The next day dawned gray and silent, as though the clouds themselves were holding their breath. Aryan stood at the motel window, staring into the fog that clung to the outer walls like a ghost refusing to leave. His night had been restless, haunted by sounds that should not have existed—a woman weeping softly through the vents, the scratching of nails on the inside of the wardrobe, and the faint echo of a lullaby.
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He hadn’t told anyone what happened in Room 13. Not even Devlin. But something about that room had followed him into his dreams—and worse, into his waking hours. He glanced again at the photograph he’d taken of the room’s mirror. There was a shadow behind him in the image. But when he had taken it, he was completely alone.
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At breakfast, Aryan forced down a few bites of toast and made his way to the reception. Devlin was reading the newspaper again, same spot, same eerie stillness.
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"Devlin," Aryan said carefully, "has anyone ever... disappeared from Room 13?"
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Devlin’s eyes didn’t leave the paper. "That room was closed for a reason. People who enter it sometimes leave pieces of themselves behind."
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Aryan felt a chill trace his spine. "What do you mean by 'pieces'?"
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"Memories. Sanity. Sometimes more."
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Aryan’s throat went dry. He turned to leave but Devlin spoke again.
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"If you're hearing her, it's already too late."
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---
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Back in the room, Aryan opened his laptop to search local records, missing persons, anything. What he found froze his blood. Every year since 1983, exactly one person had gone missing in this town—each disappearance occurring in July, within a block of the motel.
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And this year, July had just begun.
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As Aryan stared at the screen, the lights flickered. Then dimmed. Then a whisper.
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"Help me..."
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He whipped around. No one.
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He turned back to the laptop—and every letter on the keyboard had changed. Rearranged themselves. Spelling out one sentence:
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"You shouldn't have opened the door."
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Aryan slammed the laptop shut and backed away, only to find the closet door slowly creaking open behind him.
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Inside wasn’t storage. It was... another hallway. A cold, dark corridor with peeling wallpaper and flickering lights.
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At the far end stood a little girl in a white dress, her head tilted, her eyes pitch black.
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She lifted her hand and pointed at him.
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"He’s here," she whispered to someone unseen. "He remembers."
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Aryan turned to run, but the motel room behind him had vanished. He was no longer in Room 13.
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He was inside the wall.
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And the walls were whispering his name.
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---
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