The Last Room on Willow Street

The rain poured heavily that night, smearing the windows of the small motel on Willow Street. The flickering sign outside read “Vacancy”, though the place looked nearly abandoned.

Inside, Emma Rivers, a travel blogger, shook the water off her jacket and approached the front desk. She’d been driving for hours through the storm after her car’s GPS lost signal.

The old man behind the counter looked up slowly. His pale eyes were almost colorless.
“Only one room left,” he said in a dry, raspy tone. “Room 9.”

Emma smiled politely. “That’s fine. Just for the night.”

He slid an old-fashioned brass key across the counter. “Don’t open the door at the end of the hall. No matter what you hear.”

Emma frowned. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t answer just turned away and disappeared into a back room.

Room 9 smelled faintly of dust and old perfume. The wallpaper was peeling, and the single lamp cast long shadows across the walls. Emma unpacked her laptop, made a few notes for her travel blog, and listened to the rain hammering the roof.

Then she heard it.

A soft knock.

It came from the hallway.

She waited, thinking maybe the old man had come to check on her but then it came again, louder this time.

Knock… knock… knock.

She opened the door and peeked out. The hallway was empty. Only the dim light bulbs buzzed weakly above. She stepped out and looked both ways. Nothing.

At the very end of the hall, though, she noticed something strange
a door painted completely black, with rusted hinges and an old brass handle. It looked different from the others.

Room 13.

Her curiosity stirred. Maybe that’s the one the old man warned me about, she thought.

She hesitated but couldn’t resist. She stepped closer, her shoes creaking on the wooden floor. As she reached the door, she noticed a small tag hanging on the handle:

> “Do Not Open.”


Her heart beat faster. She leaned in
and from inside, she heard a whisper.

“Help me…”

Emma jumped back. It was faint but clear a woman’s voice.

“Hello?” she called out, pressing her ear to the door.

“Please… it’s so dark…” the voice cried softly.

Emma grabbed the handle. It was ice cold. Against her better judgment, she turned it.

The door didn’t budge. Locked.

“Hold on!” she said. “I’ll get the manager!”

She ran back to the front desk, but the place was empty. The office door was wide open, the old man gone. The air smelled strange like burnt wood and something rotten.

When she turned back toward the hallway, the lights flickered violently then went out completely.

Darkness swallowed everything.

She took out her phone and turned on the flashlight.

The door to Room 13 was now slightly open.

Emma froze. Her breath caught in her throat.

The whisper came again, clearer this timel
“Please… come in.”

She should have run. But something some invisible pull drew her toward that open door.

She stepped closer, the beam of her flashlight trembling in her hand. Inside, the air was thick and cold. She shone the light around

The room was empty. No furniture. Just scratch marks covering the walls and floor.

And then, she saw it.

A large mirror stood against the far wall. Her reflection stared back at her but behind it, a shadow moved.

She turned quickly. No one there.

When she faced the mirror again, the reflection was smiling—but she wasn’t.

Her reflection lifted its hand, even though she hadn’t moved.

The room temperature dropped. Frost began creeping along the mirror’s surface. Her reflection whispered,
“You shouldn’t have opened the door…”

Then the mirror cracked a single thin line spreading like a spiderweb.

From the crack, a black hand reached out, grabbing Emma’s wrist and pulling her forward. She screamed, dropping her phone. The flashlight rolled on the floor, casting wild shadows.

She struggled, but the force dragged her closer until her face almost touched the glass. The last thing she saw before being yanked inside was her own terrified reflection.

Then silence.

Only the rain tapping against the window.

The next morning, the storm had cleared. The motel looked as lifeless as before.

A new traveler arrived a businessman this time. He rang the bell, and the old man shuffled out from the back room.

“I need a room for the night,” the traveler said.

The old man nodded slowly. “Only one room left.”

He placed a key on the counter. It read Room 9.

As the traveler turned away, he noticed a faint sound a woman’s voice coming from down the hall.

“Help me…”

He frowned. “Is someone else staying here?”

The old man didn’t answer. He simply said, “Don’t open the door at the end of the hall. No matter what you hear.”

Moral of the Story:

Curiosity can open doors that should stay closed.
Sometimes, the most dangerous thing isn’t what’s in the dark—it’s the need to know what’s hiding there.