The Whispers Beneath Room 13

I was never the type to believe in ghost stories. I grew up in a world where logic ruled and science explained everything. But after what happened during my final year in college, I no longer sleep with the lights off—or sleep much at all.

It started with a flyer pinned to the campus notice board:

“Affordable Student Housing – Just 5 Minutes From Campus! Room Available Immediately.”

The price was suspiciously low, and the house, when I visited, was strangely empty despite its size. An old Victorian home with creaking floorboards, floral wallpaper peeling at the corners, and the kind of silence that felt… watchful.

The landlord, an elderly woman with eyes that didn’t blink nearly enough, gave me a tight smile as she handed over the keys.

“You’ll be in Room 12. Just don’t try to open Room 13.”

She said it so casually, like she was reminding me to water the plants.

I laughed, thinking it was some quirky superstition.

“Why? Is it haunted or something?”

Her smile didn’t change.

“It’s better if you don’t ask.”

Naturally, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Room 13 was at the end of the hall, its door painted a different color than the rest—a dull grey instead of white. No light slipped from beneath it. No sound. It was like the house had forgotten that part existed.

Weeks passed. Nothing unusual happened at first. I studied, watched Netflix, avoided the awkward stares of the landlord whenever she visited. But then I started hearing whispers.

Not loud. Not clear. Just faint murmurs when I passed Room 13 at night. At first, I thought it was the pipes or my imagination, but one night I pressed my ear against the door.

Someone—or something—was whispering my name.

I jerked back, heart pounding, and stared at the door. The whisper stopped. Then, as I turned to leave, the doorknob rattled.

The next morning, I confronted the landlord.

“Room 13 was sealed years ago,” she said, her eyes suddenly tired. “A student lived there once. He claimed something lived in the walls, called to him in his sleep. He went mad. They found him scratching at the plaster with his bare hands, his nails torn off.”

“Did he survive?” I asked.

“No one survives the whispers.”

Her words sounded too rehearsed. Like she’d told this story before. Like maybe there had been more than one.

I should’ve left then. I packed half a bag. But that night, as I was zipping up my backpack, I heard it again. The whisper. Louder this time. Urgent. Beckoning.

“Help me…”

It didn’t sound malicious. It sounded desperate.

That’s what made me open the door.

It creaked slowly, revealing a dark, dust-choked room. The window had been boarded up. The furniture was overturned, as if someone had left in a hurry. And on the far wall, I saw something I still can’t erase from my mind:

Scratched into the plaster, in uneven, bloody letters:

“IT’S IN THE WALLS.”

Before I could move, something moved behind the wallpaper.

The whisper came again—right behind me.

“Don’t turn around.”

But I did.

And I saw a pale face behind me. Not human. Its skin was like wax, its eyes hollow, mouth stitched shut—except the stitches were slowly pulling apart as if the thing was forcing itself to speak.

I screamed. Ran. Slammed the door behind me and didn’t stop until I was on the street. I never went back for my things.

I transferred to a different school. Changed my number. Tried to forget.

But even now, some nights when everything is quiet and the house settles with creaks and groans, I still hear it.

“Don’t turn around.”