"Room 313"

"Room 313"

There’s an old hotel in western Pennsylvania—The Briarwood Inn. Locals call it “The Waiting House,” but no one really says why. Tourists come through, spend a night, leave. Most don’t notice anything strange.

Until someone gets assigned Room 313.

Mia was a travel blogger. She’d stayed in hundreds of hotels—cheap, luxury, haunted, historical. The Briarwood was just a stop on the way to another gig in New York.

The front desk clerk, an old woman with thick glasses and a chain-smoking voice, handed her the key without much eye contact.

“Room 313. End of the hall. Elevator’s down—use the stairs.”

Mia smiled politely, took the keycard, and wheeled her suitcase down the dusty hallway. The hotel was dimly lit, smelled faintly like old books and cigarette ash. A weird silence lingered, like the place was holding its breath.

When she reached the room, the door creaked open before she even swiped the card.

Weird.

She stepped inside.

The room looked normal enough. A queen-sized bed, dresser, dusty mirror, small TV, single window covered with heavy green curtains. A welcome mint lay on the pillow, still wrapped.

She unpacked, threw her jacket on the chair, and laid down to check her emails.

That’s when the first knock came.

Three slow knocks—tap… tap… tap—on the inside of the closet.

Mia froze. The closet door was closed. No one could be in there… right?

She laughed it off, blaming the pipes or old wood settling. She stood, opened the closet. Empty. Just hangers.

She closed it. Locked the deadbolt on the main door, just in case, and went back to the bed.

At 2:17 a.m., her phone vibrated.

No number. No caller ID. Just a message.

“Why did you open the door?”

She stared at the screen. Was this a prank? A hacker? One of her followers trying to scare her?

Another message popped up.

“You should’ve stayed quiet.”

Then she heard the closet door creak open again. Very slowly.

The room went ice cold.

Mia backed toward the lamp, flicked the switch. Nothing. No light. The bulb had blown.

She grabbed her phone flashlight and turned toward the closet.

The door was wide open.

Inside stood a figure—tall, gaunt, with skin like it had been stretched too thin. Its face was featureless… except for a long, black grin.

She screamed and threw the lamp.

The lights flickered on—and the closet was empty again.

No figure. No sound.

Just her own heavy breathing.

The next morning, she packed up to leave early. She didn’t care about the refund or the blog review.

At the front desk, the same old woman looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t sleep well?”

“No,” Mia muttered. “Room 313… there’s something in there.”

“You’re lucky it didn’t follow you,” the woman said calmly. “Not everyone walks out.”

Mia stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

The woman lit a cigarette and pointed at a photo on the wall—an old black-and-white picture of the hotel in the 1950s.

“Back when this place was new,” she said, “a man named Joseph Callahan checked into Room 313. Never checked out. Just disappeared. Since then, people say they hear knocking, whispers, even see him. Or something that wears his face.”

Mia felt her skin crawl.

“Why still rent it out, then?”

The woman exhaled smoke.

“Some people like the thrill. Ghost hunters. TikTokers. They post videos. But the ones who really see him? They don’t post anything. They don’t talk.”

Mia didn’t respond. She just walked out and drove off.

That night, she stayed at a modern hotel in New Jersey. Bright lights, keyless entry, Starbucks in the lobby. Safe.

Around midnight, she went to brush her teeth.

When she came back, the TV was on. Static.

The curtains had been drawn shut.

And her closet door… was open.

Three knocks echoed from inside.

Tap… tap… tap.

Her phone lit up