Room 313 Never Checks Out

The Maplewood Inn was the kind of place you’d drive past a thousand times and never notice. Nestled between a dying gas station and a diner with a flickering neon sign, it had a fading charm and a lobby that smelled faintly of old wood and forgotten memories.

For years, travelers had come and gone, but there was one room no one ever seemed to leave.

Room 313.

The staff didn’t speak of it, not openly. New hires were simply told, “Don’t clean that room. Don’t rent it. Just skip it.” The manager, Mrs. Callahan, an elderly woman with a crooked back and sharper eyes than you'd expect, kept the key locked in a drawer. It was the only key that never moved from its spot. Or so she thought.

Everything changed the night Darren showed up.

He was a quiet man in his thirties, with a well-worn suitcase and eyes that carried stories he never told. He paid in cash, didn’t ask for the Wi-Fi password, and requested a room on the top floor.

“We don’t have anything available up there,” the night clerk lied, glancing nervously at the old ledger. All rooms were empty that night—except one.

Darren smiled, a tired curve of his lips. “I’ll take Room 313.”

The clerk stiffened. “That room isn’t available.”

“I believe it is,” Darren said, placing a silver key on the counter.

It was the key to Room 313.

The clerk stared at it, pale as the ledger in his hands. “Where did you get this?”

Darren didn’t answer. He picked up the key, turned, and walked up the creaking staircase without another word.

Room 313 was just as it had been left. The bed was made but untouched, the window slightly ajar despite being sealed shut for years. Dust floated in the beam of the hallway light as Darren stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Downstairs, the clerk debated calling Mrs. Callahan but decided against it. By morning, the man would be gone like the others, probably laughing about the spooky room nonsense.

But Darren didn’t check out.

Not the next morning. Not the one after that.

Housekeeping knocked—no answer. The key never returned to the counter. The door remained locked from the inside.

On the fourth day, Mrs. Callahan herself went up with the spare key.

The door creaked open.

The room was empty.

No suitcase, no Darren. But the bed was unmade, and on the dusty mirror, scrawled in a shaky hand, were the words:

“He’s still here.”

Mrs. Callahan shut the door and turned the lock. She moved the key back to the drawer and said nothing to the staff. But from that day on, the air in the hallway outside Room 313 grew colder. Guests in adjacent rooms reported knocking sounds, whispering voices, and the faint sound of someone breathing just behind the door.

The night clerk quit without notice.

The diner next door put up a new sign: NO LATE CHECK-INS FROM THE INN.

Years passed.

Then one stormy night, a young couple arrived at the Maplewood Inn. Their car had broken down, and with nowhere else to go, they begged for a room. Mrs. Callahan, now much older and slower, checked the ledger.

All rooms were booked for a convention in town.

All but one.

Room 313.

The couple pleaded. “We don’t mind anything fancy. Just a bed for the night.”

Mrs. Callahan looked at the drawer. It was empty.

The key was missing.

“I’m sorry,” she said slowly, “we’re full.”

As they turned to leave, the lights flickered. Upstairs, a soft creak echoed through the floorboards. Mrs. Callahan looked up, her hands trembling slightly.

Later that night, a guest from Room 312 called the front desk.

“There’s someone knocking,” she whispered. “From Room 313.”

Mrs. Callahan didn’t go upstairs.

She didn’t have to.

Room 313 never checks out. It just waits.