The storm didn't leave that night—it simply settled.
Rain tapped a restless rhythm against the window of the room. Lena lay in bed, wide awake, the covers pulled to her chest. She wasn't sure when the unease had crept in—maybe it was the strange hum in the walls, or maybe it was the silence that followed. Too thick. Too complete.
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:17 AM.
With a sigh, she sat up. Her notebook rested on the desk across the room, pages half-filled with first impressions and fleeting thoughts. None of it captured the feeling she had now—that subtle sense of being… watched. Not in a malicious way. Not yet. But not imagined, either.
She stood and padded barefoot to the desk. The floor was colder than it had been earlier. She flipped open her notebook and stared at the last sentence she wrote:
"The room is too clean. Like a stage set waiting for someone to perform."
A low creak behind her.
She turned.
Nothing moved.
But the closet door was ajar.
Lena stared at it, frowning. She had closed it earlier. She was sure.
The air shifted.
She walked over slowly, her hand hesitating at the edge of the door. With a gentle push, it opened fully. Coats on wooden hangers. A spare pair of hotel slippers. An old laundry bag. That was all.
But something was off.
She leaned in and saw it—scratches. Along the back wall of the closet, faint but deliberate. Like someone had clawed at the paneling with their fingernails.
Five long lines, dragging downward.
She stepped back quickly, heart ticking faster.
"Okay…" she murmured, trying to steady herself. "Let's not jump to conclusions."
She picked up her phone, snapped a photo of the markings, then turned on her voice recorder.
"Note: There are scratch marks inside the closet wall of Room 402. Five distinct lines. No explanation yet."
She closed the closet and backed away.
The room, once warm and elegant, felt different now. Hollow.
Lena climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldn't come. Not with the whispering.
It started faint, like a draft or the rustle of fabric.
But it was inside the wall.
She pressed her ear against the cool plaster behind the headboard.
There.
A voice. Faint. Fragmented. Female.
"…can't… out… please…"
She jerked away.
"Nope," Lena whispered to herself. "Nope, nope, no—"
She grabbed her coat and left the room, key in hand, bolting down the hallway in her socks.
The corridor stretched unnaturally long in the dim light. Paintings lined the walls—she hadn't noticed how strange they were before. Guests in formal wear, all posed stiffly, all with faces that seemed deliberately… blurred. As if time had erased them, or someone had tried to.
When she reached the lobby, the air felt warmer again. Safer. She exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
The old woman at the reception desk looked up from a book. She wore a navy cardigan, a brooch shaped like a rose pinned near her shoulder, and reading glasses on a silver chain. She didn't seem surprised to see Lena.
"Can't sleep?" she asked softly.
Lena hesitated. "No. Not really."
"Room 402 has that effect."
Lena blinked. "You know something about it?"
The old woman's eyes flicked toward the key in Lena's hand. "It's not the kind of room you check into on a whim."
"I didn't. I asked for it."
"That's what I mean."
Lena stepped closer. "Why does everyone act like this room is a secret no one wants to keep?"
The woman smiled faintly. "Because some stories don't stay locked up. No matter how hard you try."
Lena leaned against the counter. "Was it always like this?"
The woman paused. Then, with a faraway look, she said, "My first year here, I delivered towels to Room 402. The door was open. I thought it was empty. But I heard someone crying. When I stepped inside, the room looked normal—except for the mirror."
"What about it?"
"There was no reflection."
Lena's stomach tightened.
"I left the towels," the woman said, "and never went back."
The silence stretched between them.
Then, Lena asked, "What would happen if I stayed?"
The woman shrugged
Lena's fingers tightened around the key.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
The woman gave a small nod. "We all have our reasons for staying. Just don't forget yours."
Lena turned and walked slowly back toward the elevator.
The night stretched on. And Room 402 waited.
It always did.