Room 213

1. The Hotel

It wasn’t the kind of place you’d notice.

The Crestwood Inn was just off the highway—old, three stories, faded beige paint clinging to the wood panels. It looked like it hadn’t seen a renovation in two decades. But it was cheap, and that’s what Matt needed.

He was moving cross-country, alone, trying to restart his life after a bad breakup and a worse job. He had sold off most of what he owned, packed his car, and driven until exhaustion set in.

Crestwood came into view just as his eyes started to burn. The neon VACANCY sign flickered like a dying pulse.

He pulled in.

The front desk clerk was half-asleep, his hoodie stained with pizza grease. He didn’t ask for ID, just cash and a signature.

“Only rooms open are second floor,” he muttered. “Room 213.”

Matt nodded. He didn’t care. He just needed sleep.

The hallway upstairs smelled like dust and cheap carpet cleaner. Room 213 was near the end.

He unlocked the door.

The room was... fine. Beige walls, floral bedspread, a lamp that flickered when you turned it on. A stained desk. A microwave that looked like it had survived a war.

But it was quiet. And Matt was too tired to be picky.

He threw his bag down and collapsed onto the bed.

He didn’t notice the scratch marks on the inside of the door until the next morning.

2. The Sound

Matt woke up at 3:43 a.m.

Something had woken him.

Not a sound. A feeling.

He sat up, heart tapping, looking around in the dim light. The lamp on the nightstand was off. He didn’t remember turning it off.

He waited, listening.

The walls groaned. The AC hummed.

Then—a soft thump.

He froze.

It came from the wall behind the bed. A low, dull sound. Not loud. Just... intentional.

He waited.

Nothing.

He lay back down slowly, pulling the blanket up.

Old building. Could be anything.

He repeated that to himself until he fell asleep again.

3. The Notes

The next morning, Matt left early to grab coffee from the gas station next door. The hotel didn’t offer breakfast. No surprise.

When he came back, he noticed something odd.

The “Do Not Disturb” sign he’d hung on the doorknob the night before was gone.

He checked the floor. Nothing.

Inside the room, everything looked the same. Except—there was a folded piece of paper on the desk.

Matt picked it up.

It wasn’t hotel stationery. It was a scrap of lined notebook paper, torn roughly at the edges.

In shaky handwriting, it read:

“Don’t stay in 213. He comes at night.”

Matt stared at it for a long time.

Was this a joke? Left by the cleaning staff? A prank?

He didn’t see anyone in the hallway. No signs of forced entry.

He checked the windows. Still locked.

The door had been bolted when he returned.

He crumpled the note and tossed it.

4. The Thuds

That night, it happened again.

3:17 a.m.

Thud.

This time, it was louder. A solid knock, like something hitting the wall behind his headboard.

Matt sat up instantly.

He waited.

Another thud. This time slightly to the right. Then another, higher up.

He got out of bed and pressed his ear to the wall.

Silence.

He opened the door, walked into the hallway, and knocked on the room next door.

Room 214.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Nothing.

He checked the front desk on his way back down. The clerk—same guy—barely looked up from his phone.

“Nobody’s in 214,” the guy mumbled. “Vacant.”

Matt frowned. “So who’s making noise?”

The clerk shrugged. “Old place. Walls move. Pipes knock. Could be anything.”

Matt didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

5. The Woman

On the third day, Matt ran into the cleaning lady while heading out. She was small, gray-haired, moving slowly from room to room with a rickety cart.

He made a casual comment. “Room 213 giving me weird vibes.”

She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him.

Her face was tight. Nervous.

“You’re in 213?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

Her eyes dropped. “You should ask for a different room.”

“Why?”

She hesitated. Looked around. Then said, “A man stayed there last year. Kept complaining about noises. Same time, every night. Said someone was knocking. Staff ignored him. One day, he just... vanished.”

Matt blinked. “He left?”

“No. Gone. Never checked out. Room was locked from the inside. They had to break the door down.”

She lowered her voice.

“They found claw marks on the bathroom tiles. Like he tried to get out.”

Matt laughed nervously. “You're joking.”

She didn’t smile.

“Ask to move,” she whispered. “Don’t wait too long.”

