The Last Candle in Room 9

The Last Candle in Room 9

Mira arrived at Hollow Pines Inn just after midnight, soaked from the storm, exhausted from the miles, and heavy with secrets. Her phone had died three hours ago. The gas gauge flirted with empty. All she wanted was one night of sleep before vanishing again.

The inn was barely lit. A chipped “VACANCY” sign buzzed in the window. Mira stepped inside, where the smell of old books and rain-soaked wood clung to the air.

Behind the desk sat an elderly woman with skin like creased parchment and eyes clouded by time.

“Room 9,” the woman said without asking Mira’s name. Her voice rasped like wind through dry leaves. She slid a brass key forward—old-fashioned and heavy. “Top of the stairs. Do not blow out the candle.”

Mira paused. “What?”

The woman turned and vanished behind a faded velvet curtain.

Weird, Mira thought. But she was too tired to care. She trudged upstairs, her boots leaving damp prints on the creaky wood floor. The hallway was dim, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper and crooked paintings.

Room 9 waited at the end. Mira unlocked it and stepped inside.

It was clean, in a strange, untouched kind of way. The furniture was dated but sturdy. A full-length mirror hung on the far wall. And on the nightstand, a single white candle burned in a brass holder.

Its flame was oddly steady—unnaturally so.

She closed the door, tossed her backpack on the bed, and plugged in her phone. Nothing. No charging icon. No light. It was completely dead. She tried the outlet with another cord—still nothing.

Then she heard it.

A whisper.

Mira…

She froze. The voice was distant, almost like it came from within her head—but it said her name. She turned, scanning the room. Empty.

Just the candle. Still burning.

She sat on the bed, trying to shake it off. Travel stress, she thought. Lack of sleep. Too many Red Bulls. But the whisper came again—closer.

Mira… you came back.

Her heart raced. “Who's there?” she called out.

Silence.

Then she looked into the mirror.

And screamed.

Her reflection was smiling.

But she wasn’t.

She leapt up, knocking over the chair beside the table. The candle’s flame wavered but held. She grabbed her phone again—still dead.

Breathing fast, Mira turned toward the mirror once more. This time, her reflection was normal. Pale. Terrified.

That’s when she noticed the wallpaper.

It was peeling near the baseboard. She crouched down and tugged at a flap.

Beneath it were names.

Scratched into the wall. Over and over. In the same hand.

Mira Lane.

Dozens of times.

She stumbled backward. “No… this can’t be…”

And then—a memory surfaced. One she had buried long ago.

She was sixteen. Her parents were fighting. They stopped at a motel during a long drive. She had wandered the halls. Curious. Restless. And she had opened a door—Room 9.

There had been a candle.

And a mirror.

And a girl that looked just like her.

She told no one. Her parents wouldn’t have believed her. She convinced herself it was a dream.

But now she was back.

And the room remembered.


---

The candle burned lower. The shadows grew longer.

The mirror began to fog.

She rushed to the door. It wouldn’t open. She twisted the knob, pounded on the frame. “Let me out!”

No one answered.

The candle flickered violently now. The mirror cracked.

She screamed.

Then—a knock on the door.

A man's voice: “Miss? You alright in there? I’m with the front desk.”

She flung the door open.

No one.

Just an empty hallway.

And a slip of paper on the ground.

She picked it up with trembling hands.

Scrawled in smeared ink: You never left.


---

In the morning, Room 9 was quiet.

No guest named Mira Lane had checked in.

No record of a woman matching her description.

Just an unlit candle on the nightstand.

And beneath the wallpaper, freshly scratched…

Mira Lane.

Again.

And again.

And again.


---

📚 Author’s Note:

Sometimes we don’t run from places—we run from memories. But what if the memory is the place? The Last Candle in Room 9 is a whisper of that haunting idea. If you ever find yourself in a motel with a burning candle and a crooked mirror… don’t look too long.