"Room 313"

“Room 313”

Most crime scenes make noise — not literally, but in the way they feel. Screams hanging in the air, panic soaked into the walls, the echo of a final heartbeat.

But Room 313...

Room 313 was quiet. Too quiet.

It started with a call at 3:12 a.m.

> “Black Pines Inn. Remote mountain hotel. Male victim, possible homicide. Locked-room situation.”

It took me over an hour to reach the place. Fog hugged the twisted roads, and the storm hadn’t let up since midnight. The Black Pines Inn looked like it had crawled out of a forgotten horror novel — four floors, peeling paint, broken neon sign blinking “B P IN _”, and a front desk manned by a walking panic attack named Harris.

He met me at the door, face pale, hands shaking.

> “Room 313, Detective,” he said, voice thin. “It’s... you’ll see.”

I climbed the narrow staircase, floors creaking like bones under my boots. The hallway was dim, the air stale. Harris fumbled with the master key and slowly opened the door.

Inside, Edward Vale lay on the bed.

Throat slit. Eyes open. A calm smile on his face.

There was no sign of a struggle. The sheets were barely disturbed. His phone was still in his hand, screen cracked but glowing. On the nightstand, a coffee cup, still faintly warm. Across from the bed, a large mirror, slightly fogged, though the room was cold.

That was the first thing that bothered me.

The fog on the mirror.

I moved closer, and there — barely visible — smudged with a fingertip:

> “I SEE YOU.”

Written backward, as if someone had written it from inside the mirror.

I looked around. The door was locked from the inside with the chain still engaged.

Window shut and bolted.

No hidden panels. No fire escape. No secret passage.

Just a corpse, a message, and a silence that clung to my bones.

Back at the front desk, I flipped through the guest log. Only seven rooms were occupied. Most guests were harmless — elderly couples, traveling salesmen, a mother and daughter on a hiking trip.

Then there was Lena Cross, registered under a fake name: Claire Winters.

Room 206.

I knocked. She opened quickly, already dressed.

Tall. Sharp eyes. Smelled like ink and rain. Writer’s aura.

> “Detective Harlow, I assume?” she said before I introduced myself.

Suspicious. I asked if she knew the victim.

> “No,” she said flatly. “I’ve been in my room all night. Writing. Why?”

I told her Edward Vale had been murdered.

Her left eye twitched, just slightly. But her voice stayed calm.

> “I don’t know him.”

That was a lie.

Vale had been a bestselling author — mystery novels mostly. I’d read one years ago.

But what caught my attention now was Lena’s name. I remembered it from a literary lawsuit. She’d claimed Vale stole her manuscript and published it under his name. Case was thrown out. No evidence. No witnesses. No justice.

She had motive.

I returned to Room 313, more determined. I examined every inch.

I noticed the coffee cup again — faint lipstick on the rim.

Edward Vale didn’t wear lipstick.

Someone had been in that room with him.

I checked his phone. Last call: unknown number.

Sent at 1:47 a.m.

Audio recording — four minutes. I played it.

> Vale’s voice: “No one knows you’re here, right?”

A woman: “You owe me a story, Edward.”

Vale: “I gave you enough. Take the check and disappear.”

Silence. Then her voice, colder:

“This ending’s mine.”

Then the sound of footsteps. A drawer opening. A whisper.

Then — nothing.

I rewound. Played it again. The woman’s voice matched Lena’s.

I rushed back to Room 206.

Empty.

No suitcase. No coat. Window open. Sheets untouched.

She was gone.

I checked with Harris — he swore she hadn’t left. The lobby door never opened.

The power had cut briefly at 2 a.m., he admitted.

No cameras. No witnesses.

I began searching the rest of the inn. Storage rooms, staff laundry, even the basement.

Then I found something.

Behind the old supply closet — a narrow service corridor.

Unlit. Covered in cobwebs.

Led directly to Room 313.

So that’s how she did it.

She had stayed here before. Maybe even worked here once. She knew the layout. She knew Vale would come. She knew how to get in unseen.

But why now?

Then I found a manuscript in Vale’s bag.

Title: “The Final Reflection”

By Edward Vale.

I flipped through it — the plot was identical to the crime scene. Locked room. Fogged mirror. Coffee cup. Mirror message.

The twist?

The killer was an author whose ideas were stolen — and who turned fiction into justice.

Lena hadn’t just written the ending.

She had lived it.

I was looking at her blueprint. Her confession.

In fiction.

I reported what I could. Filed it as a cold case.

No proof. No weapon. No fingerprints. Nothing admissible in court.

Just a perfect story.

One week later, I received a package at my office. No return address.

Inside: a leather-bound book.

Title: “Room 313”

Author: Lena Cross

First page:

> *To Detective Harlow,

Some murders are puzzles.

Others are poems.

You saw both.

That’s enough.*

I stared at the cover for a long time.

Then I turned off the lights,

and started reading.