The Last Broadcast from Room 404

The Last Broadcast from Room 404

They said the camera feed was corrupted. Static. Blurry. Impossible to decode. But I saw it—clear as day—before they took it down.

It began with a livestream:
“Join me as I spend the night in Room 404!"
That was the caption. Posted by internet ghost-hunter and wannabe influencer, Mason Gray. He was known for exploring supposedly haunted places—graveyards, asylum ruins, and cursed houses. But Room 404? That place was *different*.

The Crimson Rose Hotel stood abandoned for nearly twenty years on the outskirts of Portland. Room 404 was sealed off before the rest of the building had even closed. Rumors swirled—deaths, disappearances, a guest who gouged his own eyes out claiming “he saw the real world.”

Mason wanted views. He got something else.
9:03 PM – Stream Begins

The feed opens with shaky cam footage. Mason grins into the camera, his flashlight bouncing off faded wallpaper and mildew-stained carpets. He’s cocky, full of sarcasm. “Alright freaks and fans, we’re finally here. Room 404. They told me not to come. Said it’s cursed. But we all know what that means—clicks.”

He swings open the door.

Darkness.

No matter how strong his flashlight beam is, it barely pierces the room beyond. Viewers spam the chat:
“Turn up the brightness.”
“Why’s it so dark?”
“Fake af.”

But Mason walks in.

9:41 PM – The First Glitch

He's been inside for about 30 minutes. The room looks… wrong. Not just dusty or decayed, but *bent*. Angles where there shouldn't be angles. A mirror on the far wall that doesn’t reflect Mason—or anything.

Then the feed glitches.

For a split second, the image flashes a still frame: Mason, standing in the middle of the room but dozens of **figures** in the background. Black silhouettes, all turned toward him, heads tilted.

He doesn’t seem to see them.

Chat goes wild.

When the video resumes, Mason looks confused. “Did anyone else feel that?” he mumbles. “Like a... drop in pressure?”

10:18 PM – The Voices Begin

The static grows louder. Not normal video noise, but a *patterned* hum—like breathing.

Mason’s flashlight flickers. He turns the camera to the mirror. Still no reflection. Just an empty room.

Except that the mirror begins to fog from the inside.

He approaches it. “Okay, this isn’t funny anymore,” he whispers, clearly shaken.

Then a word begins to appear on the mirror’s glass: **“STAY.”**

11:02 PM – The Room Shifts

He tries to leave.

The door is gone.

Not locked, gone. A wall in its place. Even the hallway outside is missing. Panic sets in. “This wasn’t a bit. I didn’t plan this,” he says into the camera, now trembling.

He runs to the window.

But the outside world? It’s no longer the hotel parking lot. It’s a field. Endless black grass. A **man in a long coat** stands there, unmoving, staring up at Mason.

Mason starts screaming. Then... the camera shakes violently. It drops.

11:17 PM – The Man in the Feed

For 14 minutes, the stream is quiet. Just the view of the ceiling, the corner of the twisted mirror, and Mason's shallow breathing.

Then the camera—on its own—begins to tilt.

Someone is holding it now.

Not Mason.

The man from the field appears in frame. Pale. Tall. No eyes. Just a mouth that stretches ear to ear. He whispers something. The audio is reversed, garbled. Some tech-savvy viewer later decodes it:

> “If you see this, it’s too late.”

12:00 AM – The Last Image

The final frame before the stream ends is a close-up of Mason’s face.

His eyes are gone.

His mouth is sewn shut.

The same word is carved across his forehead:
“STAY.”

Then, blackness.

The Aftermath

The stream vanishes within an hour. The platform deletes it. Claims it violated content policies. Mason’s channel is scrubbed. His social media, gone. His last known message was a text to his sister that read:

> “If I don’t come back, don’t look for me.”

No one has seen Mason since.

But here’s the thing.

Room 404 doesn’t exist.

The Crimson Rose has three floors. No fourth. No 404. Investigators, journalists, fans—they all went to the site. Found nothing. Just a crumbling building with bricked-up windows.

But some of us saw it. We watched him walk in.

And some of us… still see the stream.

Late at night, if you know where to look online, the video plays itself. Not on YouTube or Twitch. On old websites. Obscure message boards. Hidden corners of the web.

Every time, it’s different.

Sometimes Mason talks to someone we can’t see. Sometimes it’s just the whispering. Sometimes the man in the coat speaks directly to the camera.

But no matter the version—**he always ends with the same words**:

> “Now that you've watched... you're in the room, too.”

Postscript

I shouldn’t have clicked that video.

It started as research. I didn’t believe in curses or haunted streams. But now?

Now I wake up every night at **4:04 AM**, to see my screen lit up.

The video plays on its own.

And in the mirror behind me…

Someone else is watching.