Room 616

I never believed in curses.

Not until I investigated the murder at the Halberd Inn.

Room 616 had been closed for almost 30 years. No one went in. No staff cleaned it. The hotel claimed the room didn’t exist. But I knew it did—because someone just died inside it.

And he died with his eyes wide open, staring at something only he could see.

---

The Crime Scene

It was 3:42 a.m. when the call came in. A staff member at the Halberd Inn—a tired-looking maid with trembling hands—swore she’d heard screaming behind a door that shouldn’t have existed.

Room 616 was supposed to be sealed off. Not just closed—erased. The hotel’s blueprints jumped from 615 to 617. Yet, there it was: a tarnished brass plaque, mounted crookedly on a faded door between two more modern ones.

The door was locked from the inside.

We forced it open and stepped into a room that looked untouched since the mid-1990s. Floral wallpaper peeled in the corners. An old rotary phone sat on the desk, silent and dust-covered. A stained mattress sagged on rusted springs.

And on the far wall, slumped beneath a cracked mirror, was Eric Linwood.

He was a well-known crime reporter. Obsessed with historical murder cases and urban legends. People used to call him “the Grave Digger” for the way he dug up long-forgotten crimes. I’d read his work. Never thought I’d be processing his death.

There was no sign of struggle, no wounds, no blood. Just him, mouth open in a scream that never left his throat, one hand outstretched to the mirror like he was trying to crawl inside it.

In his other hand, we found an old-school tape recorder—still running.

---

The Tape

We played it back at the precinct later that morning.

> “March 14th, 2:02 a.m. This is Eric Linwood. I’ve made it inside. Room 616. They said it was sealed. That it didn’t exist. But the door was open. Just a little.”

> “The mirror’s wrong. It’s not a reflection. There’s... a delay. It moved before I did. I swear it blinked. It has eyes. Human. Not mine. Not—”

> (loud static)

> “They lied. The room wasn’t closed to keep people out. It was to keep something in.”

> (low breathing)

> “I think it knows I’m watching.”

Then silence.

Except for a faint scraping sound, like fingernails on glass.

---

The Hotel's Secret

The Halberd Inn’s manager tried to claim ignorance, but we found an old incident report tucked deep in the archives of the police department’s microfilm.

In 1995, a man named Richard Tellman, the hotel’s night manager, gouged out his own eyes in the hallway outside Room 616. He was found muttering, “It’s in the mirror. It sees. It waits.”

Before him, in 1989, a couple checked into 616 on their honeymoon. The bride was discovered strangled. The groom had no memory of what happened.

In 1982, a priest staying in the room was found hanged by his own rosary beads. A suicide note was written backward—legible only when reflected in a mirror.

Three violent incidents. One room.

After Tellman’s breakdown, the hotel sealed it off, claiming a fire had damaged the space. But that was a lie. There was no fire report, no damage. Just silence.

---

Eric’s Obsession

Eric had spent the last year chasing ghost stories that intersected with crime scenes. He believed that some murders weren’t random or driven by motive—but by place. Cursed buildings. Haunted roads. Rooms like 616.

In his bag, we found a notebook full of connections: names of people who died mysteriously in hotels across the state, maps with pins, transcripts of late-night interviews with frightened former employees.

All of it led back to one phrase:

> “The mirror sees before you do.”

Eric wasn’t investigating a killer. He was investigating something older.

---

The Mirror

I went back to the room alone the next day.

The hotel had already put up a “maintenance in progress” sign to avoid questions. They wanted this buried fast.

The room was cold. Colder than it should’ve been.

The mirror on the wall had a deep, hairline crack, like a jagged vein down the center. I looked at myself—and for a split second, I swore my reflection smiled before I did.

I turned away fast. My heart was pounding.

It was probably just nerves. Sleep deprivation.

But then I noticed something scratched into the wooden panel beneath the mirror. So faint it took a flashlight to read.

> “IT GETS OUT IF YOU WATCH TOO LONG.”

---

The Pattern

I began digging deeper, like Eric did. I pulled up old floor plans, renovation permits, insurance claims. They all pointed to the same truth: Room 616 had been built by mistake. The building’s original blueprints from 1911 didn’t include a sixth floor. It was added later, but the math didn’t add up.

There was no space for a 616. But somehow, it was there.

And each time someone entered that room, something went wrong. Not just inside—but later. Hallucinations. Accidents. Deaths.

The hotel couldn’t legally close the floor without losing insurance coverage. So they lied. Covered it up. Let the room exist in limbo.

Until Eric went in.

---

The Final Decision

I handed over my findings to Internal Affairs. They told me to drop it. “Unstable witness,” they said. “Superstition.”

But that night, I found a scratched message on my bathroom mirror.

> “YOU LOOKED TOO LONG.”

I didn’t scream. I just stared.

And for the first time in my life, I believed.

---

Aftermath

The Halberd Inn quietly shut its doors three weeks later. “Ongoing structural issues” was the public excuse. But locals know better. They’ve known for years.

Eric’s story was never published. His recorder disappeared from evidence. So did the mirror.

But the room is still there.

Sealed again. Forgotten. Waiting.

---

Some doors should stay closed.

Especially the ones that look back.