Room 313 Is Never Booked
“Some Doors Stay Closed for a Reason.”

The Bellmoor Hotel was old, but not abandoned. It stood in the heart of a foggy New England town, with creaking wooden floors, ornate wallpaper faded with time, and a lobby clock that had stopped ticking sometime in the 1950s. The place had a charm—quiet, polite, always dimly lit.

Jamie Tran, a travel blogger chasing forgotten places, booked a room for two nights. She specialized in "haunted stays," and Bellmoor had appeared on a list of America’s most underrated spooky hotels. Oddly enough, it had very few online reviews—just one, from years ago, simply reading: Don’t ask about 313.
The elderly receptionist handed her the key to Room 311. As Jamie turned to head upstairs, her curiosity got the best of her.
“Excuse me,” she asked, “why isn’t Room 313 ever booked?”
The woman paused. “Maintenance issues,” she said quickly, avoiding eye contact. “It’s... not safe.”

That only made Jamie more intrigued.
The first night was uneventful. Jamie walked the halls, filming creaky floorboards and whispering corridors for her vlog. At around midnight, she passed Room 313. The brass numbers were dulled with age. The door, unlike the others, had a keyhole.

She leaned in. Silence.
But as she turned to leave, she heard it: a low, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across the floor behind the door.
The next morning, Jamie asked the cleaning staff about Room 313. A maid looked around nervously before whispering, “They say it’s cursed. A man went mad in there. Cut his own face off. No one who’s stayed there since has lasted the night.”
Jamie smiled to herself. It was too perfect. That night, she’d sneak in.
At 11:45 p.m., Jamie picked the old lock using tools she’d brought for just such an occasion. The door creaked open with reluctance.
Inside, Room 313 looked like the others—dusty, antique furniture, a large mirror, bed with torn floral sheets. But the air was thick. Heavier somehow.
She set up her camera on the desk and started recording. “Here I am, folks. Room 313. If I vanish, you’ll know where to look.”
The mirror flickered.
Jamie paused. Was it her flashlight?
No. The room behind her reflected... differently. The mirror showed a cleaner, brighter version of the room. And in that reflection, the bed wasn’t empty.
Someone was sitting there.
Jamie turned—nothing.
She looked back at the mirror.
The figure stood up.
She spun around again. Still nothing. But the air was colder now. Her breath fogged up.
She walked toward the mirror slowly. “It’s just a trick,” she whispered.
The figure in the mirror stepped forward too. She couldn’t make out its face—it was a swirling blur. Like skin pulled and smeared by invisible fingers.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Jamie ran to it—locked. She pulled at it frantically. Then, she heard the dragging sound again, inside the room this time.
From the corner, something moved. Not walked—crawled. A pale, faceless form dragged itself across the floor, its head twitching violently.
She screamed and banged on the door.
The lights flickered. Her camera fell and cracked. The mirror shattered from the inside.
And then, silence.
The next morning, the receptionist knocked on Room 311. No answer. They found the room empty. Jamie’s bag, camera case, and laptop were there—but she was gone.
Security footage showed her walking the hallway… stopping at 313.
The door never opened.
But for a moment, at 12:17 a.m., the reflection in the hallway mirror showed her… being pulled backward by something unseen.
Since then, a new sign hangs near Room 313:
“Do Not Disturb. Permanently.”
And the only review now on Bellmoor’s page says:
“I saw her reflection. She was screaming. But the mirror didn’t show me.”

Comments (2)
It's beautiful
It's really horror story I like stories like this