The Room That Changed Its Walls

🏛️ The Beginning

Alex Rivers was a quiet literature student at Greystone University — the kind who preferred books to people. His classmates called him The Ghost because he rarely spoke, except when he was writing.

When the university announced an exchange fellowship for creative writers, Alex was the first to apply. The prize: six months in the old Westbridge Dormitory, a centuries-old building rumored to have been the residence of the university’s founder — and a perfect retreat for writers who wanted solitude.

Everyone avoided that dorm. People whispered it was haunted, that its architecture “shifted,” but Alex didn’t care. He needed silence, space, and distance from everyone.

When he arrived, the caretaker — a frail old man named Mr. Callum — handed him a brass key.

“Room 313,” the old man said. “Don’t wander after midnight.”

Alex smiled faintly. “Is that a rule or a superstition?”

The old man looked at him for a long moment. “Both.”

🕰️ The First Night

Room 313 was perfect — quiet, dusty, filled with old furniture and the faint scent of old paper. A massive oak desk sat near the window.

Alex placed his typewriter there, eager to begin his novel.

But that night, as he typed, something strange happened.

The window — which had been facing the courtyard — now looked out over the woods.

He froze.

He was sure it had faced the courtyard earlier. He walked closer. Outside, moonlight shimmered through black trees.

He stepped back, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The window was back to the courtyard.

He laughed nervously. “Too much caffeine.”

But as he turned, he noticed something else: the bookshelf had moved three feet to the left.

📚 The Second Night

The next evening, Alex couldn’t concentrate. The words refused to come. The walls seemed closer, like the room was breathing around him.

He tried to distract himself by organizing his notes. When he turned toward the door — it was gone.

The door had vanished.

His pulse quickened. He ran to the wall where the door had been. Nothing. Just smooth plaster.

He panicked, searched the other walls — and there it was, on the opposite side of the room.

The door had moved.

Alex grabbed the knob and yanked it open — but instead of the hallway, he saw a staircase spiraling downward into darkness.

He shut it quickly, trembling.

When he opened it again — it was just the hallway, quiet and still.

He didn’t sleep that night.

✍️ The Writer’s Obsession

Days passed. He started marking the walls with chalk before going to bed, drawing small lines to track changes.

Every morning, the marks shifted. Some stretched. Some vanished.

His notes became chaotic:

The desk closer to window.

Door moved north wall.

Sound of typing — but not mine.

He began hearing whispers — faint, rhythmic tapping, like another typewriter echoing from somewhere inside the walls.

He went to Mr. Callum, the caretaker.

“This room… it moves. The walls change. I can hear someone typing.”

The old man stared at him silently. Then, in a low voice, he said, “You shouldn’t write at night.”

Alex frowned. “Why?”

“Because that’s when it writes back.”

🔮 The Mirror

One afternoon, Alex noticed a mirror behind an old curtain. He hadn’t seen it before.

When he wiped the dust away, his reflection looked pale, eyes hollow from sleepless nights.

Then his reflection smiled — but he hadn’t.

He froze.

The reflection lifted its hand and wrote something across the glass with a finger that left no mark.

Alex leaned closer. The words appeared faintly, like mist forming letters:

“Keep writing.”

He stumbled back, knocking over his chair. The mirror shimmered — and went blank again.

🕯️ The Manuscript

A week later, Alex’s novel began to take shape. But it wasn’t what he planned.

He realized the story he was writing wasn’t his — it was the room’s. The words seemed to appear on their own, as if the typewriter remembered what he hadn’t written yet.

He wrote for hours, almost possessed. The story was about a man trapped in a room that kept changing.

Each chapter ended the same way: He thought he was alone. He was wrong.

🌙 The Visitor

One stormy night, someone knocked on his door.

He opened it to see a girl — drenched, terrified, breathing hard.

“Please,” she whispered. “Can I come in?”

He stepped aside. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

“I… I’m lost,” she said. “I was visiting my brother in Room 313.”

Alex froze. “This is Room 313.”

She shook her head violently. “No. Room 313 was on the third floor of the old building — it burned down twenty years ago.”

He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

She looked around, shivering. “My brother’s name was Ethan Callum. He was a writer. They found him dead at his desk. The walls had… moved.”

Alex’s mind went blank. “Callum?” he whispered. “The caretaker—”

She looked at him, eyes wide. “My father.”

Lightning flashed outside. The girl’s reflection in the window smiled, though she didn’t.

And when Alex turned to look again — she was gone.

📖 The Truth Unfolds

He ran to the caretaker’s quarters. The door was unlocked.

Inside, the walls were covered in old photographs — students who had lived in Room 313. All writers. All missing.

At the center was a photo of a young man beside the same mirror Alex had found.

The caption read: Ethan Callum — 1984.

On the desk lay a manuscript. Its title: The Room That Changed Its Walls.

Alex picked it up — and froze. The handwriting was his.

The story inside described everything that had happened to him so far — word for word.

He looked toward the window. The reflection in the glass wasn’t his anymore.

🕰️ The Last Entry

He ran back to his room, desperate to escape. But the hallway twisted endlessly — every turn leading back to the same door.

Inside, the walls pulsed, shifting slowly. The mirror gleamed.

He screamed, “What do you want from me?”

The reflection smiled. “A writer. The story must go on.”

The room began to shrink — walls closing in like jaws. The typewriter started clicking on its own.

He grabbed his notebook and scrawled his final words:

If anyone finds this, don’t enter Room 313. It remembers you.

The walls moved one last time — sealing the door shut.

🌒 One Year Later

When the new semester began, a cheerful student named Ryan moved into Westbridge Dorm.

Mr. Callum, older and slower now, handed him a key.

“Room 313,” the boy read aloud. “Perfect. I love quiet places.”

The caretaker hesitated. “Don’t stay after midnight,” he said softly.

Ryan grinned. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t notice the faint tapping from inside the walls — or the single sentence typed on the old desk:

Welcome back, Alex.