Room No. 9: Where Whispers Never Die

The Shahī Resort was tucked away in a quiet valley, surrounded by towering pine trees and echoing with the songs of unseen birds. For most visitors, it was a dream getaway—peaceful, scenic, and secluded. But for those who listened closely, the place whispered its secrets, especially about the third floor’s forbidden mystery: Room No. 9.

Guests often noticed that the room didn’t appear on the booking list. The hotel staff would politely deflect any inquiries: “It’s under renovation,” or “Out of service.” But the truth was never explained. Locals spoke in hushed tones, warning travelers not to ask too many questions. Some even claimed they’d seen shadows flicker through the window of the locked room—despite it being empty for decades.

Ahmed, a twenty-eight-year-old YouTuber known for his "Mystery Tracker" series, checked in on a chilly October evening. He had traveled across the country investigating abandoned places, urban legends, and haunted hotels. Room No. 9, once just a rumor online, was now within reach.

He had done his homework. Strange disappearances over the years, vague news articles, missing persons cases—all linked to Shahī Resort. There was one pattern that stood out: someone had vanished every year during the autumn months, always a solo traveler. And every time, they were staying on the third floor.

Ahmed set up his equipment in Room 207 but had only one goal: get into Room 9.

That evening, he approached the front desk. “I want to stay in Room 9,” he said bluntly.

The manager’s smile faltered. “That room is sealed, sir. Very old. Unsafe.”

Ahmed leaned closer. “I know about the disappearances. If you won’t let me in, I’ll go public. People deserve to know the truth.”

The manager’s face turned pale. After a long silence, he slid open a drawer and handed over a rusted, brass key. “You may stay. But I warn you… Do not leave the room before dawn. And no matter what you hear—do not respond.”

A cold shiver ran down Ahmed’s back, but he smirked. This was the content his followers would love.

At 10:03 PM, he inserted the key into the ancient door of Room 9. It creaked open slowly, revealing a room frozen in time. Heavy drapes hung like mourning robes. Dust covered every surface. A mirror on the wall was cracked in the center, its reflection warped and eerie.

He stepped in, recording everything. “Alright, everyone, this is Room No. 9… untouched, unexplained. And I’m spending the night here.”

The door slammed shut behind him with a thunderous bang. He spun around, heart racing.

“Relax,” he told himself, forcing a laugh. “Probably just wind pressure.”

But the air felt thick. Each breath seemed heavier. Something about the silence didn’t feel natural—it felt… watched.

As he explored the room, his flashlight flickered. He aimed it at the wardrobe. It was slightly ajar. Curious, he opened it fully. Nothing but a faded coat hanging inside. But then—a soft tapping came from within.

He stepped back. “What the hell?”

The tapping stopped.

A crumpled paper dropped from between the coat’s folds. Ahmed unfolded it slowly. The writing was in shaky red ink:

“The first came in 1993. Then one each year. You are the ninth.”

It was signed: Fahad, 2023.

Ahmed’s blood ran cold. He remembered reading about a vlogger named Fahad who vanished last year during a hotel shoot. His last known location? Shahī Resort.

Ahmed grabbed his phone and looked him up. The channel still existed—his final video showed this very room. Then the screen cut to static. No one had seen him since.

Suddenly, a low creak echoed across the room. He turned toward the mirror.

A silhouette stood behind him.

He spun around—no one.

Turning back to the mirror, the silhouette was closer now. A man, pale, eyes glowing faint white. Smoke seemed to curl around his head like a veil.

“I searched for the truth too,” came a voice, soft and broken, echoing not from the room—but from inside Ahmed’s head.

“You’ll never leave… not alive.”

The lights died.

Pitch black.

Ahmed scrambled, grabbing his flashlight. When he turned it on, Fahad stood inches away—his once-human face now twisted, burned, inhuman.

Ahmed screamed and dropped the flashlight. The camera fell with a loud thud, still recording.

“I stayed,” Fahad’s voice rasped, “Now you must.”

Ahmed backed into a corner, panicked. He slammed the door. It wouldn’t budge. He banged, yelled, pleaded—but his voice vanished into the silence, absorbed by the cursed walls.

The hours dragged. He heard whispers, footsteps, scratching on the floorboards. And every time he looked up, he saw shadows that weren’t his.

Then came the final whisper:
“A new one will come next year. You are the ninth.”


---

The Next Morning

The hotel staff opened Room No. 9 just after sunrise.

It was empty.

No Ahmed.

Only his camera, lying near the cracked mirror, its lens cracked—recording static.

On the wardrobe, written in fresh blood:

“You will be the tenth.”


---

Epilogue

Room No. 9 remains locked.

Every year, a new guest disappears—always the same story, always the same ending.

Some say they still hear Ahmed’s screams late at night.

But no one dares ask about Room 9 anymore.

Except… maybe you?


---