The Occupant of the Empty Room

The boarding house stood at the end of the street, an aging structure with peeling paint and creaking floors. Among the tenants, one room remained unoccupied: Room 404. Its door, unlike the others, was always locked, and whispers of eerie occurrences floated among the residents.

“No one stays in there,” Mrs. Grant, the landlady, would say, her voice a mix of warning and fear. “Not for long, anyway.”

Lucy, a struggling college student, had recently moved into the boarding house. She was a practical person, the kind who dismissed ghost stories with a wave of her hand. But something about Room 404 piqued her curiosity.

One evening, while washing dishes in the communal kitchen, she overheard two tenants whispering.

“I swear I saw someone in the window last night,” said Mark, his voice hushed.

“Don’t start,” replied Clara, rolling her eyes. “No one rents that room, and you know it.”

Lucy decided to ask Mrs. Grant directly.

“Why is Room 404 always empty?” she asked casually.

Mrs. Grant froze, her grip tightening on the stack of linens she was holding. “Some things are better left unanswered, dear.” She turned and walked away, leaving Lucy more intrigued than ever.

That night, Lucy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The sound of footsteps above her room startled her. The problem? Her room was on the top floor, right beneath Room 404.

“Probably just the building settling,” she muttered, pulling the blanket over her head. But the footsteps continued, pacing back and forth.

Unable to sleep, Lucy grabbed her flashlight and ventured into the hallway. The house was silent except for the faint creaks coming from the floor above. She climbed the narrow staircase leading to the attic level, her heart pounding with each step.

At the end of the corridor stood Room 404, its door as foreboding as ever. The doorknob was old and tarnished, the paint around it chipped. Lucy hesitated, then pressed her ear to the door.

Silence.

Just as she was about to leave, the sound of faint humming reached her ears. A child’s lullaby, soft and haunting. Her breath caught.

“Hello?” she whispered, tapping lightly on the door.

The humming stopped.

Lucy backed away, her courage faltering. As she turned to descend the stairs, the doorknob rattled. She froze, her flashlight trembling in her hand. Slowly, she looked back.

The door remained closed, but the rattling persisted, as if someone—or something—was trying to open it from the inside.

Lucy bolted down the stairs, her heart racing. She didn’t stop until she was safely back in her room, the door locked behind her.

The next morning, Lucy decided to confront Mrs. Grant again.

“I heard someone in Room 404 last night,” she said, her voice firm. “You need to check it out.”

Mrs. Grant sighed deeply, her face pale. “You should leave it alone, Lucy. That room hasn’t been rented for years.”

“Then why are there noises coming from it?” Lucy pressed.

Reluctantly, Mrs. Grant shared the story. Decades ago, a young woman named Eleanor had rented Room 404. She was quiet, kept to herself, and rarely interacted with the other tenants. One day, without warning, she disappeared. When the police investigated, they found her belongings untouched and her bed neatly made. The only clue was a diary left on the nightstand, its last entry chillingly vague:

"He’s here. Watching me."

Since then, strange occurrences plagued the room. Tenants complained of whispers, cold drafts, and the sense of being watched. Over time, the room was deemed uninhabitable.

Lucy was unfazed. “Ghost or no ghost, someone needs to figure out what’s going on up there.”

That evening, armed with a crowbar she borrowed from Mark, Lucy decided to break into Room 404. Curiosity outweighed her fear.

The hallway leading to the room felt colder than usual, and the air carried a strange heaviness. Standing before the door, Lucy hesitated for a moment, then wedged the crowbar between the door and its frame.

With a loud crack, the lock gave way.

The room was dark, its air stale. Dust motes danced in the beam of her flashlight. At first glance, it looked like any other abandoned room. A bed with a faded quilt, a wooden dresser, and a cracked mirror on the wall.

But as Lucy stepped inside, the temperature dropped. She could see her breath in the dim light.

On the nightstand lay a diary, its leather cover brittle with age. Lucy picked it up and flipped to the last entry, the same words Mrs. Grant had described.

"He’s here. Watching me."

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her. Lucy whirled around, her flashlight flickering.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

The room answered with a low, guttural growl. The mirror on the wall cracked further, a web of fractures spreading like frost.

The growl turned into whispers, a cacophony of voices overlapping, indecipherable yet unmistakably malevolent. Lucy backed against the wall, clutching the diary like a shield.

From the corner of the room, a shadow began to materialize. It was tall and humanoid, but its features were obscured, as if the darkness itself clung to it.

Lucy’s flashlight went out.

“You don’t belong here,” a voice rasped, deep and echoing.

Lucy scrambled to the door, her hands fumbling for the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

“Stay away!” she screamed, throwing the diary at the shadow.

The book passed through it and hit the wall with a thud. The shadow advanced, its presence suffocating. Lucy felt her knees weaken, the air around her thickening like water.

Desperate, she remembered the crowbar still clutched in her other hand. Swinging wildly, she struck the door, splintering the wood. With one final blow, the door gave way, and Lucy stumbled into the hallway.

She didn’t stop running until she was outside, gasping for air beneath the flickering streetlight.

Lucy moved out the next day, leaving most of her belongings behind. As she loaded her suitcase into a cab, Mrs. Grant approached her.

“I told you to leave it alone,” the older woman said softly.

Lucy didn’t reply. She couldn’t.

From the back seat of the cab, she glanced up at the house one last time. In the window of Room 404, a shadow stood watching.

It raised a hand, as if in farewell.

Lucy never returned to the boarding house, but the nightmares followed her. Every night, she heard the same whisper:

“He’s here. Watching you.”