Room 318 Wasn’t on the Map

You don’t notice strange things until you’ve done the same thing a hundred times.

That’s what I kept telling myself.

I’ve worked at the Bellridge Inn for three years now. It’s a boutique hotel tucked into the edge of a sleepy mountain town, with old wallpaper, creaky elevators, and the kind of history that never made it to the brochures. My job? Housekeeping. Mondays to Saturdays. Clean, reset, restock. No drama.

Until last Tuesday.

That morning started like every other. I had my cart, my master key, and a list: Rooms 301 through 317. Third floor. Easy.

I started at 301 and worked my way down the hall, earbuds in, humming to a podcast about cold cases. The hallway was empty, carpet a little damp from the night’s storm, the usual flickering from that busted light near the exit.

Then I got to Room 317.

And next to it—on the right—was another door.

I froze. That door had never been there. I knew it. Room 317 had always been the last on the floor. I’d cleaned that hall a hundred times. There wasn’t supposed to be a door there.

But there it was: Room 318.

Matte black door. Brass knob. No peephole. The numbers looked... wrong. Slightly crooked, maybe hand-carved? Not the sleek, uniform plaques we had everywhere else.

I pulled out the master floor plan printed on the back of my clipboard. Sure enough — the third floor ended at 317.

No 318.

I stared at the door again.

Then it opened.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a slow, deliberate creak, like a breath being held and released. No one stood in the doorway. Just darkness. Still. Cold.

I should’ve called my manager.

I should’ve walked away.

But instead, like some cliché in a horror movie, I stepped inside.

The air was heavy, like the room hadn’t been opened in decades. Dust floated in thick columns through shafts of sickly-yellow light leaking from a crooked ceiling fan. The walls were covered in a peeling floral print I didn’t recognize — not from any room in the hotel.

Everything looked... old. The bed frame was wrought iron, twisted like vines. The dresser was solid oak, massive, with clawed feet. And the mirror above it was shattered — not cracked. Shattered. Yet none of the glass had fallen. The shards still clung to the frame, like frozen teeth.

But the worst part?

It smelled like my grandmother’s house. The way it smelled after she died — cold talcum powder, stale perfume, and something sour underneath.

I turned to leave.

The door was gone.

Not just shut — gone.

I stood against a wall now, covered in faded wallpaper.

Panic set in. I pounded the wall. I screamed. I even checked the closet, desperate for anything that made sense.

The closet door swung open easily. Inside, I found a coat. Long, gray, dusty. It looked like it belonged in the 1940s. In the coat pocket, something jutted out.

A photograph.

Black and white. Three people, standing in front of what looked like the Bellridge Inn. Two men in old-fashioned uniforms. And a woman. Her face was scratched out — violently, with what looked like a knife.

On the back, in perfect cursive:

“Room 318 — where the past won’t stay dead.”

I dropped the photo. The floor groaned under my feet. The lights dimmed.

That’s when the whispers began.

Not words. Just sounds. Breathy syllables from every corner. Something scuttled behind the dresser. The mirror let out a soft crack — like it was healing instead of breaking.

Then, from the bed — movement.

I didn’t want to look.

But I did.

The sheets bulged, rising slowly. A shape beneath them. Rising like someone had just sat up.

“Get out,” a voice rasped. Not loud. But cold. Like it came from under the floor.

“I’m trying!” I screamed. “I don’t know how!”

Another voice joined it, softer but sadder: “You shouldn’t have come here. We don’t leave.”

The room tilted.

Not metaphorically. The floor tilted. Gravity shifted like the room itself was rejecting me. Pulling me down. The walls bent inward. The ceiling swirled. I closed my eyes—

And fell.

I woke up in the hallway.

Flat on my back. Cart tipped over. Room 317 beside me.

No sign of Room 318.

No door. No photo. Nothing.

My manager said I must’ve passed out. Dehydration. Overwork.

I didn’t argue.

But when I got home that night, I found the photo.

The black-and-white one.

On my kitchen counter.

Still scratched.

Still signed.

Still whispering, faintly, even now:

“Room 318 — where the past won’t stay dead.”