Room 13 Doesn’t Exist

It was raining sideways when I arrived at the Halcyon Grand Hotel. As the cab left, sheets of water blurred the neon sign and left me soaked and somewhat worried. Old and gracefully crumbling, the Halcyon had secrets, leather, and dust smells.

Half-asleep seemed the guy at the front desk. His name tag read “Victor,” but as he slid the key across the marble counter, he barely greeted me.

“Room 14,” he murmured. “Second story. Elevator's out."

I nodded, gripping the iron key and my drenched bag, and ascended the spiraling steps.

The upstairs hall was remarkably quiet; no footfalls and no faint hum of televisions. Just the creak of flooring and the hum of antiquated wiring in the walls.

Room 14 was at the furthest end. Something odd struck me as I walked past Room 12.

Room 13 did not exist.

A blank space of wall lay between 12 and 14. No door, no number, only faded floral wallpaper. I glared for a moment. Perhaps it was superstition; many old hotels avoided the number thirteen. There, though, the wallpaper seemed fresher, new. as if something had been fixed over.

I had trouble sleeping that night. Thunder came in from the hills, and lightning flashed across the ceiling. The quiet was too total; the bed too soft. I heard a noise at some point.

Three little knocks.

I woke up heart hammering.

Once again a knock, this time nearer. It was not at my entrance.

The wall was from it. From the area Room 13 should have been.

I leaned my ear against the wall. Nada. Then—taptaptap. Rhythmic. Intentional.

I hardly got any sleep.

Over bitter hotel coffee the following morning, I questioned Victor regarding it.

“Do you… have a Room 13?” I aimed to sound cool.

His eyes turned to mine.

No.

"There is a space between 12 and 14 though—"

He abruptly leaned forward. "Room 13 is not there. Understand?

His voice ended with a finality that left me frozen.

Naturally, I couldn't let it pass.

That evening, I went back down the hall with a flashlight. I touched along the wall where Room 13 should have been.

empty.

Behind that barrier was a room.

My fingers discovered a wallpaper seam that had been expertly cut as though someone had sliced it and subsequently ironed it over. Opening it back revealed a door. No Handle Only a peephole.

I hesitated, then bent in to read through it.

Pitch dark.

After that—movement. Just a blink. A shape in darkness. A pale face close to mine.

I stumbled back, heart beating, searching for the flashlight. Looking again, nothing. The peephole revealed only darkness.

Locked the door, I hurried back to my room.

That evening the pounding came again. Louder. nearer.

Then a whisper across the wall.

Let me in.

I walked away from the wall. My phone had no connection. The hotel's internet went out. Like the static before a lightning strike, something in the air felt bad.

At dawn, I departed.

No checkout. Simply packed and sped off.

I looked up the hotel online at the train depot.

None.

No listings. No photographs. Not reviewed at all.

It seemed as though the Halcyon Grand vanished as well.

I walked to the address a week later, wondering if madness or curiosity drove me; I still don't know. I anticipated to see the hotel looming behind iron gates.

But there was nothing.

Simply a vacant parcel. Fenced off, overgrown; a sign stated Demolished 1994.

Heart in my throat, I watched the chainlink fence.

Thirty years had gone the Halcyon.

Then where on Earth had I lived?

I unloaded my luggage at home that evening and discovered something odd.

one room key.

Iron. heavy, with a stained number engraved:

13.

The End.