Room 313

There was no mention of Room 313 on the website. When Aaron booked the old Briarcliff Hotel for a weekend getaway, he scrolled past sepia-toned images of grand staircases and cracked chandeliers, his expectations set low. He wanted quiet, isolation—something far from the chaos of the city. What he got was more silence than he ever asked for.

At the front desk, a gaunt woman with thinning blonde hair handed him a rusted brass key instead of a keycard. “Room 313,” she said without looking up. “Third floor. At the end of the hall.”

Aaron hesitated. “Don’t most hotels skip the thirteenth floor?”

Her eyes flicked up, cold and glassy. “Not this one.”

The elevator creaked as it ascended. Dim sconces cast distorted shadows across peeling wallpaper. When he stepped out onto the third floor, the hallway was long, narrow, and unnaturally cold. Every door had a number, but only one had a sign:

DO NOT DISTURB – UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

It hung from the tarnished knob of Room 313.

He frowned. The key in his hand matched the number. Maybe the sign was left by a previous guest?

He removed the tag and opened the door.

The room was surprisingly clean. Dated, yes—floral wallpaper curled at the seams, and the carpet had seen better decades—but clean. A four-poster bed sat in the center, covered with a stiff-looking quilt. Heavy curtains shut out what little light remained from the gray afternoon.

Aaron dropped his bag and lay back on the bed, trying to relax. The quiet was almost complete. Almost.

Somewhere, faintly, he heard breathing.

He sat up.

It wasn’t the hum of the vents. It was shallow, rattling—human. He turned toward the bathroom, heart quickening. The door was slightly ajar.

“Aaron,” a voice rasped from the darkness behind it. Low. Ancient.

He froze.

No one knew he was here.

He walked slowly to the bathroom and pushed the door open.

Empty.

The mirror above the sink was fogged over, as if someone had just stepped out of a hot shower. But the air was ice-cold. His breath hung in the air.

That night, Aaron slept poorly. When he woke around 2:43 AM, the room was silent again, but the DO NOT DISTURB sign had returned—now hanging on the inside of the door.

He didn’t touch it.

He checked out the next morning. At the desk, the same woman asked, without raising her head, “Did you… sleep well?”

Aaron nodded slowly. “Room 313. Is there a story behind it?”

A pause.

“No,” she said.

He didn’t believe her.

Back in the city, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He searched online forums, reviews, even archived newspaper articles.

That’s when he found the blog post.

“The Truth About Room 313 at Briarcliff Hotel”

It was written by a woman named Claire who claimed to have stayed there in 1992. She described hearing voices, her name whispered by unseen mouths. Lights flickering, shadows moving on their own. Her post ended with one line:

“If you ever go to Briarcliff, and they give you Room 313… run.”

Aaron tried to reply, but the blog was abandoned. No updates since 1996.

He dug deeper. A fire in 1971. A man named Thomas Kellerman was found in Room 313—burned alive, though the fire never spread beyond the bed. A priest who came to bless the room vanished three days later. The hotel had quietly reopened, Room 313 never removed.

Two weeks later, Aaron received an envelope in the mail. No return address. Inside was a photograph.

It showed him sleeping in Room 313. Taken from the foot of the bed.

In the corner of the room, something tall and black and twisted was watching him.

People say the dead don’t bother the living. That if you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone.

But Aaron opened the door.

He disturbed what was meant to stay quiet.

Now, every night at 2:43 AM, he hears the rattling breath again. Not in the hotel anymore—but in his apartment. In his closet. Behind his mirror. The breathing follows him. Closer each time.

He put the sign back on his door at home:

DO NOT DISTURB – UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

But it’s too late.

He already did.