"The Last Broadcast from Room 104"

Ava Rivera was known for her fearless ghost-hunting livestreams. Her fans adored her for venturing into haunted places alone, with only a flashlight, a camera, and her signature sarcastic commentary. But none of them expected her final stream to come from a cheap roadside motel in the middle of nowhere — or that they’d never see her again.

It was a Tuesday night when Ava checked into Room 104 at the Maplewood Motel. She told her followers in a short pre-stream post:

> “Room 104. No guests stay more than one night. Locals say it swallows sound. Let's see if ghosts like motel wallpaper.”



At 11:58 p.m., the live stream began.

The room was dim, lit only by a flickering lamp. Peeling yellow wallpaper. A stained carpet. And that suffocating silence — the kind that buzzes in your ears.

“Alright guys,” Ava said, her voice light but slightly tense. “Here we are. Room 104. The manager was real excited to rent this to me. He told me not to open the closet. So guess where I’m going first?”

Thousands watched as she panned her camera across the room. It froze for a second — just long enough to see a shadow flicker in the corner. The live chat exploded:

> Did anyone else see that?
Back up, Ava. Something moved.
Check the mirror.



Ava laughed, brushing it off. “Y’all are jumpy tonight.”

She opened the closet.

It was empty. But the livestream glitched. For half a second, viewers saw something standing behind her in the mirror — tall, thin, with hollow eyes. She turned, but nothing was there.

Her flashlight began to dim.

At exactly 12:13 a.m., Ava’s voice changed. It got… quieter, as if she were speaking through static. Her face blurred, pixelated, and the lights in the room began to flicker wildly.

“Ava?” someone said on the chat. “Say something.”

She leaned close to the camera. Her eyes looked wrong — unfocused, glassy.

She whispered, “I can hear it breathing.”

And then the screen went black.

But the stream didn’t stop.

Instead, viewers saw a dark feed. Occasionally, the audio picked up faint noises — wet footsteps, scratching, breathing that didn’t match Ava’s pattern.

At 12:47 a.m., the camera flickered on again.

But Ava wasn’t in frame.

The camera now faced the bed. A shape sat on it — slouched, twitching. Viewers couldn’t tell if it was human.

Then, in Ava’s voice — but flat, mechanical — it said:

> “Still watching?”
“She let me in.”
“Room 104 is open now.”



Thousands of people watched in horrified silence as the figure slowly turned toward the camera. Its face was Ava’s… but wrong. Stretched. Grinning too wide. Eyes too black.

The stream ended.


---

The police arrived the next morning after dozens of fans reported the disturbing video. But Room 104 was empty. No sign of Ava, no camera, no equipment — nothing. The motel manager swore she never checked in.

The strangest part?

The livestream couldn’t be found anywhere. Not on her profile, not on any backup servers. But everyone who watched it remembered it clearly. Some claimed they could still hear the breathing when they closed their eyes.

A week later, another streamer went live from a different location.

In the middle of her broadcast, static cut in. The screen went black for 10 seconds.

And Ava’s voice whispered:

> “Tell them not to open the door…”




---

To this day, no one knows what really happened in Room 104. The motel burned down two months later in a mysterious fire, but the number “104” was still found scrawled in ash across the parking lot.

But sometimes, late at night, that original stream briefly appears online — for just a few minutes — before vanishing again.

If you see it…

Don’t watch until the end.
And whatever you do —
Don’t open the closet.