Whispers in Room 313

Whispers in Room 313

I never believed in ghosts. Old legends, flickering lights—things that could be explained by faulty wiring or an overactive imagination. That was before Room 313.

It was the middle of October when I checked into the Briarwood Inn, a faded Victorian hotel in upstate New York. I was there on business, nothing more. The weather was bleak, the town small and silent. I was assigned Room 313 at the far end of the third floor. The bellboy hesitated when he handed me the key.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

He forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… let me know if you need anything."

That night, the wind howled through the cracks in the old windows. I wrapped myself in the extra blanket and tried to sleep, but I kept hearing soft knocking—at first distant, like footsteps echoing through the halls, then closer, like it was coming from inside the room.

At 3:13 a.m., I awoke to the sound of whispering.

Faint and sharp, like someone murmuring right beside my bed. I shot up, turned on the light. No one was there.

I checked the hallway. Empty.

The next morning at breakfast, I asked the receptionist if the hotel was full.

“Just three rooms booked, including yours,” she said.

"And the room next to mine?"

She paused, then said carefully, “Room 311 is under renovation. No guests there.”

I didn't sleep much the next night. Around the same time—3:13 a.m.—I was jolted awake again by the whispering. This time, I understood it. A woman’s voice, cracked and desperate:

"He’s here. Don’t open the door."

Chills raced down my spine. The air in the room turned icy. My breath clouded in front of me.

Then came the knock.

Three slow, deliberate knocks on my door.

I stood, frozen. The voice repeated:

"Don’t open the door."

I didn’t. I waited. The knocking stopped, but the sense of being watched never left. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I demanded answers.

The hotel manager sighed, as if he’d been expecting this.

"Room 313 was closed for years. There was… an incident. A woman stayed here about a decade ago. Traveling alone, like you. She complained about voices and knocks. Said someone was trying to get in. The staff thought she was imagining things.”

“And?” I asked, my skin crawling.

“She was found dead in the bathtub. The door was locked from the inside. No signs of struggle. Her diary said she kept hearing someone whisper: ‘Don’t open the door.’"

“Why reopen the room?” I asked, horrified.

“We’re under new management. Records got lost. You're the first to stay there since.”

I checked out immediately. That night, I stayed in a motel ten miles away. No whispers, no knocking. Just silence.

But at exactly 3:13 a.m., my phone buzzed.

A voicemail. I hadn’t heard it ring.

Shaking, I played the message.

Static. Then:

“He’s here. Don’t open the door.”

I stared at the phone, hands trembling.

There was a knock on the motel room door.

Three slow, deliberate knocks.