"Room 313"

Zahid was used to moving. His government job came with transfers like seasons—unavoidable, inevitable. He'd grown comfortable living out of suitcases and sleeping in unfamiliar beds. So when his latest assignment brought him to a half-forgotten town on the edge of nowhere, he didn’t complain.

With government housing delayed, he checked into a cheap guest house near the train station. The building was ancient, probably older than the station itself. The walls were yellowed, the carpets smelled like dust and rain, and the reception bell took three hits before anyone came.

“You’re in Room 313,” the receptionist said without eye contact.

As Zahid signed the logbook, the man added casually,

“If you hear knocking at night… don’t answer.”

Zahid smirked. “Why? Someone selling ghosts?”

The receptionist didn’t laugh. “No stories, sir. Just don’t answer.”

Zahid chalked it up to village superstition. Every town had its tales—this one clearly had a favorite.

That night, Room 313 felt heavier than it looked. The bed was too firm, the air too still. He left the window open for circulation and turned in early.

At exactly 2:13 a.m., Zahid was pulled from sleep by a knock.

Three slow, deliberate knocks.

He sat up, heart suddenly alert. It was likely another guest, maybe drunk or confused. He waited, but there was nothing more. No footsteps. No voices.

In the morning, he forgot about it. Probably just the wind—or rats. Old buildings had their own strange rhythms.

The next night, it happened again.

2:13 a.m.

Three slow knocks.

Then a voice.

A whisper through the door:

“Can I come in?”

Zahid’s blood ran cold.

The voice was soft, almost polite, but it didn’t sound like it belonged to a person. There was something off. Like it was mimicking how humans talk—getting the words right, but not the tone.

He didn’t respond.

A few seconds later:

“Zahid… I know you’re awake.”

He jumped from bed and yanked the door open.

The hallway was dark.

No lights. No people. Just a silence that pressed against his ears like pressure under water.

By morning, Zahid had convinced himself it was stress. He hadn’t been sleeping properly. Maybe it was a dream. A vivid one, sure—but dreams were known to play tricks.

He approached the receptionist again. “Listen, this isn’t funny. Someone’s messing with me.”

The man didn’t flinch.

“You opened the door, didn’t you?”

Zahid hesitated. “No. I didn’t answer.”

“Good,” the receptionist said. “Don’t.”

He packed that day. Enough was enough. The guest house, the weird air, the knocking—it was all too much. He decided to leave.

But when he walked out of Room 313 with his bag, something was wrong.

The hallway was… different.

Longer. Darker.

And every door now had the same number:

313

He walked faster, confused. Turned a corner. Another corridor.

Room 313

Room 313

Room 313

Everywhere.

He went back the way he came—but now even his own room was gone. Just more doors, all marked 313.

Panic rising in his chest, he picked one and stepped inside.

It was his room.

His bag on the bed. His half-drunk water bottle. His shoes by the door.

Except something was different.

On the pillow lay a photo.

It showed a man sitting on Zahid’s bed, looking into the camera. Behind him, barely visible in the grainy shadows, was a tall figure—faceless, still, its fingers resting on the man’s shoulder.

Zahid flipped the photo.

Written on the back, in messy, mirrored handwriting:

“Your turn.”

That night, at 2:13 a.m., the knocking returned.

Three slow knocks.

A pause.

“Can I come in?”

Zahid didn’t move.

He held his breath.

He closed his eyes.

Then came the final whisper:

“You already did.”

They never found Zahid.

Room 313 remains open—waiting for someone new.