“Room 7 Is Still Occupied”

Room 7 Is Still Occupied

By[Ali Rehman]

The Maplewood Hotel had been around for nearly a century, its brick facade weathered but proud, its halls echoing with whispers of travelers long gone. I’d worked there for five years now, mostly nights, when the air grows thick with quiet and the shadows creep longer.

That’s when the complaints started.

At first, it was just a handful of guests mentioning strange noises — footsteps outside their doors, a faint humming tune drifting down the hallway. They said it came from “Room 7.”

But the problem was: there was no Room 7.

Our floor plan skipped from 6 to 8. The original blueprints showed the same. Room 7 had been removed decades ago during renovations, the space turned into a storage closet. We kept it locked, and the janitors avoided it.

Still, the complaints kept coming.

“Room 7 is still occupied,” one guest said, eyes wide and voice trembling.

“I heard a woman singing softly last night,” said another.

I was skeptical at first. Ghost stories were part of the job, part of the charm — until the complaints began piling up with more urgency, more detail.

One stormy evening, when the rain slammed against the windows and the hotel hummed with restless energy, I was working the front desk alone. A nervous guest approached, clutching her coat tight.

“Excuse me,” she whispered. “I’m in Room 6, but last night, someone knocked on my door. When I looked through the peephole, there was no one there. But I swear I heard a voice — a woman calling for help.”

I forced a smile. “Maybe it was the wind.”

She shook her head. “No. It was definitely someone from Room 7.”

I laughed uneasily and said, “There’s no Room 7.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, just check.”

I sighed and grabbed my master key ring. The storage closet door was down the hall, just past Room 6. The lock was old but secure. I knocked firmly, waited for a response. Nothing.

I tried the handle. Locked. No one inside. No sound.

I returned to the desk, uneasy but dismissing it as nerves.

Days later, more complaints arrived — guests hearing footsteps pacing outside Room 7, lights flickering near the nonexistent door, the scent of lavender wafting down the corridor.

I started asking around. The night janitor told me stories of a young woman named Emily, who had worked here decades ago. She was a maid, quiet and kind, but disappeared suddenly one winter. No one knew why.

They said she haunted the hotel, forever trapped between floors, searching for something she lost.

Curiosity gnawed at me. I found old records in the basement — a faded photograph of Emily, her eyes haunting, smiling faintly as if hiding a secret.

I began spending my nights near the storage closet, listening. One night, as the clock struck midnight, I heard it — soft humming, delicate and sorrowful.

I followed the sound to the door. My hand trembled as I reached for the handle, but the key refused to turn.

Suddenly, the humming stopped. Silence engulfed the hallway.

I stepped back, heart racing.

Then a whisper, so faint I thought I imagined it: “Help me.”

The next night, I returned with a flashlight and a crowbar. I was determined to open that door.

The lock gave way with a reluctant creak. Inside, the small room was empty, but the air was thick with cold and sorrow.

On the floor lay a dusty diary, bound in cracked leather. I opened it carefully.

Emily’s handwriting filled the pages — tales of long nights cleaning, stolen glances at guests, and a secret love affair with a man who vanished without a trace.

The final entry chilled me:

“I fear they are coming for me. If I disappear, remember me.”

I shivered. The room felt heavier, as if the past pressed in around me.

That night, the humming returned — louder, more insistent. I listened as Emily’s voice sang softly, a lullaby of longing and loss.

I realized the complaints weren’t just ghost stories. Room 7 was still occupied — by a soul caught between worlds, waiting for someone to remember her.

From then on, I left a small bouquet of lavender by the door every night. Sometimes, I swear, the scent lingers longer, and the humming turns to a soft sigh of gratitude.

Room 7 may not exist on the map, but it lives in the hearts of those who listen.