The guest of room 72

The old Victorian style hotel stood at the end of a winding, overgrown road, shrouded in mist, as if forgotten by time itself. It loomed above the foggy lake, its dark silhouette a stark contrast against the pale sky. Weathered bricks clung desperately to the structure, while thick ivy crept up its walls, hiding secrets long buried beneath the surface. The hotel had a strange pull, a magnetic force that beckoned you toward it, even as every instinct screamed that something about it was deeply, irrevocably wrong.
As we drove closer, an eerie silence wrapped around us like a heavy blanket, making the air thick and suffocating. The distant chirping of birds was muted, swallowed by the oppressive quiet. It was as though the hotel itself was holding its breath, waiting. And as we finally pulled to a stop, the building seemed to exhale, almost like it was welcoming us, drawing us closer to uncover the darkness hidden within its crumbling walls.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Sarah’s voice trembled as she stared up at the hotel’s grand yet decaying facade. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with apprehension. She clutched the handle of her suitcase so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
I forced a laugh, though it came out strained, empty, betraying my own growing unease. “It’s just a room. It’s probably all just a myth.”
But even as I spoke, the stories we’d heard about Room 72 clung to my mind like shadows. The room where guests checked in, but never checked out. The place where time twisted in unnatural ways, trapping those who stayed in an endless, looping nightmare. The thought lingered, tantalizing and terrifying all at once.
“Yeah, just some old superstition,” Dan added, flashing his usual cocky half-smile. But something in his eyes gave him away, a flicker of doubt he quickly masked with a casual shrug. He was always the skeptic, the first to laugh off any hint of fear. But tonight, even he seemed uneasy, his bravado faltering in the face of the unknown.
The manager greeted us at the front desk, his gaunt figure unsettling in the dim light. He was tall and thin, with sharp, shadowed features and deep-set eyes that seemed to look straight through us. His hands trembled slightly as he handed over the brass key to Room 72, and his voice was a whisper.
“You’ll find it... interesting,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on us for a beat too long, a silent warning. But he didn’t meet our eyes as we turned away, his gaze fixed on something far beyond, something unseen.
We made our way up the creaking stairs, the hallway stretching before us, dark and narrow, lit only by a sickly yellow glow from a single overhead light. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of mildew and age. Every door we passed seemed to hold its breath, as though the hotel itself were watching us, waiting. At the very end of the hall stood Room 72, its door slightly ajar, as if beckoning us to step inside.
The key turned in the lock with an odd resistance, the door creaking open to reveal a blast of cold, stale air. A shiver ran down my spine as we crossed the threshold, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the room had been holding its breath, waiting.
The temperature dropped instantly, colder than it should have been even in an old building like this. The room was small, suffocatingly so, lit only by a flickering bulb overhead that cast long, trembling shadows on the walls. The bed, draped in a stained, threadbare coverlet, seemed to sag under the weight of something unseen, and the walls were covered in peeling, faded wallpaper, yellowed with age. But the most disturbing feature was the cracked mirror across from the bed. The glass was splintered into jagged shards, twisting and warping the reflection into grotesque, nightmarish shapes.
“Creepy,” Sarah muttered, rubbing her arms as she crossed the room. "Why is it so cold in here?"
Dan shrugged, brushing off her concern. “It’s an old place. Drafts. Nothing to worry about.”
But there was something in his voice, a hint of hesitation, that made me doubt his nonchalance. The room felt wrong. I couldn’t shake the sensation that it was watching us, aware of our every move. My gaze was drawn to the mirror, the only thing that felt truly out of place. The cracks in the glass twisted in strange, unnatural ways, like they were alive, warping the reflections.
I took a tentative step closer, my fingers grazing the cool surface. And that’s when I felt it, an almost magnetic pull, a compulsion to look deeper, to stare into the fractured glass and see what lay beyond.
Blinking, I pulled back, shaking my head. Just a mirror, nothing more. But as I stepped away, the glass seemed to shift, changing in ways that defied logic. The air grew heavier, and the temperature plunged.
That night, as we settled into bed, the silence in the room became unbearable. It pressed against my skin, thick and suffocating. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt an unseen presence, hovering just beyond my senses, watching, waiting.
Then, a soft rustling broke the silence. It was faint, almost imperceptible, like fabric brushing against itself. I sat up, my heart pounding, my eyes immediately darting to the mirror. And that’s when I saw it.
At first, it was nothing more than a shifting shadow, a flicker in the glass. But then, a figure began to take shape. A woman, her back turned to us, dressed in an old-fashioned gown. She moved slowly, methodically, brushing her hair with an eerie, mechanical precision. Each stroke was deliberate, but her movements were jerky, as if she were trapped in a loop. I couldn’t look away.
As I watched, the room grew colder, and more figures began to emerge in the mirror. One man in a suit adjusted his tie repeatedly, as though preparing to leave but never quite making it. A woman unpacked and repacked a suitcase, her expression vacant. Another figure sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door, waiting for something that would never come.
“They’re... they’re the ones who stayed here before,” Sarah whispered, her voice quivering. “They never left.”
The truth hit us all at once. The figures weren’t just ghosts. They were the trapped souls of those who had stayed in this room, doomed to repeat their final moments. We weren’t just witnessing their fate. We were becoming part of it.
Panic surged, and we scrambled for the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I yanked at the handle with all my strength, but it felt as though something unseen was holding it shut. The room began to warp, the walls stretching and twisting like they were alive.
Objects appeared on the dresser, personal items from other times. A tarnished locket, cracked glasses, a frayed scarf. Each relic felt like a piece of a life, a person who had stayed here... and never left.
Photos appeared on the walls, faces unknown yet somehow familiar, as though they belonged to memories that weren’t ours. And then I saw a photo of us, our faces aged, our eyes sunken, like we’d been trapped here for years.
I backed away, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. My reflection in the mirror had changed too. My face was gaunt, my eyes hollow, my hair streaked with gray. I could see myself aging, becoming one of the shadowy figures, forever part of this cursed room.
“No, this can’t be real!” I shouted, desperation breaking my voice. But the room only grew colder, the air pressing down like an invisible weight.
In desperation, I grabbed a metal candlestick and hurled it at the mirror. It shattered with a deafening crash, the shards scattering like jagged teeth. For a moment, there was silence. But in the broken pieces of glass, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
Each shard reflected a different version of the room, twisted, fractured, and warped. And in every reflection, I saw myself, aged, hollow, standing among the trapped souls, now part of Room 72’s dark history.
The silence returned, thicker, pressing in, suffocating. And as I stood there, frozen in the broken shards, I knew, with a dreadful certainty, that I was no longer just a guest.
I was part of the hotel now. Part of its story. And Room 72 waited, always watching, for its next visitor.

Reviews

[LisaCarol]

Intriguing and clever story. One correction I’d recommend is where you indicate the door is slightly ajar, but then a key is turned in the lock. It doesn’t make sense that a key would be required if the door was already open.

[Alice]

I never thought of that. Thanks for pointing it out.

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

a very satisfying horror. it's just down my alley. the build up in the first half of the story had me at the edge of my seat.
one disappointing thing was, i wished the Manager had more 'screen-time.' he seems t be a very important character and describing his voice or mannerism as he leads the ill-fated trio to Room 72 would have been a great turn.
also, who were the characters and where werethey headed? if we learn a bit more about the relationship between these friends and where they intended to go, i felt it would deepen the final tragic blow.
but it was sharply written and the haunting oppressive atmosphere was fantastic. i'd like to read more works like this.

[Alice]

Will take note of it. Thanks