The light from the corridor flickered like a dying candle as Aryan stepped into the narrow, shadow-choked hallway behind the closet. The air turned icy, not just in temperature but in presence—like something ancient was watching him. The door to Room 13 had vanished behind him, replaced by walls that pulsed softly, almost like they were breathing.
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Every footstep he took echoed with a memory not his own. Children laughing. A woman humming. A scream cut off too suddenly.
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The hallway curved unnaturally, like the inside of a distorted mirror. Aryan's breath came in short gasps. The further he walked, the more he felt his identity unraveling—as though this place was trying to peel away his layers, to get to the part of him he no longer remembered.
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He turned a corner and found himself staring into a room that shouldn't exist: a replica of his childhood bedroom.
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The posters, the rusted fan, even the broken lamp by the bedside—it was all there. But frozen in time, untouched, preserved like a memory caught in amber.
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"You shouldn’t be here," a voice whispered.
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He spun around. No one. But in the mirror above his dresser, there was a reflection of a man—older, worn, and blood smeared across his shirt.
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Aryan staggered backward.
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"Who are you?!"
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The reflection tilted its head. "You. In five days. If you don’t leave."
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The walls trembled.
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---
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He bolted out of the room, racing down the warped hallway that now seemed endless. Whispers followed him, louder now. Some were his own voice. Others were strangers. One repeated over and over:
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"The room needs a memory. Yours will do."
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He tripped and fell into darkness.
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---
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When Aryan opened his eyes, he was in a hospital bed.
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White walls. Beeping monitors. IV in his arm. A nurse nearby.
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"You’re lucky," she said gently. "You were found unconscious in an abandoned part of the motel. Room 13 hasn’t existed in years. The hallway you were found in was sealed off since the fire in 1987."
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"But I saw—" Aryan’s voice cracked. "The corridor. The girl. The mirror—"
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She looked at him with pity. "You’ve been hallucinating. Trauma does that."
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He looked down. His phone was on the table. Photos still open. Mirror shots. The shadow. The girl. But now, in the background of the last photo, was him—on the floor, unconscious, looking up in horror.
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There was no one behind him when he took that photo.
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Except now... a new image began to load. One he hadn't captured.
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It was the hospital room. His bed. And behind him... a hand creeping over the pillow.
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The screen glitched. Then went black.
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---
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To Be Continued...
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