The Whispers in Room 313

Rain came down in sheets as Aryan alighted from the auto-rickshaw, his bag damp and his shoes squelching on the dirty puddles. He had reached his new school in a small town, a long way from the city where he had lived hitherto. The single room he could manage was in the school's extremely old hostel—a building that didn't appear as though it had been cared for in years.

The warden of the hostel, a man with sunken cheeks and eyes too tired for his age, handed him an old, rusty key.

"Room 313," he grumbled. "Top floor. End of the hall."

Aryan nodded, but right before he left, he paused. "Is there something I ought to know regarding the room?"

The warden paused. His lips twisted, but he said only, "Don't listen too hard at night."

The corridor to Room 313 creaked beneath every step Aryan took. Yellow bulbs twirled above, and the walls shed paint like skin. When he reached the door, he felt a shiver. The number plate—313—was hanging by a thread, swaying gently though there was no breeze.

The room was basic: a single bed, a wooden table, an antiquated ceiling fan, and a big mirror tacked up above a washbasin. The mirror had blackened frames and was dotted with dust and… something else. Something that appeared to be dried blood.

Aryan dropped his bag onto the bed and brushed aside the strange sensation growing in his chest. It was likely his imagination.

However, that night, at precisely 2:13 AM, Aryan was jolted awake.

Whispers.

They were muffled, as if a person was talking from beneath the water. His gaze roved over the dark room. The door was still locked. The window was closed.

The noise was from behind him.

He slowly moved towards the mirror.

Nothing.

Nothing but his pale, wide-eyed reflection.

Yet when he leaned in, he saw something strange—fingerprints. Little, smudgy prints on the bottom of the mirror. He hadn't put his hand there since he got there.

He couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

He attempted to inquire about the room from some seniors the following day, but they did not want to talk about it. A boy eventually whispered, "That room ought to have been locked forever. Just stay away after nightfall."

By the third night, the whispers were more persistent, more demanding. Aryan could discern words.

Help me…

"Please… see me…"

"Behind… the mirror…"

And the lights went out.

Aryan's hand reached for his phone, the flashlight shaking in the darkness. The mirror had misted over by itself, despite the chill in the room. A handprint slowly appeared on the glass—small, childish.

Suddenly, in the reflection, something moved.

It wasn't him.

A girl. Seven or younger. Long, wet hair, hiding her face. A white dress, but it was dirty with what appeared to be blood. Her mouth was open, but she didn't make a sound.

Frightened, Aryan fled the room and knocked on the warden's door.

The old man sighed as he looked at him. "I had hoped you would not see her."

Who is she?! Aryan yelled. Why is she in the mirror?!

The warden sat him down and spoke in a hush. "A long time ago, there was a kid named Rafiq who stayed in Room 313. He was quiet… smart. But then he started telling us the mirror was speaking with him. Said there was a little girl inside it. He got obsessed. One night, he broke the mirror, trying to 'liberate her.'"

The warden broke off. "We found him the following morning. Dead. He had cut his wrists and smiled as he died."

Aryan's skin turned cold. "And you still allowed me to remain there?!

There was no room," answered the warden. "And I figured… perhaps it was only a legend.

That night, Aryan remained awake, lights on, door closed. He just kept looking at the mirror.

The whispers came again.

Louder this time. Clearer.

Come visit me.

The mirror suddenly cracked.

Aryan screamed as the glass began to shift, ripple, like water. A hand came out of the surface.

The lights burst. Darkness swallowed everything.

**

The next morning, the warden saw Aryan curled up in a corner of his room, eyes vacant, lips whispering continuously. They took him to a psychiatric ward. He never uttered another complete sentence—just the same sentence, over and over: "Behind the mirror… behind the mirror…" Room 313 was shut for good. But sometimes, on rainy evenings, if you are passing by, you might catch a whisper: Come visit me.