THE LAST LIGHT ROOM 27.
The rain begin at.2:13 am
Arjun noticed because the hospital clock outside his ward never worked — yet every night, precisely at 2:13, the corridor lights flickered once. Only once. Then silence returned.
He had been admitted for insomnia. At least that's what the doctors called it.
But insomnia doesn't make you hear breathing from empty rooms.
Room 27 had been locked since his arrival.
No patients.
No nurses entered.
No cleaning staff touched it.
Yet every night — after the flicker — came a soft dragging sound.
Like bare feet across tile.
Night Three
Arjun couldn't sleep again.
He pushed the IV stand aside and stepped into the hallway. The air smelled metallic, like rusted iron — or blood left too long in the open.
The flicker happened.
2:13 a.m.
The dragging sound followed.
And the door of Room 27… slowly opened.
Not wide.
Just enough.
Darkness inside seemed deeper than night — as if light itself refused to enter.
Then he heard a voice.
"Finally… someone awake."
Arjun froze.
"Hello?" he whispered.
No answer.
But the door opened wider.
Inside Room 27
The temperature dropped instantly.
Machines stood unplugged. Curtains unmoving. The bed empty.
Except the pillow.
It was indented — as if someone invisible rested their head there.
Arjun's heartbeat thudded in his ears.
"Patients usually scream first," the voice said softly behind him.
He spun around.
A woman stood near the window.
She looked young — maybe twenty-five — wearing an old hospital gown from decades ago. Not modern. Yellowed cloth. Hand-stitched tag.
Her eyes were dark. Too dark. Not black — but endless, like wells that had forgotten sunlight.
"Who… who are you?" Arjun asked.
She tilted her head.
"I used to ask that question too. The night they forgot me here."
Her feet never touched the floor.
They hovered just above it.
The Story She Told
She said her name was Meera.
Admitted in 1978. Severe anemia. Doctors puzzled — she kept losing blood without wounds.
One night the power failed.
Backup generators never turned on.
By morning, the ward found her… alive but different.
She stopped aging.
Stopped sleeping.
Stopped dying.
But she never stopped hungering.
"I tried to leave," she whispered. "But the sun burns. The world changed. Everyone I knew turned to photographs… then dust."
"So you stayed?" Arjun asked.
Her lips trembled — almost a smile.
"No. I was locked."
She pointed at the door.
"They knew."
The Hunger
Arjun noticed then — the IV needle mark on his arm was bleeding again.
Fresh.
He hadn't felt it happen.
Meera stared at it.
Her eyes softened… then sharpened.
"I haven't fed in twelve years," she said quietly.
He stepped back.
She didn't move.
"I don't want to hurt you," she whispered.
But the lights flickered again — longer this time.
Her shadow stretched unnaturally across the wall… growing fangs before her face did.
The Choice
"You can leave," she said, voice shaking.
"Close the door and forget me. They all do."
"Why me?" Arjun asked.
She looked almost human again.
"Because you came back every night. Insomnia is just your body refusing to sleep where something watches you."
He realized then —
Every night… the breathing… was hers.
Not hunting.
Waiting.
For someone who wouldn't run.
Dawn
The first grey of morning touched the window.
Meera screamed — collapsing to the floor, skin beginning to burn.
Without thinking, Arjun pulled the blackout curtains shut.
Silence.
She lay trembling.
"You saved me," she whispered.
"No," he said slowly.
"You saved me first. I wasn't afraid anymore."
She stared at him — confused.
"For the first time in years," he continued, "I actually feel… awake."
Her hunger faded from her eyes.
Replaced by something far more dangerous.
Hope.
The Hospital Record (Six Months Later)
Room 27 — permanently sealed.
Two patients missing.
One IV line found detached.
Curtains drawn from inside.
And every night at 2:13 a.m.
Two silhouettes now stand behind the frosted glass.
Neither casts a reflection.
But sometimes —
If you stay awake long enough —
You can hear laughter instead of breathing.
And the lights only flicker once…
as if they are greeting old friends.