I didn't notice the mistake until I was already in the elevator.
The hotel brochure said my room was on the fifth floor, overlooking the forest. But the keycard the clerk handed me, after that strange little smirk, clearly said:
ROOM 616
–TOP FLOOR–
I stared at it in the flickering light of the elevator. It felt colder than it should've. Like it had just come from a freezer. My thumb grazed the raised numbers—smooth, glossy, too new, for such an old hotel.
I should've gone back to the lobby. Asked for a different room. Demanded it, even.
But the elevator dinged, and the doors opened with a gasp, like the building itself exhaled. The hallway ahead was long, faded red carpet stretching into shadow. Lights buzzed.
No other doors. Just one.
Room 616.
Waiting at the end.
I stepped out, the carpet soft beneath my boots like I was stepping on breath.
---
The hotel was old, but it didn't creak. That was the worst part. No sounds at all.
Just the hum—not electric, not mechanical—like a distant whisper too low to hear.
The door to Room 616 stood out immediately.
It was taller than it should've been. Its frame too narrow.
Like the whole room had been forced into a space that didn't want it.
The doorplate had no number. Just a black brass keyhole where the number would be. Not needed, I guess. It was the only door.
I swiped the card.
The lock clicked.
And then I heard something.
A voice.
From behind the door.
Faint.
"Don't open it."
I froze.
Heart thudding. Ears ringing.
Silence.
I waited, eyes wide, breath held. Nothing else came.
No movement. No second voice. No echo.
My rational brain said it was my imagination.
Jetlag. Stress. The twelve hours of travel and the creeping dread of being a solo travel blogger trying to make "offbeat horror hotel reviews" a thing.
I turned the handle.
The door opened by itself.
---
The room was… wrong.
Not creepy, not dusty. That would've been easier.
Instead, it was clean. Bright. Cozy. Like someone had just been inside and made it perfect.
Too perfect.
A lamp already glowed beside the bed.
A book sat open on the desk — page turned, as if the reader had just stepped out.
There was even a hot cup of tea steaming on the nightstand.
I didn't make it.
Room service hadn't arrived.
I had only just opened the door.
I backed out.
Looked both ways.
No one. No other rooms. No sounds. No exits.
I checked my phone.
No signal. No Wi-Fi. Just a black screen and the reflection of my face looking… off.
My reflection was smiling.
I wasn't.
---
I walked into the room, slowly, as if not to disturb something.
But there was no one here.
I stood by the window. Thick blackout curtains hung like theater drapes. I pulled them apart—
There was no window.
Just a wall.
Not bricked. Not boarded. Just smooth wallpaper, where a window should have been.
I ran my hand over it, tapping. Solid. No seams.
Then I noticed the mirror.
It stood opposite the bed, full-length, Victorian style. Tall and cracked near the top.
But not broken.
In the mirror, I could see the room behind me.
And a figure sitting on the bed.
I turned around—
Nothing.
I looked back into the mirror.
Still there. Sitting motionless, hands on its knees, head tilted downward like it was watching something on the floor.
Wearing my clothes.
My backpack. My boots.
But the face was obscured in shadow.
I turned back.
The bed was empty.
---
I wanted to leave. I needed to. But my legs weren't moving.
That's when the closet door opened on its own.
Slow. No creak. Just a soft click as the latch gave way.
Inside, it was pitch black. But there was breathing.
Not my own.
Fast. Wet. Desperate.
Then a voice, low and close:
"It's your turn to dream now."
The door slammed shut.
Lights off.
Room black.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out. One notification. No number.
Just a message:
> Welcome to Room 616. We remember you.
Check-out: when you're ready to forget.