When Emily checked into the Hollow Creek Inn, she expected a quiet weekend away from the chaos of the city. The receptionist, an elderly woman with shaky hands and a forced smile, handed her the key to Room 217 with a warning:
“Don’t open the window at night.”
Emily laughed it off. Superstitions weren’t her thing. She dropped her bags in the dimly lit room and noticed how cold it felt, even though the radiator was on. The wallpaper peeled at the edges, and the air smelled faintly of damp earth.
That night, as Emily tried to sleep, she heard whispers—soft, almost like someone murmuring her name from just outside the window. She sat up, heart pounding, but saw nothing. Just a pale fog rolling in over the hills. She shut the curtains tight and went back to bed.
At 2:17 a.m., the whispers returned. Louder. Closer.
"Emily... let us in..."
She jolted upright. This time, the window was open. She was sure she had locked it. The curtains fluttered like breath from something unseen.
Terrified, she slammed it shut and dragged a chair against the frame. Her reflection in the glass looked strange—her eyes too dark, her mouth twitching into a grin she wasn’t making.
Sleep was impossible. Shadows danced in the corners of the room. The whispers never stopped.
By morning, the innkeeper found Room 217 empty. Emily’s things were untouched, but her bed was soaked with muddy footprints. The window was wide open again.
Every guest who has stayed in Room 217 since has reported the same whispers. Some leave the same night. Others vanish, just like Emily.
Locals say the room was once a nursery for the innkeeper’s children—twins who drowned in the creek below. Their bodies were never found. But on foggy nights, if you listen closely near Room 217, you can still hear the soft, echoing cry:
“Let us in…”