The Last Room

“Rent is due on the first of every month. No loud music. No guests after midnight. And…” she hesitated, her voice dropping, “…never open the door at the end of the third-floor hall.”

At first, I thought she was joking. The building was old, the kind of place where paint peeled from the walls and every step creaked like a warning. Maybe the rule was just her way of keeping tenants out of unused storage space. Still, her tone had been so serious, so heavy, that the words stuck with me.

For weeks, I ignored it. I went about my routine—work, dinner, a few hours of TV, then bed. But the longer I lived there, the more I noticed.

The door.

It was plain, painted the same dull beige as the others. But unlike the rest, it had no number, no nameplate, nothing to show who lived inside. The handle was old brass, dulled with time, and a single deep scratch ran across it like a scar.

Every time I passed it, I felt a tug, like gravity pulling me closer.

And then came the noises.

Soft thumps at first, like furniture being moved. Then whispers. Muffled, broken words that slithered through the keyhole late at night. I told myself it was another tenant, but whenever I asked around, everyone gave me the same sharp reply:

“No one lives there.”

By the second month, I was obsessed. I’d stand in the hallway, ear pressed to the wood, heart pounding as I tried to catch even a fragment of what was being said. Sometimes I thought I heard my own name.

One night, the whispers stopped. In their place came a faint knock.

Tap… tap… tap.

I froze. The sound was soft, almost pleading, like someone asking to be let out. My hand hovered over the knob before I jerked back, remembering Mrs. Whitmore’s warning.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I confronted her in the kitchen. “What’s in that room?” I demanded.

Her face went pale. “You don’t want to know. Just leave it alone.”

But I couldn’t.

That night, I stayed awake in my bed, listening. At 2:53 a.m., the knocks came again—three this time. Louder. More insistent.

I couldn’t resist.

I crept down the hall, barefoot, heart hammering like it wanted out of my chest. The building was silent except for the old clock ticking on the wall. I stopped in front of the door. My breath fogged in the air, though the rest of the house was warm.

The knob was icy under my fingers.

Slowly, I turned it.

The door creaked open.

Inside was darkness. Not the kind you get from a room without lights, but a deeper, suffocating black that seemed to swallow the weak glow of the hallway.

“Hello?” I whispered.

For a moment, nothing. Then, from the void, something answered.

Welcome back.

The voice was wrong—too close, too deep, like it had crawled up from the floor itself. My skin prickled as a shape began to form in the dark. Tall. Twisted. Its limbs bent at strange angles, as though it had forgotten how to be human.

I stumbled back, but the door didn’t close. A hand shot out—long, skeletal fingers that wrapped around the frame.

“You opened it,” the thing hissed. “Now it’s open forever.”

The shadows surged forward. I slammed the door with all my strength, but it didn’t matter. I could still hear it breathing on the other side, slow and steady, as if waiting.

The next morning, the door was shut as if nothing had happened. But I know it wasn’t a dream. My arm still burned where those fingers had grazed me, leaving faint red marks that haven’t faded since.

And now, every night at exactly 2:53, the knocking starts again. Louder. Angrier.

I think it wants more than the door this time. I think it wants me.