"The Last Light in Room 203"

The Brookline Hotel wasn’t supposed to be open anymore.

Once a proud five-story structure with marble floors and velvet drapes, it had been shuttered for nearly a decade. But tonight, Room 203 was lit from within — one soft, flickering light visible from the street.

Clara’s breath fogged the glass of the taxi window as she stared up at it. "Are you sure this is the right place?" the driver asked, eyeing the crumbling facade.

She nodded slowly, though something in her chest begged her to say no.

She had to see it for herself.

The door was surprisingly unlocked. No concierge. No sound. Only the creak of her boots against the dusty tile as she stepped into the lobby, flashlight in hand. Her instructions were clear: second floor, end of the hall, Room 203. The last place her sister was seen before she disappeared a year ago to the day.

Upstairs, the air turned cold. The kind of cold that didn’t just press against your skin — it seeped into your bones.

Room 203 was waiting. Its door, half open. A faint orange glow pulsed inside like the last breath of a dying candle.

She pushed it open with a hesitant hand.

It was just a room. Bed, chair, cracked mirror. Peeling wallpaper. But something felt wrong — like the room was holding its breath.

The lamp on the nightstand buzzed faintly, the bulb struggling to stay alive. Clara stepped in, closing the door behind her.

Then she saw it.

Written in dust on the window: “Help me.”

Her stomach tightened.

She rushed to wipe it away, but her fingers passed through the glass as if it wasn’t there. A cold chill ran up her spine.

Then came the whisper. So faint she couldn’t be sure it was real.

“Clara…”

She spun, but no one stood there.

“Clara…”

The voice came again, louder this time, unmistakable.

It was her sister's voice.

She backed toward the hallway, but the door wouldn’t open. The knob turned, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at her chest.

"Let me out!" she shouted, pounding the wood.

The light in the room flickered, then surged, then popped. Darkness swallowed everything.

But when her eyes adjusted, she saw that she was no longer alone.

A figure stood by the window.

It looked like her sister — but pale, translucent, eyes hollow and glowing faintly in the dark. A twisted mimicry of the girl she once knew.

"Why did you leave me?" the figure whispered.

Clara’s mouth went dry. “I-I didn’t. I tried to find you.”

"You never came," the voice hissed, deeper now, distorted. “You let them take me.”

“No! I—” Clara stopped. A memory surfaced. The phone call from her sister the night she disappeared. A call she ignored. She was tired. She thought it could wait.

It couldn’t.

“You were too late,” the ghost rasped, gliding toward her. “Now you’ll stay, too.”

The room shuddered. The wallpaper peeled itself back like skin. The floorboards groaned. From beneath the bed, skeletal fingers emerged, clawing the floor. The chair rocked on its own.

Clara screamed and backed into the mirror — only it wasn’t a mirror anymore. It was a window into something else — a room just like hers but decayed, blackened, soaked in blood.

Inside that mirror-world, a dozen faces stared back at her. Pale. Lifeless. Trapped.

And her sister stood among them, mouth open in an endless scream.

“No—no, this isn’t real,” Clara sobbed, eyes shut tight.

But when she opened them, the room was quiet again. Still. The lamp buzzed softly.

Had she imagined it?

Then she saw the mirror again.

Her reflection was gone.

Replaced by the same ghostly faces. And now… hers was among them.

Clara ran to the door, shaking the knob with all her strength. It wouldn’t move. Her voice cracked as she screamed, fists pounding the wood, nails clawing the paint.

Then—

Click.

The lamp went out.

Darkness fell.

Outside, on the street below, a man walking his dog paused to glance up at the hotel. A single room was lit on the second floor.

Room 203.

Its light flickered once… twice… then went out for good.