The Last Room

The rain had followed Ethan all the way down the mountain road. His old sedan sputtered before finally giving up near a crooked sign that read: “Hollow Pines Inn – Vacancy.”

It was past midnight, and the forest pressed in on all sides. With no cell service, no passing cars, and the storm growing worse, Ethan decided he had no choice. He grabbed his bag and walked toward the inn.

The building stood hunched at the edge of the woods, its windows dim and crooked like half-shut eyes. Inside, the air smelled of mildew and old smoke. A woman emerged from the shadows behind the counter. Her smile was polite but stiff.

“You’re lucky,” she said, voice brittle. “Only one room left. Room Nine. Cash only.”

Ethan paid, took the brass key, and climbed the narrow staircase. The hall was lined with faded wallpaper, peeling like dead skin. At the far end, he found his door.

Room Nine.

The room was small, just a bed, a wardrobe, and a single chair by the window. The storm rattled the glass, but the place was dry and warm enough. Ethan collapsed onto the bed, telling himself he’d leave at dawn.

The Whisper

Sometime in the night, a faint tap… tap… tap stirred him awake. At first, he thought it was the rain against the window. But when he sat up, he realized the sound was coming from the wardrobe.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He stared, heart thudding. The wardrobe door stood slightly open. “Probably just the wood settling,” he muttered, though his voice shook. He rose, crossed the room, and pushed the door shut.

As soon as he turned away, a whisper brushed his ear:

“Don’t close it.”

Ethan spun around. The wardrobe was open again, wide this time. Darkness pooled inside, thicker than shadow. He stumbled back, grabbing his bag. Enough was enough—he’d sleep in his car if he had to.

But when he opened the door to the hallway, it wasn’t the hallway that greeted him. It was another Room Nine.

The same bed. The same wardrobe. The same rain-beaten window.

The Loops

Panic rose sharp in Ethan’s chest. He ran into the hall again, but every door led back into Room Nine. He tried the stairs, only to find himself walking back into the same room. The inn had folded around him, a maze with only one exit—and that exit was always Room Nine.

The whispers grew louder. Male voices. Female voices. Dozens at once.

“Stay.”

“Don’t leave us.”

“We’re cold.”

The wardrobe door creaked open wider. Something shifted inside, unseen but waiting.

The Visitors

He barricaded the wardrobe with the chair, shoved the bed against it, and pressed his back to the wall. Hours dragged. The storm outside never lessened. His phone still showed no service, though the screen flickered as if someone else were touching it.

At 3:12 a.m., the chair slid across the floor by itself. The bed scraped aside, inch by inch. Ethan screamed, shoving it back, but an icy hand shot out from the wardrobe gap and clamped around his wrist.

It was gray, skin stretched tight over bone. More hands followed—dozens of them—grasping, clawing, pulling. Faces emerged in the dark: eyeless, open-mouthed, mouthing silent screams.

“They can’t leave,” a voice whispered from behind him. Ethan turned and saw the innkeeper standing in the corner, her face slack and hollow. “Neither can you.”

The Last Guest

Ethan fought, kicking and tearing free, but every movement dragged him closer to the wardrobe. His fingers scraped the floorboards, nails splitting as the cold hands yanked him into the dark. He caught one last glimpse of the room as the door swung shut behind him.

Silence fell.

Morning came. The storm had cleared. A traveler pulled up to Hollow Pines Inn, grateful for a place to rest. Inside, the woman at the counter gave the same brittle smile.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Only one room left. Room Nine.”