The Whispers in Room 313

 

The Whispers in Room 313

It was past midnight when Aisha checked into the old roadside motel. Rain lashed the windows, and thunder growled low like a warning. The place was nearly empty—only one other car in the lot. The man at the front desk, pale and silent, gave her a rusted key with a chipped tag: Room 313.

“I thought 313 was an unlucky number,” she joked.

He didn’t smile.

The room was dim and smelled of mildew and forgotten time. She dropped her bag on the creaky bed, changed clothes, and lay down. That’s when she heard it—a whisper. Faint. Almost like wind. But not quite.

It came again.
From the corner of the room.
Where there was… nothing. Just an old armchair facing the wall.

“Leave,” it said.
Barely audible.
But clear enough.

Aisha sat up, heart thudding. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then she noticed something chilling: the chair had turned slightly, no longer facing the wall.

She locked the bathroom door, dragged a chair in front of it, and sat, her phone in hand, though there was no signal. For hours, she dozed off and on—until she heard scratching. Not from the door. Not from the window.
From under the bed.

She froze.

The whisper came again, closer this time.

“Too late.”

Aisha leapt up and threw the door open. She ran to the front desk. The clerk was gone. Just an old newspaper on the counter, dated 1996, with a headline that stopped her breath:
“Woman Found Dead in Motel Room 313—Cause Unknown”

And beneath it… a photo.
Grainy. Black and white.
But unmistakable.

It was her face.