"Room Number 313: The Man Who Never Slept Alone"

I never believed in the supernatural. I used to laugh off ghost stories and black magic tales as leftover folklore. That was until 2019, when I spent one night—just one—in Room 313 of a guesthouse in northern India. That night changed everything I thought I knew about fear, reality, and the human soul.

It was supposed to be a peaceful retreat. I had taken a short break from my writing job to disconnect from the digital world and reconnect with nature. Nestled between the Himalayas, the town of Nainital offered exactly what I needed—misty mornings, pine-scented air, and silence. The guesthouse I booked was old but charming, run by an elderly couple who seemed polite, if a little nervous.

They gave me Room 207, but when I arrived, the lock was jammed. The old man at the reception—whom everyone just called “Uncle”—offered me an upgrade. “You can take 313 for tonight. It’s bigger,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “We don’t usually offer it, but for one night… okay.”

I should’ve asked why.

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The First Sign

Room 313 was at the end of a long, creaking hallway, the kind that echoes your footsteps after you've stopped walking. The room was surprisingly clean. But the air felt wrong—thick, like you’re breathing through cloth. The curtains were closed tight. The moment I stepped in, I felt watched.

The bellboy, a boy no older than 16, placed my bag down and mumbled, “Don’t open the cupboard at night, sir.”

I frowned. “What?”

He paused, looked toward the dark wooden cupboard near the bed, and whispered, “Just don’t. Even if you hear it knock.”

I laughed awkwardly, but he didn’t. He walked out quickly and didn’t look back.

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The Knock

I tried to sleep early, but the silence in that room was deafening. Around midnight, I woke to a strange sound.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It came from the cupboard. Three slow, deliberate knocks.

I froze.

The boy’s warning echoed in my head.

I sat up, holding my breath. The knocks came again, louder this time—like someone was inside.

But there was no one else in the room.

I grabbed the torch from my bag, aimed it at the cupboard, and walked over, heart pounding.

The temperature around it was noticeably colder.

I pressed my ear to the door.

Nothing.

Then—so faint I almost didn’t catch it—I heard it:

A whisper.

“…let me out…”

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The Ritual Marks

I didn’t open it.

Instead, I stepped back and waited for morning. I didn’t sleep a minute.

At first light, I packed and went downstairs, determined to change my room.

The old man looked up and sighed, as if he knew.

“You heard it, didn’t you?” he asked quietly.

I nodded.

He didn’t offer explanations. Just handed me a new key.

But I needed to know. That afternoon, I returned to 313. I told him I’d left something inside.

I closed the door behind me and examined the room. The cupboard seemed ancient. I noticed something I hadn’t before—under the carpet, there were faint black symbols drawn in a circle around it.

I took photos. Later, a friend who dabbled in occult studies confirmed it: they were protection sigils—used to bind something in.

Who—or what—were they trying to contain?

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The Black Magician

That night, I met the gardener.

He was old, blind in one eye, but sharp. He had worked there for 40 years.

“You stayed in 313?” he asked, when I mentioned the room.

I nodded.

His voice dropped. “You know who used to live there? A man named Hariram—the black magician.”

I felt a chill run down my spine.

“He was a tantrik—a practitioner of dark rituals. He stayed in 313 for three years. Never left. People said they heard chanting. Saw shadows under his door. Animals died around the property. Then one night, he vanished.”

“Vanished?” I asked.

“Locked the door from inside. Never came out. When they opened it days later, he was gone. But the cupboard—it was nailed shut. The room’s never been the same.”

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The Return

I should’ve left the guesthouse that day.

But something pulled me back.

Call it curiosity. Call it stupidity.

That night, I returned to 313 one last time. Just to confront it.

I brought salt, a small mirror, and a camera. Tools of old protection, as advised by my friend.

The air was colder than before.

The knocks began at 12:17 AM.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I whispered, “Who are you?”

Silence.

Then, a scratchy voice: “…I am still here…”

The cupboard shook violently.

The salt I had poured around it sizzled. My mirror cracked on its own.

I backed away, terrified. Something wanted out.

Then, for the first time, the door creaked open slightly—by itself.

Inside was nothing.

But the room grew darker, as if it were breathing.

And on the inside of the cupboard door, scratched in deep claw marks, were the words:

“ONE DAY, SOMEONE WILL OPEN ME.”

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Aftermath

I never opened that door fully. I left the guesthouse at dawn and never looked back.

For months after, I had nightmares of Hariram—eyes black as coal, sitting cross-legged, whispering my name.

But something changed in me.

I stopped mocking the unknown. I started reading, studying—learning about what exists on the edge of what we call reality.

Was it real? Was it all a projection of fear?

All I know is, I wasn’t the same man when I walked out of Room 313.

And the scariest part?

Sometimes, when I travel alone and check into new places, I hear faint knocking in the walls.

Three times. Always three.

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Conclusion

We often search for inspiration in stories of success, love, and courage. But sometimes, inspiration comes from survival—from coming face-to-face with something that cannot be explained and walking away with your soul still intact.

I met a room possessed by a man who had dabbled too deep in the darkness.

And I walked away a believer.

Not in ghosts.

But in the thin line between what we see—and what we’re not meant to.