Echoes from Room 13

The Pinehurst Hotel was the kind of place where time forgot to move forward. Its faded wallpaper curled at the edges, and the scent of dust and mildew lived permanently in the air. Guests came and went, but Room 13 remained untouched. Locked. Ignored. Feared.

The staff didn’t talk about Room 13. When asked, they’d glance at each other, offer a tight smile, and mutter, “That room isn’t available.” Most guests never noticed it anyway—tucked at the far end of the west wing, just past Room 12, where the numbers skipped from 12 to 14 without a second thought.

But Rachel noticed.

A freelance journalist and part-time urban explorer, Rachel had checked in with a purpose. She’d read whispers online—Reddit threads, local lore, conspiracy blogs—about strange occurrences at Pinehurst. Lights flickering in empty rooms. Whispers in the halls. And always, always, references to Room 13.

She arrived with a camera, a recorder, a notebook, and the kind of skepticism that kept her grounded. Ghost stories made great reads. But she believed in truth, not phantoms.

On her second night, after the hotel staff had retreated and the halls grew quiet, she crept down the west wing. Her footsteps softened as she neared the end of the hall. There it was.

A door between Room 12 and Room 14. No number plaque. Just an outline where one might’ve been long ago.

Rachel ran her fingers over the wood. The surface was colder than it should’ve been. Beneath her touch, it almost… trembled.

She leaned in, pressing her ear to the door. Silence.

Then—tap tap tap.

Three soft knocks from the other side.

She stumbled back. Her heart pounded like a drumbeat, but she steadied herself. Someone was inside. Or playing a prank.

She returned to her room and jotted everything down. She didn’t sleep.

The next morning, she questioned the front desk. The clerk—a nervous young man with too-perfect hair—stiffened when she asked about Room 13.

“There is no Room 13,” he said quickly.

“I saw it,” Rachel replied, cool and firm. “Someone was inside.”

He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Whatever you think you heard… just stay away. It’s not a joke.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

He looked away. “People went missing. Staff. A few guests. That room… it was sealed years ago. We don’t even have a key. Management doesn’t like it being discussed.”

That was all she got. But it was enough.

That night, she returned—with her camera rolling and recorder in hand.

The hallway was darker than before, the lights dimmed as if drained. She approached the door again. This time, she knocked.

Silence.

She waited. Then tried the handle.

To her surprise, it turned.

The door creaked open slowly, reluctantly. The air that greeted her was frigid and thick, like she was stepping into a freezer. Her breath fogged instantly.

Inside, the room was untouched—decades old. Faded floral wallpaper peeled from the walls. An antique vanity sat beneath a cracked mirror. The bed was neatly made, as though expecting a guest. Dust covered everything, yet the center of the room was oddly clean—as if someone had recently stood there.

She stepped inside. The door shut softly behind her.

Rachel lifted her camera, whispering her observations, when a voice—soft and childlike—echoed from behind.

“Why did you come here?”

She spun around. No one.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice steady despite the chill in her spine.

A pause.

Then the whispers began. Not from one voice—but many. Layered. Male, female, old, young.

“We told you not to come…”

“They never leave…”

“Let us out…”

“Join us…”

The temperature plummeted. The mirror cracked deeper, spiderwebbing across the glass. Shadows stretched from the corners of the room, reaching toward her. The walls seemed to breathe.

Rachel backed toward the door—but it wouldn’t open. She tugged harder, her panic rising.

The camera slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor.

Behind her, a reflection formed in the mirror—not her own, but dozens of faces. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Silent. Trapped.

A final whisper hissed in her ear: “Now you’re one of us.”

The next morning, the staff noted Rachel’s absence. Her room was empty, her luggage untouched. Her name was added quietly to the others who had vanished.

Room 13 remained locked.

Still unnumbered. Still waiting.

And if you stand outside on a quiet night, press your ear to the wood, and listen carefully…

You might hear Rachel’s voice whispering from the other side.