The Whispering Room
(A short scary story)
In a small hill town tucked away from modern noise, there stood a forgotten guesthouse named “Ever Rest.” It had been closed for years, yet every now and then, a traveller tired, lost, or simply curious would find its rusted gates mysteriously unlocked.
Sara, a solo backpacker chasing hidden spots for her blog, arrived in the town just as the last bus left. Locals warned her not to stay in Ever Rest. Their eyes darted away when she asked why. But the night was cold, and the other hotels were full.
The place looked abandoned, but a dim yellow light flickered on the second floor. Thinking someone might be staying there, she pushed open the creaky gate and stepped inside.
The caretaker, an old man with hollow eyes and a stitched-up smile, greeted her without words just a nod and handed her a rusted key labelled Room 203.
The room was dusty but cosy. She unpacked, freshened up, and began writing her blog when she heard it: a whisper, faint, like breath against the neck.
“Don't open the wardrobe…”
She froze. The wardrobe stood in the corner, heavy and old. She checked her phone no signal. The whisper came again.
“Don’t… open… it…”
The door creaked open slowly.
Inside was nothing… just darkness. No shelves. No rod for hangers. Just a void.
Then a hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.
She screamed, yanked her hand back, and the wardrobe slammed shut on its own.
In the morning, when sunlight poured in through broken curtains, she ran downstairs. The guesthouse was silent. Dustier than before. The caretaker was gone. Even the yellow light she had seen the night before was no longer wired in. It hadn’t worked in decades.
As she left the property, a weathered sign hidden behind vines caught her eye:
“Room 203 – Do Not Enter. Sealed After Incident: July 1993”
And on her wrist, where the hand had grabbed her, was a fresh bruise in the shape of fingers.
Want a longer one? Or one with ghosts, abandoned asylums, or ancient curses?
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