Whispers in Room 313

The House With No Past

It started with a Craigslist ad.

Three-bedroom Victorian, dirt cheap, barely an hour outside Portland. No neighbors for a mile. The photos were grainy, but I saw the charm under the grime. I needed quiet. I needed space. I needed to disappear for a while.

The listing had no history. No names. Just coordinates and a contact number that went straight to voicemail.

I should’ve known then that something wasn’t right.

Moving In

The house stood alone, sun-bleached and tired. Its white paint had peeled off in long strips, like skin. The porch creaked under my feet, and the door opened without a sound. No key. Just a note on the inside:

"It knows you're here."

I laughed. Thought it was some weird local joke.

I left the note on the counter and got to unpacking.

The First Night

Old houses make noises. I told myself that as the wind scraped tree branches against the windows and floorboards sighed beneath the weight of nothing. But around 3:13 AM, I woke to a sound I couldn’t explain.

It wasn’t footsteps.

It wasn’t wind.

It was breathing.

Not mine. Not from above. Not from below.

It was coming from inside my room. Right next to me.

But no one was there.

Room 313

There was no attic. No basement.

But the hallway upstairs had a locked door with a brass plate that read 313. It made no sense. The house only had two upper bedrooms, and mine was labeled 312.

There was no key to Room 313.

But every night after 3 AM, I heard something moving behind it.

Scratching.

Sometimes tapping.

Once, a voice:

“Let me out.”

Things Start Changing

Mirrors fogging up with writing.

Doors opening themselves.

Furniture rearranged while I slept.

Cold spots so sharp they made my skin sting.

And always, Room 313 pulsed with pressure, like the house was holding its breath. I tried calling the realtor’s number again. Disconnected.

One morning, I found the front door wide open. On the steps, carved into the wood, were three words:

"You unlocked it."

But I hadn’t. At least... I didn’t think I had.

The Woman in the Mirror

By the third week, I stopped sleeping. I watched the house instead. Watched how the shadows moved wrong, how reflections lagged a second behind. That’s when I saw her.

A woman. Black dress. No face—just smooth skin where features should be.

She appeared only in mirrors. Standing behind me. Never moving.

Until one night, she whispered:

"Room 313 is not a room. It’s a mouth."

I ran.

But I couldn’t leave.

Every road out turned back. Every path reset. Like the house was folding in on itself.

The Final Night

It happened at exactly 3:13 AM.

The door to Room 313 opened.

On its own.

Inside... there was no room. Just a hole, pulsing and wet, stretching into nothing. Walls breathing. Floor slick like flesh.

I couldn’t move.

The woman stood behind me again. Closer this time. I could feel her breath.

She said one thing:

"You were always part of it."

I Still Live Here

If you’re reading this, I managed to upload it.

But I don’t think I’m me anymore. Not entirely.

The house is quiet now. Too quiet.

Room 313 no longer has a door.

But sometimes, I hear tapping in the walls.

If you ever come across a cheap Victorian with no history and a door marked 313...

Don’t enter.

Don’t knock.

And above all... don’t listen.