The Whisper Room

No one in Greystone ever spoke of Room 217.

It wasn’t marked. It didn’t show up on any blueprints, floor plans, or patient logs. No medication was ever delivered there, and no one ever walked in or out at least not officially. But among the staff, it was a shadowed secret. The kind of thing whispered during night shifts and avoided during rounds.

New nurses were warned without being warned always the same cold advice: "Don't open the unmarked door at the end of the East Wing. And if you hear it knock… don’t respond."

Dr. Eliza Moren didn’t believe in ghost stories. She believed in science, evidence, and patterns. A brilliant forensic psychologist with two PhDs and ten years of trauma evaluation experience, she had seen the darkest parts of the human psyche. So when she was transferred to Greystone Psychiatric Hospital after a rash of mysterious staff resignations, she considered it just another professional challenge.

But the rumors unnerved her. Especially because no one ever explained why they left. Just vague mutterings: burnout, nightmares, visions.

In her second week, Eliza noticed something… off.

Every night at exactly 3:17 AM, the surveillance feed from the East Wing would glitch. Not random noise — exactly seventeen seconds of static. Always seventeen. Always the same time. She checked the archives. The anomaly went back over five years.

When she asked the guards, they avoided eye contact.

“Old wiring,” one of them muttered. “Nothing to worry about.”

But Eliza had seen something. A figure, faint and grey, pacing behind the locked door. Always backwards. Always twitching, as if trapped in an unnatural loop.

One night, she decided to stay late. She sat in the surveillance room, staring at the screen. 3:16… silence.

3:17…

The monitor flared red. Not static. A dark crimson pulse, like a heartbeat. Then a
face.

Twisted. Rotting. Eyes too wide. Lips curled into a grin that stretched too far. Its mouth opened, and though the camera had no audio, she heard it in her mind.

"Come closer."

Eliza jolted back. The screen went black.

She rushed to the East Wing, heart pounding. The door Room 217 was open.

No one had a key. No one had touched it.

Inside was a single metal chair, a cracked mirror, and on the far wall, written in something dry and flaking:
"You looked. Now it sees you."

She turned to leave — the door slammed shut.

She screamed, rattled the knob. Nothing. Her breath fogged the mirror.

And then… her reflection moved.

Not with her. Before her.

It blinked when she didn’t. It smiled while she stood frozen. Then it raised its hand, curled its fingers slowly into a bleeding fist, and pressed it to the mirror.

Her throat tightened. Her legs wouldn’t move.

The reflection mouthed silent words:
“Let me out.”

The chair flung across the room, crashing into the wall. The light above her flickered violently.

From the far corner, something crawled out. Black, sinewy, glistening like oil. It had no face. But it had limbs too many. And it dragged its body with a wet, bone-scraping sound.

Eliza closed her eyes and screamed. She braced for pain. But there was none.

Silence.

When she opened her eyes… she was outside the room. In the hallway. The door behind her gone.

Not closed. Gone.

Just a blank wall.

Days passed. Then weeks.

She tried to tell the others. They dismissed her. “Stress,” they said. “Sleep deprivation.” The hospital director quietly suggested a leave of absence.

But the reflection still haunted her.

Every mirror. Every puddle. Every shiny surface she’d see it. Smiling. Waiting. Sometimes it mouthed words she couldn’t understand. Sometimes it mimicked her movements just a little too late.

And at night, always at 3:17, she heard the knock.

Three taps. Always three.

One night, desperate, she painted over all the mirrors in her apartment. Tossed her phone. Turned off all lights. But the knocking came again not from outside.

From inside the wall.

That night, Eliza didn’t show up to work.

Her apartment was empty, untouched. Only her bathroom mirror had changed. Words were scratched across the glass, etched by nails or bone:

"She let me out."

No one knows what happened to Dr. Eliza Moren.

But now, when the East Wing camera glitches at 3:17 AM, the figure behind the wall is no longer twitching.

It’s smiling.

And it’s waiting.

Thank for riding ❤️