"Do Not Stay in Room 313"

She didn’t come looking for horror — but the room was already waiting for her.

---

The strangest thing about nighttime sounds is that they rarely come from outside.

That’s what Sarah kept telling herself on her first night in Room 313. She’d rented the place impulsively—an old, isolated apartment building tucked into the edge of a forgotten mountain town. No neighbors, no noise, no city. Just silence. That’s what she wanted.

Silence.

The landlord, a man in his fifties with gray eyes and fingers stained from cigarettes, handed her the keys and said only one thing:

> “Make sure the windows stay shut after dark.”

She gave him a strange look.

He added, without emotion,

> “The wind here brings things with it.”

She laughed it off. People in small towns say weird things. That night, she unpacked a few essentials, placed a book by the bed, and tried to sleep. For once, she wasn’t running from anyone—just herself.

But sleep never came.

At 2:13 a.m., she woke up. Not because of noise—because of silence. The kind that presses down on you, like the world has stopped spinning.

Then she heard it.

A single footstep.

Then another.

Then… nothing.

The sound had come from just outside her door.

She stared at the ceiling. Her heart beat like a drum in her ears.

Another step.

Then two soft taps on the wood.

Not knocks. Fingertip taps. Careful. Intentional.

Like someone saying, “I’m here.”

She didn’t move until morning.

---

The next day, she went downstairs.

– “Is someone else living here?”

– “No,” the landlord replied flatly.

– “I heard footsteps last night.”

– “Then you’re starting to hear what the others heard.”

– “What others?”

He lit a cigarette.

– “You're the seventh to rent 313. The rest… left.”

– “Why?”

He met her eyes for the first time.

– “Because the room doesn’t sleep.”

---

That night, she sat on the edge of her bed and waited.

Not even pretending to sleep.

2:13 a.m.

Steps again.

One… two… three.

Then silence.

Then breathing—soft, raspy, just behind the door.

She picked up her phone. No signal.

Then something new: a whisper. But not from the hallway.

From inside the room.

> “Don’t open the door.”

Her blood ran cold.

She turned toward the sound—and saw the mirror in the corner. It had been covered with a black blanket since she arrived. But now the blanket had fallen off.

In the glass, she saw herself.

Only… not exactly.

This reflection sat curled on the floor, arms around her knees, whispering in Sarah’s own voice:

> “It’s not outside. It’s what you brought with you.”

---

In the morning, Sarah didn’t leave the room.

She didn’t eat.

She didn’t speak.

At 2:13 a.m. that night, the door creaked open on its own.

No wind.

No footsteps.

Just… open.

She walked to it slowly.

Inside the hallway: darkness.

And written on the door in what looked like faded chalk:

> “You are the seventh. There won’t be an eighth.”

---

The landlord found the room empty two days later.

No luggage. No phone.

Just a single note on the mirror, written in red ink:

> “Room 313 doesn’t haunt people.

It mirrors them.

What you hear at night…

is the version of yourself you buried.”

---

A month later, another tenant came.

A young man, wide-eyed and naive.

He lasted four nights.

When he came back down, he looked pale and disconnected.

He told the landlord:

– “There was a girl… in the mirror. She was crying in my voice.”

The landlord sighed and said,

> “Everyone thinks they’re running from something.

But Room 313 doesn’t chase you.

It just shows you what’s been following you all along.”

---

The End.