Room 313: The Hotel That Erases You

I travel for work—always alone, always late check-ins, and always the same kinds of roadside hotels with peeling wallpaper and vending machines that still sell Tab. I’ve stayed in every kind of weird place. Nothing ever got under my skin. Until I stayed in Room 313.

It was in upstate New York, a fading town with rusting factories and a dying mall. I was supposed to interview a machinist at 9:00 a.m. the next morning, so I booked the closest hotel on Google. The Buckley Inn. Two stars, but cheap, and only seven minutes from the factory.

The receptionist was a thin woman who looked like she’d been there since the hotel opened. Her eyes flicked over me, down to the booking confirmation, and froze.

“You’re in… 313?” she said it like she was reading a death sentence.

“Yeah,” I said. “Is that a problem?”

She forced a smile, then looked away. “No, sir. Just... don’t lose your key.”

The elevator was dead, so I took the stairs. The hallway on the third floor was dimmer than the others, lit by a buzzing green exit sign and one overhead bulb that flickered like a dying firefly.

Room 313 was the last door. It looked like every other hotel room door—cheap, scratched, faded brass numbers—but something about it made my stomach twist. The handle felt cold, like it had just come out of a freezer.

Inside, it was clean enough. Outdated décor—green carpet, dusty curtains, and a rotary phone by the bed—but nothing outright scary. Still, I kept the lights on.

That night, at exactly 3:13 a.m., I woke up to someone whispering.

At first I thought it was in the hallway. I got up, opened the door—nothing. Empty corridor.

But the whispering got louder. Behind me.

I turned, slowly.

There was no one there.

But the rotary phone on the nightstand was off the hook. I didn’t touch it before I slept. And it was... humming.

I picked it up.

There was a voice on the other end—raspy, like someone gargling blood.

“She left her eyes open. They always leave them open.”

I hung up.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I watched the clock, the shadows, my breath in the air like it was freezing. Something about the room felt thinner, like it wasn’t fully connected to reality anymore.

When morning came, I grabbed my stuff and ran to the front desk. The same receptionist was there.

“I’d like to check out,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She blinked. “You’re not checked in.”

“What?” I showed her the receipt. “I checked in last night. Room 313.”

She looked genuinely confused. “Room 313’s been vacant since 2004.”

“No. No, that’s not possible. I stayed there—”

She turned the screen toward me. My name wasn’t in the system. My card hadn’t been charged.

I stormed up to the third floor. I had to prove it. My bag was still in the room, my laptop, everything.

The hallway looked… wrong. Longer. Dustier. Like no one had walked it in years.

And when I reached the end, Room 313 wasn’t there.

There was no door.

Just wall.

Smooth, unbroken drywall where the door had been just this morning.

I ran downstairs. The receptionist wouldn’t meet my eyes anymore.

“You should leave,” she said quietly. “It takes people. The ones who don’t believe.”

I stumbled outside into the daylight, dizzy and breathless. My phone had 13 missed calls. From Unknown.

And one new voicemail:

“She’s still in there. Want to join her?”

I filed a report with local police. They claimed there was no Room 313 on any floor of The Buckley Inn. The hotel only had two floors now, they said.

But that’s a lie. I remember the elevator being broken. I remember walking up to the third floor.

And I remember the voice.

Every night since, at 3:13 a.m., I wake up and the phone buzzes.

I don’t answer.

But I know one day, I’ll have to.

Or maybe Room 313 will come looking for me.