Room 313

It was the first time Daniel had traveled alone.

After years of working back-to-back shifts at the hospital, he finally took a short break. Not somewhere tropical or crowded—just a quiet town by the hills where he could rest, read, and maybe remember what silence sounded like.

He booked a room at a small, old-fashioned inn called The Silver Pine Lodge. Cheap, quiet, and run by an elderly couple who seemed kind enough. The building had creaky floors, faded wallpaper, and a strange musty smell like wet wood and time—but Daniel didn’t mind. He was used to worse.

When he checked in, the old man at the desk gave him a look that lasted a little too long.

“Room 314,” the man finally said, handing over the key. “Just… stay clear of the room next door.”

Daniel blinked. “Which one?”

The old man hesitated.

“Room 313.”

---

That night, Daniel unpacked, made some tea, and sat by the window, listening to the wind whisper through the pine trees. The town was eerily still. He opened a book and tried to relax.

But around midnight, something… changed.

It started with a click.

Then a slow, creaking sound—like hinges turning.

Then a thud.

And footsteps. Bare, dragging footsteps… from the hallway outside.

Daniel frowned. Got up. Opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

A gust of cold air wrapped around his ankles. The corridor light flickered once, then steadied.

He stepped out. Glanced to his right.

Room 313.

The door was slightly open.

---

He wasn’t a superstitious man. He’d seen death, blood, madness—all in his years at the hospital. But this was different. This was the kind of silence that made your spine curl inward.

Daniel walked toward the door.

The brass numbers were crooked: 3 – 1 – 3. The wood was scratched. Deep, desperate scratches—like someone had clawed at it from the inside.

He pushed gently.

The door creaked open.

The room was dark. Stale. Dust hung like smoke in the air. The bed was unmade, the mirror cracked. But what hit Daniel hardest was the smell—rot, old sweat, and something metallic… like rust or blood.

He stepped in.

Something moved.

He spun—

Nothing. Just the breeze through the half-broken window.

Then he saw it:

A small journal, half-hidden under the bed.

He picked it up.

---

The pages were torn, some smeared with what looked like dried blood. But the writing was frantic—scribbled in different inks, different moods, as if the person writing had been slipping in and out of sanity.

"I hear her breathing when I sleep."

"She stands by the mirror at 3:13 every night."

"If I look at her reflection, she screams."

"DON’T OPEN THE DOOR WHEN SHE KNOCKS."

Daniel froze.

That’s when he heard it—

A knock.

Once.

Twice.

Three slow knocks.

He turned. The door to Room 313 was swinging shut behind him.

Then… the mirror.

He hadn’t noticed it fully before. Now, the crack seemed to bleed shadow. Something was moving inside. Not behind him—in the mirror.

A shape.

A figure.

A woman, tall, her hair soaked and hanging like seaweed. Her mouth was wide, open unnaturally, like it was broken at the corners. Her eyes… were not eyes. Just black.

She wasn’t reflected. She was inside.

And she was looking at him.

---

Daniel staggered backward, tripped, fell against the wall. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut.

He ran to it. Pulled. It didn’t move.

He twisted the knob. Nothing.

He banged. “Help! Hello?!”

The hallway was gone.

Only darkness. Thick, pressing, wet darkness. Like the inside of a drowned mind.

Then, the mirror cracked again.

From the inside.

“Come see,” a whisper crawled across the room.

“Come see what you really are.”

Daniel turned, shaking.

The journal burned in his hand, the words glowing red now:

SHE SHOWS YOU YOUR WORST SELF. AND THEN TAKES IT.

He backed away, eyes locked on the mirror.

In it, he saw himself—

Not as he was. But as he had been years ago: pale, broken, holding a syringe, sitting beside a hospital bed.

A woman lay there. Unmoving. Monitors flat.

His mother.

Gone.

The secret he never told anyone.

He had ended her suffering. He thought it was mercy. But deep down, he never forgave himself.

Now… it was staring back at him.

---

The woman in the mirror stepped forward.

Her arms stretched toward him.

Daniel screamed.

---

The next morning, the old man at the front desk opened Room 313. Slowly. Carefully.

It was empty. As it had been for years.

No signs of Daniel.

Just a journal on the bed.

And a fresh set of scratches on the door.

---

Moral:

Some rooms remember. Some mirrors reflect more than light. And some guilt… never stops knocking.