The Shadow in Room 9

The old Grand Horizon Hotel had been in the city for nearly a century. Its marble floors gleamed during the day, and the chandeliers sparkled, masking the decades of history held within its walls. Employees whispered stories about certain rooms—particularly Room 9 on the top floor. No one wanted to stay there, and guests who were assigned to it often requested transfers the next morning. Yet the management always claimed these were mere coincidences, accidents of imagination.

Ayaan, a young travel blogger seeking unusual stories for his audience, decided to investigate. He checked in late one rainy evening, requesting the infamous Room 9. The receptionist hesitated but finally handed him the key, warning him with a forced smile, “Some rooms… have more character than others.” Ayaan laughed, thinking it was part of the hotel’s charm, and carried his bag up the narrow staircase.

Room 9 was surprisingly spacious. The wallpaper was faded, and the carpet had worn patches, but the furniture was antique and polished. As he set his bag down, he noticed the air was unusually cold, despite the heater running. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, moving as though breathing. Ayaan dismissed it, attributing the chill to the old building.

After taking notes for his blog, he decided to rest. Midnight approached. As he drifted off, he heard a faint scraping sound from the corner of the room near the wardrobe. He sat upright, straining his ears. The sound stopped. Minutes later, it returned—slightly louder, accompanied by a soft whisper. He leaned closer, trying to discern the words, but could only make out fragmented syllables.

The next hour was a series of strange occurrences. The ceiling fan oscillated slowly without electricity; the wardrobe door creaked open by itself, revealing darkness inside. Shadows lengthened unnaturally along the walls, forming shapes that seemed vaguely human. Ayaan grabbed his camera, hoping to capture evidence, but when he reviewed the footage, the room appeared empty.

Suddenly, the whisper became a voice. Clear, low, and deliberate: “Leave… now…” Ayaan froze. The heater shut off, plunging the room into darkness. He fumbled for his flashlight, but it flickered weakly, barely illuminating the room. Something moved behind the bed—something heavy, pressing against the air like a dark mass.

Heart racing, Ayaan backed toward the door. The knob twisted under his hand, but it felt sticky, as if resisting his escape. He yanked hard, and the door flew open, slamming him into the hallway. He ran down the corridor, the whispering now following him, echoing through the walls, repeating his name, calling him back.

Other guests on lower floors looked up in confusion as Ayaan burst through the lobby, drenched in sweat, trembling. The receptionist approached cautiously. “Room 9 again?” she asked, her eyes shadowed with something unspoken. Ayaan could only nod, unable to form words.

The next day, he checked out immediately. Though the hotel was grand and luxurious, he avoided returning. Yet the memory haunted him. He could not explain it rationally—the voice, the moving shadows, the oppressive cold—but he knew what he had experienced was not imagination.

Years later, Ayaan would hear from friends that the hotel still assigned Room 9 to unsuspecting guests. Some left terrified. Others disappeared without explanation. He realized some spaces remember those who enter, keeping them on record in ways the living cannot understand. And every so often, late at night, he would hear a whisper through his apartment window, soft and deliberate: “Return…”

Some doors, he realized, are never truly closed.

And every so often, late at night, he would hear a whisper through his apartment window, soft and deliberate: “Return…”