The Fifth Bed

There were four of us in Room 114, the last room at the end of the dim corridor in our college hostel. A long, tiled hallway led to a wooden door that always stuck in its frame, no matter how many times it was oiled. The windows faced the back garden, though calling it that was generous—more like a thicket of dense, unkempt shrubs and black-needled trees. Beyond them, nothing but shadows.

We each had a quarter of the room, separated by head-height partitions, just high enough to give us the illusion of privacy. The furniture was basic: steel-frame cots, a single bulb dangling overhead, and plastic study tables pushed into the room’s shared center.

That night started like any other. Exams were over. Tanveer and I were knocked out early, but Harsh and Jai were up talking past midnight on Jai’s bed, whispering jokes and scrolling through reels. The fourth bed—next to the window—was empty. Its usual occupant, Imran, had gone home for the weekend.

It must have been after 2 a.m. when I—apparently—got out of bed.

I say "apparently" because I don’t remember any of it.

What I do remember is standing near the door in the dark and drinking water. I remember Jai offering it to me and then my body sliding back under the covers, the rustle of the sheet, and silence.

The next morning, Jai wouldn’t stop staring at me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“You don’t remember last night?”

“Only that I got up to drink water. What’s the big deal?”

Harsh sat down across from me, a serious look replacing his usual sleepy face. “You didn’t just drink water. You walked up to us in the dark. You said something… weird.”

I frowned. “Like what?”

Jai leaned in. “You asked us, ‘Do you know how many people are in this room?’”

Chills skittered down my spine.

“I thought it was a joke,” he said, “so I answered, ‘Four.’ Then you whispered, ‘No… there are five.’”

A lump formed in my throat.

“You pointed to Imran’s bed,” Harsh said. “The empty one.”

“That's not the worst part,” Jai added. “Your eyes were closed the whole time. Like you were sleepwalking. But when I turned on the light, your eyes were wide open.”

I stared at them in disbelief. “You're messing with me.”

“I swear on my life,” Harsh said.

Jai nodded slowly. “And you didn't trip over anything. You walked straight across the room—didn’t even brush a chair. It was pitch black. Even we could barely see.”

I laughed, nervously. “Maybe I was just dreaming. Or... I don't know. Overtired.”

Neither of them laughed back.

That evening, I avoided the room. I studied in the library until late and only returned when the corridors were quiet. Everyone was asleep.

The room felt colder.

I crept in and climbed into bed without turning on the light. But I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the building made my skin crawl. Every gust of wind outside made me think of that empty bed.

I stared up at the ceiling for hours.

Somewhere around 3 a.m., the feeling started.

You know that sense when someone’s watching you?

I rolled over, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Across the room, Imran’s bed was still empty. I could see the shape of it—clean sheets, an undisturbed pillow—backlit faintly by the sliver of moonlight bleeding through the slatted window.

But there was something else. A darker shape. Like someone sitting upright at the edge of the bed.

My breath caught.

It wasn’t moving. It was just… there.

I blinked. Sat up. Rubbed my eyes.

Gone.

I turned on the flashlight on my phone and scanned the bed. Nothing.

I got up, walked over, checked beneath it. Empty. Even the sheets were untouched.

When I climbed back into my own bed, I left the flashlight on. That night, I didn’t sleep.

Things got worse over the next week.

Harsh complained of whispering in his dreams.

Jai found his shoes soaked one morning—wet like they'd been outside in the rain, even though they were inside all night.

Tanveer started sleep-talking in languages he didn’t speak.

And me?

I kept waking up at 2:13 a.m. on the dot. Every night. I’d wake with my back to the wall, eyes snapping open like I’d been jolted from a fall.

And every time, I felt the air shift.

Like someone else had just entered the room.

One night, I woke to find the door open.

Wide open.

The hallway outside was pitch black, but something moved past it. I saw the briefest silhouette—tall, angular, crawling along the corridor wall like it didn’t belong to this world.

I got out of bed, trembling, and shut the door.

It didn’t budge.

Like someone was holding it.

“Jai?” I whispered. “Harsh?”

No one replied.

I threw my weight against it and heard something snap. The door flung open and I tumbled into the hallway, heart hammering.

The corridor was empty.

But as I turned back, the door had changed.

The number plaque didn’t read 114.

It read 115.

When I told the others, they believed me instantly. Something was wrong with our room. We agreed to sleep elsewhere that night. Harsh bunked with a friend in 104. Jai left the hostel entirely.

But I stayed.

I had to know.

I locked the door. Taped it shut. Placed a chair beneath the handle.

Set up my phone to record the room, facing Imran’s bed.

I lay down. Waited.

The last thing I remember is the clock flashing 2:12 a.m.

I woke up screaming.

The bed was soaked.

The door was wide open.

And on the phone?

The recording was still going.

I tapped play.

For the first two hours, nothing happened. Just darkness. Faint breathing.

But at exactly 2:13, the camera shifted. Like someone moved it.

And in the next frame?

Someone laying in Imran’s bed.

Not sitting.

Not standing.

Lying, staring directly at the camera with a face that almost looked like mine—except the eyes were pure black, and its mouth kept moving, silently forming words.

Then, at 2:16, the image blurred.

And the screen went black.

I transferred rooms the next day.

Within a week, Jai dropped out. Harsh refused to speak about what he saw when he came back to grab his things. Tanveer had a breakdown and had to be sent home.

Room 114 was closed.

But sometimes, when I walk past it at night, I swear I hear voices. And every once in a while, the old cleaning lady is seen outside the door muttering:

“There’s always been five beds in there. Always.”