The Room With No Windows

The Arrival

It started as a dare.

Three friends, bored on a summer night, decided to explore the old Ashford Hotel - a crumbling building long abandoned, standing on the edge of town like a shadow nobody wanted to remember.

The rules were simple: spend one hour inside, in separate rooms, no phones, no lights. Whoever lasted the longest without running out would win a hundred dollars from the others.

The group laughed as they split up, their voices echoing in the empty corridors. Dust filled the air, and the cracked wallpaper seemed to curl like skin peeling away.

I ended up in Room 6B.

The Room

The moment I stepped in, something felt wrong. Unlike the other rooms with broken windows, this one had none. No glass, no light, no outside view. Just four walls, a door, and silence.

At first, I tried to shake it off. I sat on the rotting mattress, joking to myself about ghost stories. But within minutes, the silence grew heavy, pressing against my ears until I swore I could hear my own heartbeat echoing.

That’s when I noticed the smell. Damp wood mixed with something metallic, faint but sharp, like rust - or blood.

The First Sound

About fifteen minutes in, I heard scratching.

It came from inside the wall, faint at first, then more deliberate. I pressed my ear against the peeling wallpaper and froze.

The scratching stopped.

Then, three knocks. Slow. Measured.

As if something behind the wall knew I was listening.

I laughed nervously, trying to convince myself it was just rats. But the knocks came again, louder this time.

The Whisper

Thirty minutes in, I was ready to quit the dare. I reached for the doorknob - but it didn’t budge.

It wasn’t locked. It just… wouldn’t turn.

Panic clawed at me, but before I could start banging on the door, I heard it. A whisper.

It wasn’t muffled like the scratching. It was clear.

“Sit back down.”

My throat went dry. I spun around, but the room was empty. The mattress sagged, the wallpaper hung loose, and the shadows seemed to stretch.

Still, I obeyed. My legs shook as I lowered myself onto the bed again.

The Presence

The air grew colder. My breath fogged in front of me, though it was the middle of August.

Then I saw it.

Not clearly - not like a body or a face. More like a distortion in the air, a ripple, as if heat waves were rising from the corner of the room.

The ripple thickened, darkened, until it almost took form. My eyes burned trying to focus on it. The longer I stared, the more I thought I saw hands pressing against the wall from the inside, trying to push through.

The scratching returned, louder now, frantic.

The Escape

I couldn’t take it anymore. I rushed the door, kicking, pulling, screaming for my friends.

And just like that, the knob turned. The door swung open with no resistance.

I stumbled out into the hall, gasping for air. My friends were waiting, pale and shaken.

One of them said he’d heard me screaming but didn’t dare enter. The other admitted he lasted only ten minutes before fleeing his own room, where he claimed he saw “someone” crouched in the corner.

We never collected the money. None of us cared anymore.

Aftermath

It’s been three years since that night. The hotel was demolished last winter. People said it was unsafe, a hazard to the town.

But I can’t sleep. Every night, just as I start to drift off, I hear it again — the faint scratching in the walls of my own bedroom.

And sometimes, when the room grows quiet enough, I hear that same whisper.

“Sit back down.”