There’s a Room in This Hotel That Doesn’t Let You Leave

I didn’t mean to choose Room 313.

It was offered when I asked for a quiet corner, something private. The clerk, pale and distracted, didn’t even glance at the key as he slid it across the counter. “Top floor. End of the hall.”

The hotel was old — that much was obvious. Velvet wallpaper peeled at the edges, and a scent clung to the corridors like burnt dust and something older. Maybe mothballs. Maybe something worse.

Room 313 looked just like any other door. Brass numbers, tarnished keyhole, wood faded with time. It clicked open too easily, like it wanted me inside.

The room itself wasn’t unusual — not at first. A queen bed with a sag in the middle, a single window with heavy velvet drapes, a dresser with a mirror I didn’t want to look into. The bathroom tiles were cracked. The faucet dripped. But that’s not uncommon in places like this.

What was uncommon was the silence.

Even with the faucet dripping, even with the old radiator hissing quietly, it was as if everything had been muffled. The air was thick. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like too many blankets. The kind of quiet that hums.

I didn’t think much of it. I was tired. I lay on the bed and let sleep take me.

I woke up at 3:13 a.m. The clock blinked. The room was darker than before. The streetlights outside had gone out. I reached for my phone, but the screen stayed black. Dead. No response.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft knock. Inside the room.

Not at the door — inside.

I sat up, the sheets tangled around my legs. I called out, “Hello?”

Silence.

I told myself it was the radiator, the pipes, a dream. I lay back down. Tried to ignore the way the closet door seemed slightly more open than I remembered.

Morning came gray and sluggish. I dressed quickly and headed to the door — eager for coffee, fresh air, people. I turned the knob.

It wouldn’t move.

I twisted harder. Pulled. Shoved my shoulder into it. The lock wasn’t stuck — it was as if the door had no give at all, like trying to move a wall.

I laughed. It was brittle.

Then I tried the phone. No dial tone. Not even static.

The window? Painted shut.

Panic bloomed in slow motion.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Waited. Maybe someone would knock. Housekeeping. A guest walking by. The clerk.

But the hallway remained dead silent.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Not even the sound of wind.

By evening, the fear had melted into a strange resignation. I paced. Counted floorboards. Whispered to myself.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I sat by the door and listened.

At 3:13 a.m., the knock came again.

Three soft raps — from inside the walls.

This time, I spoke.

“Who’s there?”

A breath on the back of my neck. A voice like dust.

“This room doesn’t forget.”

I turned — no one.

The mirror across the room fogged slightly, as if someone exhaled against the glass.

By the third day, I stopped checking the door.

I started hearing things — not voices, exactly, but murmurs. Like a conversation behind a wall too thick to understand. Occasionally, laughter. A child crying. Someone whispering my name from the ceiling vent.

I found scratches behind the dresser. Not patterns. Not art. Just tallies.

I counted.

Three hundred and thirteen.

It’s been six days now, I think. Or maybe more.

The room doesn’t age.

The food in the drawer — an old protein bar I had in my bag — never gets stale.

The clock still says 3:13 a.m., no matter the time.

I’ve come to understand something about Room 313.

It doesn’t trap people.

It collects them.

The knocking? It’s not warning me.

It’s the others.

There’s a mirror I still haven’t looked into. I catch glimpses. Movement that doesn’t match mine. A shadow staying just a little longer after I walk away.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see a hallway — endless, door after door after door, all slightly ajar.

They’re waiting.

Last night, I heard the lock click.

My heart leapt.

I ran to the door.

I opened it.

A hallway. Lights flickering. Just like before.

But no front desk.

No lobby.

Only more doors.

Room 311. Room 312.

Room 313 again.

The door closed behind me with a click.

I turned around.

It wasn’t my room.

It was someone else’s.

And they were sleeping.

I think that’s how it spreads.

The room lets you go — but only when it has someone new to watch.

So if you ever find yourself in a hotel, and they give you Room 313, ask for a different one.

Don’t knock.

Don’t listen.

And if you hear a sound behind the walls — something like a knock, something like your name — just leave.

Leave and never look back.

Because there’s a room in that hotel that doesn’t let you leave.

Not really.