Then she pushed her cart away.

6. The Voice

That night, Matt didn’t even try to sleep. He sat on the bed with every light on, phone in hand, recording.

3:00 a.m. Nothing.

3:12. Silence.

3:17—

Thud.

Right on cue.

This time, it wasn’t on the wall. It came from inside the room.

Matt’s skin went cold.

The sound came again. From the closet.

He got up slowly, phone still recording.

He approached the closet, which had a sliding door. It was open just a crack.

He reached out.

Paused.

Then slid it open.

Nothing.

Just his suitcase, some hangers, a folded blanket.

He let out a shaky breath.

Then—his phone speaker whispered.

He almost dropped it.

A voice. Faint. Male.

“Don’t look behind you.”

He spun around.

The room was empty.

Nothing behind him.

He turned the phone volume up and rewound the recording.

Nothing. Just the thuds. No voice.

He checked the settings. It had been recording. But the voice was gone.

He slept in his car that night.

7. The Investigation

The next day, Matt went to the local library.

He started searching online: Crestwood Inn, Room 213, missing person.

It took a few tries. But eventually, he found a news article. Small-town site. Dated 2018.

“Traveling salesman reported missing after failing to check out of Crestwood Inn.”

No foul play suspected. Door had been locked from the inside. No signs of struggle.

Police chalked it up to mental health or suicide. But no body was ever found.

The man’s name was Jeremy Calhoun. Age 42.

He had stayed in Room 213.

Matt sat in the library for a long time, staring at the screen.

Then he searched the name again.

Jeremy Calhoun had a brother. Still lived nearby.

Matt found a phone number.

He called.

8. The Brother

Daniel Calhoun didn’t seem surprised to hear from him.

“You’re in 213?” the man asked, voice hollow.

Matt explained what had happened—quietly, carefully. Thuds. Notes. A voice.

Daniel was silent.

Then he said, “Jeremy called me the day before he disappeared. Said he thought someone was trying to get into his room. Said he heard breathing at night.”

Matt said nothing.

Daniel continued. “I drove out there. But by the time I arrived, he was gone. Police said no signs of foul play. But I know my brother. He was scared.”

“Do you think… someone took him?”

Daniel paused.

“I think… the room did.”

Matt laughed nervously. “The room?”

“There’s something wrong with it. Like it remembers. Holds onto things.”

He lowered his voice.

“Get out. Burn your clothes. Don’t take anything from that room with you.”

Matt hung up.

9. The Trap

That night, Matt returned to the room only to pack his things.

He walked in.

The room felt... off.

He couldn’t explain it. The air was heavier. The colors duller. The light bulb above the bed buzzed faintly, though it wasn’t on.

He moved fast, grabbing his backpack and suitcase.

When he reached the door, he paused.

The knob wouldn’t turn.

It wasn’t locked. It was just stuck.

He jiggled it. Pulled hard.

Nothing.

Then—from the closet—

Thud.

Followed by breathing.

Slow. Wet. Close.

He turned, heart hammering.

The closet door was closed now. He hadn’t closed it.

His phone buzzed. A notification.

It was recording. On its own.

He picked it up.

The audio showed spikes. He hit play.

And heard something.

A voice.

But it wasn’t a whisper this time.

It was a sob.

Low, broken, pleading.

“Help me… please… I can’t get out…”

Matt backed away.

The door finally gave. He stumbled into the hallway, heart racing.

Down the stairs. Out the building.

Into his car.

He didn’t look back.

10. The Ending

Matt never returned to the Crestwood Inn.

He moved across the country. New job. New apartment.

But he kept thinking about that room.

Room 213.

Sometimes, at night, just after three a.m., his phone would light up.

Motion detected.

He never watched those videos.

One day, he deleted them all.

But before he did, he noticed something.

In one of the earliest recordings—right after the knock—there was a faint shape in the mirror behind him.

Not a person.

Not exactly.

A smudge. A shadow. A face, blurred and broken, pressed against the glass.

Mouth open.

Screaming silently.

He doesn’t stay in hotels anymore.

THE END

Thank you For Reading.

Subscribe for more.

Till then be happy,stay safe.