Room No. 407

Room No. 407

Cold drizzle poured through the night of October and began drumming against the windshield as David pulled into the parking lot of the Redwood Inn. The neon sign flickered and cast some eerie shadows on wet asphalt. He had driven hours and needed rest, which the small, seemingly humble motel seemed to have, so he stopped overnight in the place.

David walked into the lobby, greeted by the musty smell of old carpet and mildew. Behind the reception desk sat an elderly man, his skin pale and papery, with a faint air of disinterest.

"Need a room for the night," David said, shaking rain from his jacket.

The old man looked up, his watery eyes narrowing. "We’ve got one room left—Room 407."

David handed over his credit card, and as the old man processed the payment, he hesitated, then added, "People say that room… it’s… unusual."

David raised an eyebrow. "Unusual how?"

The old man’s gaze shifted to the floor. "Strange noises. Guests checking out early. Some don’t check out at all."

David chuckled, thinking it was an attempt to scare him. "I’ll take my chances."

With a sigh, the man slid the key across the counter. "Suit yourself. But if you hear knocking… don't answer."

Room 407 ended a dimly lit corridor. Faded floral wallpaper peeled off in places, leaving a damp smell in the air. David unlocked the door and the hinges let out a protest as it swung open to reveal a small, unadorned room. A single bed, a wooden dresser, and a television from the early 90s occupied the space. The window faced the parking lot, rain streaking down the glass like tears.

Exhausted, David dropped his bag by the door and flopped onto the bed. The mattress was lumpy, and the sheets felt clammy, but he was too tired to care. He closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of the rain lull him to sleep.

He woke abruptly to a sound. Knock, knock, knock. Three sharp raps at the door.

David glanced at the clock. 3:07 a.m.

Groggy, he lumbered to the door, peering through the peephole. Nobody was around.

"Must be kids messing with me," he murmured, wriggling back into bed.

No sooner had he closed his eyes than the knocking resumed. This time, it was louder. Knock, knock, knock. He felt irritation rising up, yanking open the door. He expected to see nothing but an empty hallway. But there was. nothing. No footprints on the damp carpet. No sign of anyone.

Unease prickled his skin. He locked the door and slid the chain across for good measure. Just as he turned to go back to bed, a faint whisper reached his ears.

"David…"

He froze, his heart hammering. He hadn't told anyone his name.

David felt jittery the next morning. He didn't sleep after the incident and tried to leave the motel as early as possible. But, as he was packing up his bag, he felt something strange. The mirror above the dresser had a smudge, as if someone had pressed their hand against it. He tried to wipe it off with his sleeve, but the print remained faintly visible.

Downstairs, he approached the old man at the desk. "What's the story with Room 407?"

The old man's face clouded. "You heard it, didn't you? The knocking."

David nodded. "And something whispered my name."

The old man leaned forward, his voice low. "Years ago, a young woman named Sarah stayed in that room. She was fleeing an abusive relationship and thought she'd found safety here. But one night, her ex found her. He… he killed her in Room 407."

David felt a chill run down his spine.

"Ever since," the old man continued, "strange things have happened in that room. Guests hear her knocking, calling for help. But if you answer…"

"What happens if you answer?" David asked.

The old man shook his head. "They say you'll never leave."

David decided to spend the night again, partly due to obstinacy and partly because he didn't believe the old man's tale. He set up his phone to record that evening, with the intention of capturing some evidence of the strange occurrences. He left the lights on and waited, with the oppressive silence of the room stretching out like a shadow.

At 3:07 a.m., the knocking started again. Knock, knock, knock.

He kept watching as David lay in bed, his heart racing with every knocking that grew louder and more urgent. Then it stopped. A chilling silence followed with only the sound of his breathing.

The temperature dropped in the room. He could see his breath misting in the air. Suddenly, the television sprang to life, its static crackling on the screen. A distorted image flickered—a woman's face, pale and contorted in anguish.

"Help me," the voice crackled from the TV.

David's blood turned to ice. He grabbed his phone and aimed it at the screen, but as quickly as it started, the television went dark. The knocking resumed, now at the window.

He turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach. Through the rain-streaked glass, a figure stood outside, her face pressed against the windowpane. Her eyes were hollow, her mouth moving soundlessly.

Terrified, David ran for the door and, just as he threw out his hand to clutch the handle, an intangible force slammed him to the wall. The air became heavy, pressing against him. The figure, now inside, stood by the foot of the bed. Her hollow eyes continued to bore into his own, and her voice recurred in his mind:

"You didn't help me."

The next morning, the staff at the motel discovered Room 407 empty. David's car remained in the parking lot, but no sign of him. The old man at the desk sighed, adding another name to his mental list of the disappeared.

That evening, a new guest checked into the Redwood Inn. The receptionist handed over the key with a warning.

"Room 407 is… strange. If you hear knocking, don't answer."

The guest laughed, taking the key. "I'll take my chances."

And so, the cycle continued.