Room 404: The Hotel’s Dark Secret

Right away upon seeing the hotel, I should have turned around.

Its towering form against the dark sky unnaturally hollow made it seem to me like a lost relic. As I entered, the rain hammered at my coat, a blast of wind slamming the door behind me. The lobby was silent, the chandelier above flickering as though it were trying to hang onto the final traces of illumination.

As I walked up to the counter, the pale, skinny man who was the receptionist hardly saw me. 

Sunken eyes. His fingers danced on the counter, a wild pace that disturbed me.

“Reservation under Carter Reynolds,” I answered, trying to relax.

His eyes slid slowly, reading an old ledger instead of a computer. A moment later he nodded and gave me a tarnished brass key.

“Room 404,” he said.

I shivered in front of her. “Most hotels seemed to have skipped that figure. Right, superstition?

His facial expression stayed the same. “Mr. Reynolds, we here reject superstitions. Like your stay.

I hesitated, but my lengthy trip’s weariness prevailed. Taking the key, I headed for the elevator, which protested by groaning as it ascended. I entered a dimly lighted hallway that felt inappropriate when the doors closed. The walls seemed too close, the air stifling with a smell I couldn’t identify—damp wood and something metallic. My steps sounded abnormal as if the corridor went farther than it ought.

I stopped when I got to Room 404. The brass number plate was worn and dull; the edges seemed to be fighting their survival. Unusual pressure developed in my chest. My gut told me to go, but I wrote it off as travel weariness.

I unlocked it after turning in the key.

The door opened to show a chamber that, at first look, appeared somewhat ordinary—if somewhat old. a hefty wooden wardrobe stood in the corner with an antique rotary phone next to a desk and a comforter covered in dust on her bed. The crumbling wallpaper exposed something black below.

As I entered the room, a blast of frigid air snipped through.

Behind me, the door closed firmly.

I spun abruptly, my pulse firing. By itself, the lock clicked into position. I started to hitch my breathing. Though I twisted the doorknob, it wouldn’t move.

I felt imprisoned.

My skin crawled at a sudden noise—a whisper, weak and sneaky. My eyes shot to the partly open wardrobe. Inside, a shadow moved just slightly.

I wasn’t on my alone.

The weight of the thickening air pressed against my chest like invisible hands. I retreated, my head whirling. Perhaps all I had was imagination. Perhaps tiredness was playing games with me.

Then the phone started to ring.

I surged. The rotary phone had no obvious cable, hence it shouldn’t have worked. Still, the sharp ring tore through the quiet.

I paused then picked it up. “Hi!”

Another breath. Then, almost above a whisper, a voice says, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Blood went to the ice in me. “Who are you?”

The line perished.

Hearts thumping, I dropped the receiver. Benevolent low creaks emanated behind me. I spun, eyes fixed on the wardrobe. The door now opened more widely. Inside it, the gloom seemed to go farther, as though it headed somewhere else.

A change in form occurred inside.

Then footsteps.

deliberate, slow, hefty. Still, they were not coming from within the wardrobe.

From the walls, they were arriving.

Then another, then a subdued knock. Like something—someone—a rhythmic beating caught someone within, attempting to escape.

Panic slithered into my throat. I hurried to the door yanking at the doorknob, kicking, and banging my hands on the wood.

let me out!

The walls rocked. The whispers got louder and combined to create anguished moans. The wardrobe door creaked open to expose just pure blackness. My breath seized as something invisible, a presence heavy with hate slithered toward me.

The shadows grew and became elongated fingers reaching for me from the blackness. Heart pounding, I staggered backward. My mirror reflection twisted and morphed into something hideous—my face staring back but with hollow, screaming eyes.

The voice murmured once more, “You shouldn’t be here,” but now it was inside my thoughts.

And suddenly the truth assaulted me with a power more terrible than the gloom itself.

Room 424 was not available.

Before making a reservation, I recalled looking over the hotel’s website. 403 was first among all the numbers.

There was no such room here.

The awareness sent a shock of horror through me. Turning sharply, I pressed myself against the door as the blackness pushed forward, tentacles reaching. The noises evolved into agonizing, desperate screams of people who had visited here before me.

I wasn’t first either.

Not me would be the last.

The roof cracked and the walls creased. I was being pulled into the nothingness as the whole room collapsed inward. My fingers battled at the door, nails breaking as I tried to flee. Mine ankle was gripped coldly, dragging me backward. My cries went into nothing as the shadows consumed me entirely.

My reflection in the dusty mirror—Mouth open in a silent scream—was the last thing I saw before the gloom enveloped me.

The front desk receptionist looked up the next morning when a fresh guest arrived.

He said, “Welcome to the Blackwood Hotel,” and reached for the old ledger. “Do you have a reservation?”

The visitor responded, “Yes.” “Under Daniel Whitmer.”

The fingers of the receptionist tapped on the counter in that same frantic pattern. He nodded and turned over a tarnished brass key.

“Room 404,” he said.

The visitor wrinkled his nose. “I felt most hotels omitted that figure.”

The receptionist grinned, his mouth too broad.

Here, we do not believe in superstitions.