp. Sterile. Like the universe was warning her: Don’t get comfortable.

Georgie, draped in fishnets and black velvet, dragged her suitcase into Room 307 with all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession. Her mom had cried at the curb. Her dad had given her a stiff pat on the back. No big sendoff. Just: Good luck, sweetie. Don’t summon demons.

The room was split in two. One side was all chaos—books stacked like tiny towers, a pile of laundry shaped suspiciously like a person, a corkboard with band flyers and vaguely threatening poetry. That wasn’t her side. Yet.

The other side—the side she'd claimed—was sterile. A single suitcase. A black bedsheet. A candle shaped like a skull. She was still building her empire.

But her roommate, whoever she was, had already taken root.

The Bedroom with the Door Always Closed

The girl’s name was Iris, according to the housing sheet. No last name. Just “Iris.” Like she was in a cult or some underground art collective. Georgie hadn’t met her yet—three days had passed, and the door on the left side of the room stayed shut, cold and quiet like a tomb. At first, Georgie thought maybe she’d dropped out early or transferred. But she could hear things.

Music. The soft tap of fingers on a keyboard. Once, she swore she heard whispering. Talking to someone—maybe over Discord. Maybe to herself. Hard to say.

Georgie told herself she didn’t care. She had orientation events to skip and coffee shops to haunt.

Still… the door kept drawing her eye. It wasn’t locked. She checked once—just a test. Just to be sure.

It wasn’t locked.

She Wears Her Secrets Like Lipstick

On Friday night, after everyone had gone out drinking or LARPing or whatever freshmen do to prove they're alive, Georgie found herself alone. Alone in a dorm room that smelled like lavender incense and old paperbacks.

She stared at the closed door.

She wasn’t a creep, okay? Just curious. Like, healthy curiosity. The kind that built the internet.

She tiptoed. Slowly. No creaks. The door creaked anyway.

Inside, it was... warm. Dim. The bed was unmade but neat in its own chaotic way. Posters lined the wall—bands Georgie knew, like Bauhaus and Type O Negative, but also weird zines and symbols she didn’t recognize.

But what really got her attention was the mirror.

It was old. Not antique-store cute—actual old. With an arched frame and dark vines painted into the wood. And taped to it, dozens of Polaroids. Girls. Boys. People in between. All with that same dreamy look, like they'd just woken up from a beautiful nightmare.

Georgie felt a twinge in her chest. Not fear.

Jealousy.

Because in the center of it all, standing tall in fishnet gloves and dark lipstick, was Iris herself. Her eyes were sharp and sleepy at the same time. Her smile lazy. Dangerous.

She looked like a secret Georgie had always wanted to tell.

"Enjoying the tour?" a voice murmured behind her.

We’re All Freaks Here, Baby

Georgie jumped like she'd been electrocuted.

Iris leaned against the doorframe, barefoot, wearing an oversized Cure T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Her eyes sparkled in the low light, half amused, half... something else.

"I—I wasn’t snooping," Georgie lied. Badly.

Iris just shrugged. “Of course you were. It’s cool. Most people just try to friend me online first.”

Georgie didn’t know what to say, so she said something dumb. “Your mirror’s sick.”

“I know.” Iris padded into the room and stood beside her, looking into the glass like she could see another world behind it. “I like to remember people the way they looked when they thought they were alone.”

“That’s... kinda creepy.”

“Kinda hot, too.”

Georgie flushed. She hoped the dim light hid it.

“People open up around me,” Iris said, turning toward her. “Like their secrets are just waiting to spill. I don’t really try. It just happens.”

Georgie swallowed. “So what do you see when you look at me?”

Iris smiled, slow and teasing. “A girl who’s pretending not to be lonely.”

Ouch.

Dead-on, though.

There was a pause. Heavy. Electric.

“Wanna hang out?” Iris asked. “I was gonna light some candles and listen to records.”

Georgie nodded, heart pounding. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

That night, they stayed up until 3 a.m. sharing music, stories, and dumb little fears. Georgie learned Iris had a soft spot for stray cats and old horror films. Iris learned Georgie cried during anime sometimes. They didn’t talk about the mirror again. They didn’t need to.

But Georgie swore one of the Polaroids had changed.

In the corner, barely lit, there was a new face.

Hers.