The Ghost in Room 314

Emma Hartley was a woman of routine. She was 52 years old, but for her most of life had been spent as the high school librarian of the small town of Bramble Creek. Most of her days she spent amidst books, a quiet comfort that reflected her quiet existence. Five years had passed since her husband's death. Emma's life had followed a predictable rhythm: work, home, the occasional cup of tea with a neighbour and weekend outings in the park nearby where she'd sit under an oak with a novel.

But on one chilly November evening, that predictable life was to be shattered.

It all started with a short break. Emma had longed to visit this old lovely bed-and-breakfast place known as The Willows-just a Victorian-era inn-hugging the countryside. The pictures online depicted charming decor, antique furniture, and large gardens that would be the epitome of the perfect rejuvenation sites. The age of the inn also had an allure for the history-loving Emma, and curling up by a crackling fireplace with some good book sounded heavenly.

There's an innkeeper, Mrs. Pembroke, a warm smile to greet her on arrival, but a strange glint in the eye; the kind of glance that made Emma uneasy, though she dismissed it as nerves-it had been years since Emma's last vacation alone.

"You will be staying in Room 314," Mrs. Pembroke said, handing her a brass key. "It is one of our most. interesting rooms. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable."

Emma didn't pay much attention to the comment until later.

That evening, after a cozy dinner by the fire, Emma retired to her room. Room 314 was lovely, in a quaint, old-fashioned way. There were wall papers of flowers everywhere and a big, four-poster bed took centre space. A small, gilded mirror opposite one of the beds and a faint musky smell for lavender hung in the air. Emma unpacked her belongings, settling with her latest novel reading under the dimmest of the bedside lights.

It wasn't until midnight when the unsettling started.

It was just at this moment that Emma was asleep when she was waked by a faint fluttering sound. She heard it for an instant, then supposed it was the wind, but listened again to it and knew it could not be; it was a whisper—soft, indistinct, and strangely melodious. The sound floated through the air, pouring into the room, but came from nowhere in particular.

She sat up, and she had a pounding heart. "Hello?" she called softly half hoping that perhaps it was her imagination, but the whisper continued to grow louder almost beckoning to her attention. Emma felt shiver creep down her spine as she realized where the sound came from, in the direction of the mirror.

She took a breath. The air grew heavy round her as she stood up to the glass, her face all but invisible in the dim light. The whispering grew urgent; and as she stretched out, something caught her eye — the flicker of a shadowy form, for an instant only, like the outline of some one standing behind her.

Emma spun round, but the room was empty.

She was afraid of it, and for the first time in years, she actually felt lonely. She was no longer the sane woman of routine; now, she was a frightened traveler in some kind of antiquated inn with something not of this earth.

She breathed deeply. There is nothing to it, just a draft, or the old building creaking inside, she thought. She knew better.

The whispering returned the following night. This time, it was clearer, forming words which made her spine tingle.

"Help… me…

Emma was frozen in terror. Every rational part of her mind was screaming no, this could not be happening. Ghosts didn't exist. But the words went on, plaintive and despairing. The room cooled appreciably and the mirror fogged over as if someone had exhaled on it. And then, slowly, a name began to form, written in the steam: *Eleanor.*

Who was Eleanor? And what did she want?

After that, Emma did not sleep. She sat all through the night on the edge of the bed staring into the mirror to wait for something to happen. She had come home with a mind made up: she would leave The Willows, but some of that curiosity nagged her. She was always a practical girl but could not ignore the strange happenings that occurred during the last two nights.

Emma approached Mrs. Pembroke before she left. "Do you know anything about Room 314?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

The innkeeper looked at her with a shrewd look. "Ah, you've met Eleanor," she whispered softly.

Emma's eyes flew wide. "Eleanor? Who is she?"

Mrs Pembroke sighed, as if she had told the story a hundred times over. "Eleanor was a guest here, many years ago. She… well, she never left. Some say her spirit still lingers, searching for peace."

Such was the innkeeper's last utterance, for it was already dawn as Emma began packing her belongings. She did not try to explain what she had endured, but knew for sure that her life would never be the same again. Emma had always been one for predictability, but now she was haunted—both by the memory of those whispers and by the realization that the world was far stranger than she had ever dreamed.

Emma glanced in the rearview mirror, as she drove away. For a second, she thought she might have seen a face behind her. It was Eleanor's sad and searching eyes before she disappeared into the mist.