The Whispers in Room 313

The Whispers in Room 313

By Octavia Birthfield

The first time Kayla heard the whisper, she thought it was the wind. She had just checked into the Willowridge Inn, a crumbling, nearly forgotten hotel tucked away in a small town off the interstate. Her car had broken down, and it was the only place with vacancy.

The receptionist, an elderly man with sunken eyes, barely looked at her as he slid a rusty key across the counter.

“Room 313,” he rasped. “Top floor. No elevator.”

Kayla hesitated. “Do you have Wi-Fi?”

“Not in that room,” he muttered, eyes darting to the dusty lobby mirror. “Don’t open the window.”

Weird. But she was tired and cold.

Room 313 smelled of mothballs and mildew. The wallpaper was peeling, and the radiator groaned like something dying. But it had a bed and working lights. That was enough.

As she laid down, the whisper came again.

“Help me…”

She sat bolt upright. Silence.

She opened the window, thinking maybe someone outside had called out. But the alley below was empty. The moon glinted off the glass, revealing scratch marks on the inside of the frame—deep gouges like someone had tried to claw their way out.

She closed the window, locked it, and told herself she was overtired. Maybe the radiator was making sounds. Maybe it was just the wind.

But at 2:13 a.m., it returned.

“She won’t let me go…”

Kayla shot up, heart hammering. The voice was louder now, and definitely inside the room. A woman’s voice—weak, trembling, right by her ear. But the room was empty. She turned on the light and scanned every corner. Still nothing.

She grabbed her phone. No service. No Wi-Fi. No bars.

Sleep was impossible after that. She left the light on and stared at the ceiling until morning.

At breakfast, she asked the receptionist if anyone else had heard voices in the room.

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

When she repeated the question, his lip quivered slightly.

“You opened the window, didn’t you?”

“No. I mean—just a crack, but I closed it,” she said quickly.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“Room 313 hasn’t been rented in months. Not since Marissa disappeared.”

Kayla blinked. “Who’s Marissa?”

He sighed, like someone reliving a memory they’d tried to forget.

“Girl like you. Broke down on the highway. Stayed one night. She never checked out. Cops searched everywhere—no body, no sign. But guests who stayed after… they heard things. Whispers. Pleas. Then one night, a man jumped from that window. Said something was crawling into his mind.”

Kayla’s stomach twisted. “Why would you rent me that room?”

He looked ashamed.

“Owner says we gotta keep it open or it gets worse.”

“Worse than whispers?”

He didn’t answer.

Kayla packed her things. She would sleep in her car if she had to. But when she went to leave, her keys were gone. She checked her bag. Her coat pockets. The room. Nowhere.

She rushed back to the lobby. It was empty. The lights were off. The clock on the wall had stopped—2:13.

She turned back toward the stairs—and screamed.

A girl stood at the top. Soaking wet. Pale. Eyes hollow. Mouth trembling.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

Kayla backed away. “Wh-who are you?”

“I never left,” the girl said, her voice breaking. “I can’t. She won’t let me.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered. The floor shook. A shrill scream echoed through the hallway—a scream not human. The girl vanished.

Kayla bolted to her room, shaking, grabbed her phone—still no service.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

The voice came again. “She’s inside the walls…”

Kayla pressed her ear against the peeling wallpaper. For a moment—nothing. Then… scratching. Soft at first. Then louder. Closer.

She peeled back a corner of the wallpaper. A black stain pulsed beneath, like something alive. Her fingers brushed it—and it moved. The wall breathed.

The door slammed shut.

She ran for it, yanking and pulling—but it wouldn’t budge.

The radiator screamed. The lights died. Darkness swallowed the room.

Then—the whisper—right behind her.

“She’s coming…”

Kayla turned slowly—and saw her.

The creature was tall, inhumanly so. Black veil over its face. Long fingers that scraped the walls. No eyes—just hollow sockets that bled shadows.

Kayla screamed. The thing reached for her.

She leapt for the window. Tried to open it.

It was stuck.

The claw marks made sense now—someone had tried to escape.

She kicked it. Punched it. The glass cracked.

The whisper shrieked: “YOU CAN’T LEAVE!”

With a final kick, the window burst open. She climbed onto the ledge as the figure lunged—and jumped.

⸻

Kayla woke in a hospital bed.

A nurse stood over her.

“You’re lucky to be alive. Someone found you unconscious in an alley behind the Willowridge Inn.”

Kayla blinked. “The room… the whispers…”

The nurse’s expression changed.

“There is no room 313.”

Kayla’s blood ran cold.

“It was condemned. That part of the hotel burned down thirty years ago.”

⸻

Three Days Later

Kayla’s friend visited her, bringing clothes and snacks. As she stepped out of the room to take a call, Kayla turned to look out the hospital window.

The reflection in the glass was not her own.

It was the girl from the hotel.

And she was smiling.

The End.