I Rented a Room That Didn’t Exist

I. The Motel in the Middle of Nowhere

It was close to midnight when my car’s engine gave up.

I was stranded on a mountain road in northern Pakistan, deep in Kaghan Valley. No signal. No lights. Only mist crawling along the road like it had a destination.

Then I saw it. A flickering neon sign ahead.

"Ridge Motel - Vacancy"

It looked like it had been pulled from another decade — wood siding, rusty signs, no other cars in sight. But I was tired, cold, and desperate.

I walked into the office. A woman stood behind the desk, motionless. She looked like she hadn't blinked in hours.

“You have a room?” I asked.

She nodded slowly and handed me a key without a word.

Room 103.

II. The Room That Felt… Off

Room 103 was down a narrow hallway, dimly lit by a single swinging bulb. The key turned stiffly in the lock, like it didn’t want to open.

Inside, the room was strangely perfect.

Clean. Crisp white sheets. Warm air.

Too clean.

No dust. No scent. Not even the usual mustiness old motels have. It felt like a showroom.

There was no window.

No mirror.

Just a bed, a nightstand, and a Bible on the floor — open, its pages ripped.

I locked the door and told myself it was just an old motel.

III. 3:03 AM — The Knock

I woke up to a soft knock.

Knock... knock... knock.

Not on the door.

On the wall.

Three gentle taps, directly behind the headboard. It was like someone was trying to get my attention — but not urgently. Patiently.

I sat up. "Hello?"

Silence.

Then a whisper.

“You came back…”

I froze. My mouth went dry. I pressed my ear to the wall.

Nothing.

But I didn't sleep the rest of the night.

IV. Check-Out Confusion

The next morning, I went back to the front desk to check out.

This time, a young man was there — early 20s, clearly just starting his shift.

“Room 103,” I said. “Checking out.”

He frowned and typed on an old computer.

“Sir… we don’t have a Room 103.”

“That’s impossible. I stayed in it last night.”

He turned the monitor to show me the list. Rooms 101 to 108. No 103.

“Maybe you meant 113?”

“No,” I said firmly, holding up my key.

But when I looked down — it was blank.

No number.

Just rust.

V. Panic

I ran down the hall.

Where Room 103 had been — there was now just... a blank wall.

No door. No handle. No number.

Just a painting — crooked, as if covering something.

I moved it.

Behind it: a seam in the wallpaper. Fresh. Poorly sealed.

I pressed it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

From the other side.

VI. The Discovery

Back home, I searched for “Ridge Motel” online.

Nothing.

No business listing. No address. Not even coordinates from my car’s dashcam. Like it never existed.

But when I posted about it on a horror forum, someone replied:

“You found Room 103. You weren’t supposed to.”

“They open it every 10 years. To see who’ll enter.”

“Don’t answer if it calls again.”

VII. The Return

That was two weeks ago.

Since then, every night at exactly 3:03 AM, I hear three knocks on my bedroom wall.

Even when I stay at a friend’s house. Even when I switch rooms.

I’ve tried ignoring it. It gets louder. I’ve tried recording it. The audio turns to static.

Two nights ago, I woke up to find a rusted motel key on my pillow.

Yesterday, the number 103 was written in steam on my bathroom mirror.

VIII. The Ending... Or the Beginning?

Tonight, I didn’t sleep.

At 3:03, I sat facing the wall. The knocking came again.

But this time, the wall had… changed. The seam was there. Just like in the motel. The paint cracked.

And then — it opened.

A dark, narrow hallway.

At the end, a door.

Room 103.

I don’t know what’s on the other side. But I’m writing this in case I don’t come back.

If you ever see a room in a place that doesn’t exist — don’t check in.

Because some rooms… check you in instead.