The Forgotten Room

The Forgotten Room

James Carter had always been a practical man. A salesman by trade, he spent most of his life traveling from one city to another, staying in different hotels, each blending into the next. But something about the Wellington Grand Hotel felt different. Maybe it was the old-world charm of the marble floors, the dimly lit chandeliers, or the eerie silence that hung in the air like a forgotten whisper.

After a long day of meetings, James checked into his room on the seventh floor. The receptionist, a pale woman with tired eyes, handed him his keycard and murmured something that he barely registered. "If you need anything, please... stay within the marked floors."

He barely gave it a second thought. It was a strange thing to say, but exhaustion had already taken over his mind. His room was comfortable, though slightly outdated, with a massive wooden wardrobe that looked as if it had been sitting there for a century. He freshened up and decided to take a walk around the hotel before heading to bed.

As he wandered down the dimly lit hallway, he noticed something odd. The room numbers jumped from 709 to 711. There was no Room 710.

Curious, James ran his fingers along the wall where the missing door should have been. The wallpaper felt different—older, rougher. He tapped it lightly, and it made a hollow sound. A door covered up? Why would a hotel do that?

Later that night, as James lay in bed, he couldn't shake the thought of the missing room. The air in his room felt thicker, heavier. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard it. A knock.

Not at his door.

At the wall.

His breath caught in his throat. Maybe it was the guest next door. He turned over, dismissing it. But then it happened again. This time, it wasn’t just a knock—it was scraping. As if nails were dragging against the other side of the wall.

James sat up, his pulse quickening. The sound stopped. He exhaled, shaking his head. "I’m just tired."

The next morning, over breakfast, he asked the hotel receptionist about Room 710. Her expression darkened instantly. "There is no Room 710, sir."

"But—"

"Drop it." Her voice was firm, her eyes wide with something close to fear. James didn’t push further, but the unease stayed with him throughout the day.

That night, as he returned to his room, his curiosity got the better of him. He bribed a bellboy to tell him the truth.

"No one talks about it," the young man whispered, glancing around as if afraid someone might hear. "Room 710 was sealed shut decades ago after... what happened."

"What happened?"

The bellboy swallowed hard. "A guest stayed there. A man named Harold Finch. One night, the staff heard screaming from his room. When they finally unlocked the door... he was gone. Just gone. No trace of him. Except the words carved into the walls. 'LET ME OUT.'"

James felt a chill crawl up his spine. The bellboy continued, "They locked the room. Sealed it behind the wall. But some say Finch never really left."

That night, sleep evaded him. Every creak of the old hotel made his skin crawl. Then, at 3:10 AM, the knocking returned. Louder. More frantic.

Then the whispering started.

"Let me out. Let me out. Let me out."

James bolted out of bed, his heart hammering. He grabbed his bag, ready to leave the hotel altogether, when suddenly—

The wardrobe door creaked open.

And inside, carved into the back panel, were the same words: "LET ME OUT."

James stumbled back, his breath coming in short gasps. His rational mind told him to leave immediately, but some unexplainable force compelled him forward. Against his better judgment, he reached inside the wardrobe, running his fingers over the deep grooves of the words.

The moment his fingertips traced the last letter, the air in the room shifted. The lights flickered, the temperature plummeted, and a gust of wind—impossible in a closed room—rushed past him. Then, behind him, the muffled knocking from the wall became pounding.

The pressure in his ears built up as if he were deep underwater. A voice, barely a whisper, came from behind the wardrobe, sending icy fingers of fear down his spine.

"James... let me out."

His body moved on its own. He pressed against the wardrobe’s back panel, and suddenly, the wood gave way like a hidden door. The panel slid aside, revealing a narrow, pitch-black corridor. The smell of dust and something rotten wafted out.

James hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside. The darkness swallowed him whole.

The corridor was long, suffocating, and the deeper he walked, the more distorted reality became. The walls seemed to pulse as if alive, and faint whispers slithered around him like unseen hands reaching for his soul.

Then he saw it.

A single wooden door at the end of the corridor, the faded numbers barely visible: 710.

His breath caught in his throat as the handle turned on its own.

The door creaked open, revealing a room frozen in time. The bed was unmade, the curtains still swaying as if caught in an unseen breeze. A faint, humming sound filled the space. On the walls, deep scratches covered every inch, the same phrase repeating over and over again.

"LET ME OUT."

James turned to run, but the door slammed shut behind him. The humming grew louder, morphing into screams.

Then, a voice—low, guttural—whispered right into his ear.

"Now it's your turn."

The lights flickered one last time.

And then—

Silence.