SALON HORROR STORY

The moment I stepped into the salon, I knew something was off. It wasn’t the kind of off that makes you uneasy right away, but the kind that nags at the back of your mind, just out of reach, until it consumes you.

It was a quiet afternoon when I decided to visit this salon for a quick trim. I had walked past it dozens of times, and it always seemed perfectly normal—gleaming windows, vibrant posters of happy clients, and the sound of clippers buzzing from within. The name of the place was simple enough: Glamour Touch, with a logo that depicted a stylish, elegant woman brushing her long, flowing hair.

Today, something about it felt different. The usual bustle inside had faded. The doorbell chimed as I entered, but there was no greeting. No cheerful stylist rushing up to ask what I wanted.

“Hello?” I called, stepping inside.

A soft rustle came from the back of the salon. I peered through the open doorway that led to the wash station. There was a woman hunched over the sink, her long black hair falling in wet strands over her face. She didn’t look up as I approached, but the silence in the air was suffocating.

“Hello?” I repeated, my voice slightly shakier now. “I was hoping to get a trim?”

The woman slowly raised her head. Her face was pale, almost ghostly, with dark circles beneath her eyes. She smiled—too wide. It wasn’t a welcoming smile, but a tight, unnatural grin that sent a chill crawling down my spine.

“We’re open,” she said in a voice that was too soft, too distant. “Please, take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

I hesitated. Something about her demeanor felt wrong, but I didn’t want to seem rude. After all, this was just a salon. Nothing more. I nodded awkwardly and took a seat in the nearest chair, eyes darting around. The salon, despite its stylish exterior, felt strangely… cold. The walls were painted a dull gray, the floor was too polished, and the lights above flickered slightly, casting unsettling shadows.

Minutes passed. The woman didn’t approach me, but instead moved toward the back of the salon, vanishing into what seemed like a storage room. I glanced at the clock—five minutes, then ten.

I felt like I should leave. But something was pulling me in, some strange curiosity, perhaps. I waited a little longer, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. My fingers drummed nervously on the armrest.

That’s when I heard it. A soft whisper from the back room, muffled but unmistakable.

“Don’t… leave…”

I froze. My heart began to race, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the back room. Was someone else in there? A client? Another stylist? But the whisper didn’t come again. I was left sitting in eerie silence, my pulse quickening.

A sudden shift in the air broke the quiet. The woman appeared again, standing in front of me with a scissors in hand, her movements too smooth, almost predatory. Her wide smile never wavered as she motioned for me to stand.

“Let’s begin,” she murmured. “I promise, you’ll look amazing.”

Something about her words was unsettling—too calm, too rehearsed. But my nerves, still caught in that web of uncertainty, convinced me to rise from the chair. As I stood, I noticed the other chairs were empty, their mirrors reflecting nothing but the cold, sterile light.

She motioned me to the wash station, her hands gentle but firm. The sink was cold as I leaned back, my hair falling into the basin. The woman’s touch was oddly soothing, though the coolness of her fingers made me shiver.

She poured warm water over my hair, massaging it gently. But as her fingers brushed my scalp, I could feel something else. It was like a pressure, a subtle weight building up around me, in the air, in the room. The scent of her perfume—it wasn’t a floral or fresh scent but something old, musty, like a room left untouched for years. It filled my senses, suffocating me.

I wanted to get up, to leave, but my body felt heavy, as though I couldn’t move. I tried to speak, to say something, but my voice wouldn’t come. Panic bubbled up inside me, but still, I stayed. Her fingers worked expertly, weaving and pulling my hair with a precision that felt wrong, too practiced.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of water trickling into the sink. “Your hair is perfect. Just like hers.”

I didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she ran her fingers through my hair again, her smile tightening. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

The feeling of dread intensified, and a sharp chill ran down my spine. That was when I heard it—a faint, muffled scream. It echoed through the salon, distant yet so close. My heart skipped a beat.

“What was that?” I asked, my voice shaking.

The woman didn’t respond. She continued to work, her smile never faltering, her fingers moving faster now. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. The room began to spin, the walls closing in. I felt like I was sinking, my limbs growing heavier, like the very air around me was holding me down.

Another scream.

This time, I saw it—a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. I turned, but all I saw was a dark shape, something crawling on the floor, dragging itself toward me. I wanted to shout, to run, but the woman’s grip tightened around my wrist, forcing me to stay.

Her voice was a low murmur, barely a whisper. “You’ll be perfect, just like the others.”

My mind raced, but nothing made sense. The air was thick now, and I realized—horror slowly creeping in—that I wasn’t alone. There were others. Clients. The mirrors reflected not just me, but other figures—pale, lifeless people, their faces blank and glassy, trapped within the reflections of the salon.

Suddenly, the woman jerked back, a dark shadow crossing her face. She was no longer smiling. Her eyes widened, and for the first time, I saw the fear in them.

The mirrors cracked.

One by one, the figures in the glass started to move, jerking to life. They reached for me with twisted, outstretched arms, their mouths opening wide in silent screams.

The woman let out a strangled cry and backed away, but the figures in the mirrors were coming for me now, their hands reaching through the glass, pulling at my hair, dragging me toward the broken mirror.

“No!” I screamed, my body fighting against the pull, but it was too late.

A sharp pain seared through my scalp as I was yanked toward the mirror, my body folding in on itself. The world around me twisted, and for a brief moment, everything went black.

When I woke, I was lying on the cold floor, staring up at the cracked mirror. I could still hear the woman’s frantic voice, but it was distant now. She was gone. The salon was empty—silent.

And then I saw it. A figure in the reflection. It wasn’t mine.

It was hers. And she was smiling. Smiling wide.

I didn’t know if I’d escaped or if I was still trapped, but one thing was clear.

The salon would never let me leave.