Room 217

Cameron Blake arrived at the Rosegate Inn just after dusk. The building loomed, its Victorian features worn by time. He wasn’t here for the charm—only to disappear.

He signed the guestbook with a false name: "Daniel Cross."

The innkeeper, a hunched woman with faded eyes, handed him an old brass key.

"Room 217," she rasped. "Don’t go out after midnight."

He gave a tight nod, too tired to ask questions.

Room 217 was on the top floor, far from the other rooms. The hallway smelled of dust and rain. When he opened the door, a wave of musty air greeted him. Everything inside was still—a bed draped in a floral quilt, a wardrobe with a broken mirror, and a single window facing the woods.

Cameron locked the door behind him and dropped his bag.

Peace. Solitude.

He took a shower, brushed his teeth, and collapsed into bed.

But sleep didn’t come.

The clock read 12:03 a.m. when he heard it:

A knock.

Three slow taps on his door.

He froze.

No footsteps outside. No voices. Just... waiting.

He approached the door and placed an eye to the peephole.

No one there.

He opened it slightly. Nothing but the empty hallway.

He locked it again.

1:17 a.m. The knock returned.

Three slow taps. This time, more forceful.

Cameron didn’t move.

His heart pounded.

He whispered, "Who is it?"

No answer.

Then, a whisper from the other side:

"Let me in."

He backed away from the door, grabbing the fireplace poker.

Then silence.

He didn’t sleep.

At dawn, he stormed down to the front desk.

The innkeeper sat there, sipping something dark from a teacup.

"Someone knocked on my door last night. Twice. Whispered at me."

She didn’t look surprised.

"Room 217 does that."

"Excuse me?"

"Some rooms hold onto their history. That one... doesn't forget."

He stared at her, waiting for a smirk or some sign she was joking.

She offered none.

"You gave me that room on purpose," he said.

She nodded. "You said you wanted to disappear."

That evening, Cameron researched the inn’s history.

Rosegate Inn had once been a sanatorium in the 1920s. Room 217? A nurse had been found dead there. Slashed wrists. The patient she was caring for vanished the same night.

Some said he was hiding in the walls. Others said he never left.

Cameron tried to book another room.

"Fully occupied," the innkeeper said. "And no refunds."

He considered leaving.

But he had nowhere to go.

So he returned to Room 217.

And waited.

That night, it came earlier.

11:47 p.m.

Three knocks.

He sat on the bed, clutching the poker.

Whispers came through the door, louder this time.

"Let me in... I’m cold. I remember you."

He shouted, "Go away!"

The whispers stopped.

Then—a soft scratching sound on the wall behind the bed.

He pushed the bed aside.

A small hatch, barely visible, was carved into the wall.

He pried it open.

A crawl space.

Narrow. Dark. Leading deeper into the building.

Against his better judgment, he crawled in with his phone light.

The walls were lined with names.

Dozens. Hundreds. Scratched into the wood.

At the end of the tunnel, a small room.

A child's bed. Old toys. A journal.

He opened it.

"He watches me. Every night. From the hole in the wall. Says I look like her. I’m not her. I swear I’m not."

The last page: "He came through the wall. Took her face."

Cameron backed out, heart racing.

In his room, he found a new item on the bed.

A mirror.

But the reflection wasn't his.

It was a nurse. Pale, bleeding, eyes wide in terror.

She whispered, "He’s behind you."

Cameron turned.

Nothing.

The mirror was gone.

No sleep. Not anymore.

He barricaded the door.

At midnight, the knocks became pounding.

The whispers, screams.

The hatch burst open.

A figure crawled out—gaunt, long limbs, eyes too wide.

"You let me in."

Cameron screamed, swung the poker—but it passed through the thing.

It smiled.

"You shouldn't have looked."

Darkness swallowed the room.

When Cameron woke, it was morning.

The hatch was gone.

No signs of entry.

He left Room 217. Paid in cash. Didn’t speak to the innkeeper.

Weeks later, a new guest arrived.

Signed the book with a false name.

The innkeeper handed her a key.

"Room 217. Don’t go out after midnight."

Final Line:

Some doors remember who opened them.