The Last Room
The Last Room
Blog Article
In the quiet outskirts of a rural town stood the old Ashwood Inn, a once-bustling hotel now shrouded in dust and silence. Most of the rooms had long since fallen into disrepair, but one room in particular, Room 313, was kept locked. No one entered it. No one spoke of it. It was simply known as "the last room."
When Julian, a travel blogger known for exploring haunted locations, heard the rumors about Ashwood Inn, he was instantly intrigued. The locals warned him, saying the last guest who stayed in Room 313 was never seen again. But Julian had heard similar stories before, and none had ever amounted to anything more than spooky folklore Horror Story.
The owner of the inn, a thin, elderly woman named Greta, was hesitant to allow Julian access. “That room doesn’t like people,” she said. “It remembers.” But Julian, armed with his camera and curiosity, was persistent. Eventually, she relented.
The room was cold, despite the warm autumn sun. The air was heavy, stale—as if it hadn’t been breathed in for years. Faded wallpaper peeled at the corners, and a large mirror hung above a dusty dresser. Julian set up his equipment, planning to record a night inside.
At first, nothing happened. He recorded some footage, commented on the eerie atmosphere, and laughed at the creaking floorboards. But as midnight approached, the temperature dropped. The lights flickered. Julian’s camera glitched.
Then he saw it in the mirror.
A figure—pale, blurred, and silent—standing just behind him. He turned quickly, but the room was empty. When he looked back, the mirror showed only his own confused expression.
He laughed it off, assuming it was just his imagination. But the feeling of being watched grew stronger, heavier. Whispers began—soft, unintelligible at first, then clearer. “Get out… He’s still here… It never ends…”
The door, which he’d locked earlier, creaked open on its own.
Julian grabbed his camera and decided he had enough content. But when he stepped into the hallway, it had changed. The walls were covered in old photographs—faces scratched out, eyes missing. The hallway seemed to stretch longer than before, the end fading into darkness.
Panicked, he turned back to the room, but the door slammed shut behind him. He pounded on it, shouting, but no sound came out of his mouth. The mirror began to ripple, as though it were water, and the pale figure reappeared—closer, clearer.
It was him.
But not him.
Its eyes were hollow. Its smile was twisted. It reached out from the mirror and whispered, “Now you stay.”
The next morning, Greta found Room 313 empty—no Julian, no camera, nothing. Just the mirror, and in it, a second reflection where there should have been one.
Conclusion
Horror stories like “The Last Room” remind us that some mysteries are better left alone. It’s the unknown—the shadows, the whispers, the mirror’s reflection—that truly haunt us. And sometimes, curiosity doesn’t lead to truth... it leads to terror.
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