The Silence in Room 204

Marla Thorne had worked night shifts at the Dorian Crest Hotel for nearly three years. The graveyard hours were quiet, mostly uneventful, and perfect for someone who preferred the company of still walls over people. She manned the front desk with her usual thermos of coffee, crossword puzzles, and the flickering hum of the lobby’s antique chandelier.

It was always the same — until she noticed that Room 204 had been booked again.

Room 204 was never supposed to be booked.

It sat at the far end of the second-floor hallway. The room was always locked from the inside, and despite multiple locksmiths and renovations, no one could explain why it couldn’t be entered. Not that they tried too hard. The last time anyone dared pry open the door, the night clerk who attempted it quit the next day, eyes wide, jaw trembling. He never said what he saw.

The hotel manager, Mr. Elbridge, simply marked it off-limits, told staff not to mention it, and the room quietly disappeared from the booking system.

But tonight, the room’s small digital display on Marla’s computer glowed red: Check-in: 11:01 PM — Guest: Unknown.

She blinked. No one had come to the front desk. No walk-ins. No calls. No online reservations in the log. Still, Room 204 now showed occupied.

She rose from her chair, her fingers lightly touching the cold marble of the front desk. The lobby clock read 11:02 PM. Her eyes drifted toward the hallway camera feeds. The second floor showed nothing but a flickering corridor and the faint sound of... was that whispering?

“Faulty mic,” she muttered.

But she knew better.

She picked up the phone, hesitated, then dialed Elbridge’s private line. It rang. And rang. Voicemail.

“Hey, Mr. Elbridge, uh... Room 204 just showed a guest checked in, but I didn’t—there was no—” She stopped. She could hear something on the line. Not static.

Breathing.

She slowly hung up.

Then, the printer on the counter began to hum. A single sheet spat out.

In uneven, barely legible letters:

Do not disturb the silence.

Marla’s stomach coiled.

Her first instinct was to leave — grab her coat, walk into the night, never come back. But something, some cold curiosity that clawed at her rational brain, made her take the flashlight and climb the stairs.

The second-floor hallway stretched long and unnatural in its silence. Her footsteps echoed louder than they should. The carpet seemed damp, though there’d been no leak. Room 204 sat at the far end. Its door, dark wood with brass numbers, stood slightly ajar.

She could swear it hadn’t been like that a minute ago.

“Hello?” she called softly, instantly regretting it. The word vanished into the hallway like breath on cold glass.

As she approached, a low hum — like a distant chant or machinery grinding beneath the earth — crawled out from the cracked door.

She pushed it open.

The room was untouched. Dusty. Old-fashioned. As if frozen in time from fifty years ago. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn, letting in no light. A single lamp on the desk flickered dimly, casting long shadows.

And in the center of the bed, sat a figure.

Not a guest. Not a person.

A shape — wrong in posture, wrong in stillness. Its head bent at an impossible angle, facing the wall. Skin gray. Clothes faded beyond recognition.

Marla didn’t scream, but her breath hitched. She backed up, but the door slammed shut behind her.

Then, the room changed.

The air grew heavy, like breathing through cloth. Whispers filled her ears. Not from the shape on the bed — from the walls, the ceiling, inside her own skull.

They spoke in fragments.

“She saw too much.”

“Not again.”

“Silence must remain.”

The shape stirred.

Marla gripped the doorknob, but it was ice-cold and refused to turn. She beat at the door, the walls. Her flashlight flickered out. The lamp died. She was in complete blackness.

Then, warmth on her neck. Breath.

A voice, not like the others — this one human.

“She broke the seal.”

She turned.

A mirror hung on the wall.

But her reflection wasn’t her.

It smiled — wide, unnatural, eyes black as the space between stars.

It raised a finger to its lips.

Shhhh.


---

When the morning clerk arrived at 7:00 AM, the lobby was empty.

No sign of Marla.

The front desk phone was off the hook. Her crossword puzzle sat unfinished, her coffee cold. And the system showed Room 204: Vacant.

Just like always.

They never found her.

But every so often, guests report something strange — a reflection in a hallway mirror that doesn’t quite match. A whisper through the vents. Or the door to Room 204 swinging open by itself, as if inviting someone in.


---


Some silences aren’t peaceful — they’re warning you to listen.