"You blink. Your lights flicker. The floor creaks behind you. And for a moment—just a moment—you swear you heard a door open where no door ever was."
Ravi had worked building maintenance for fifteen years. Pipes, pests, flickering lights—he'd seen it all. But tonight, the call was different.
"Scratching," the tenant on the third floor said. "Crying, maybe. Behind the wall. Room 301."
Ravi frowned.
"There is no Room 301."
"Then what's making those sounds?" she whispered.
Apartment 301 didn't exist. Ravi knew this. The floor plan skipped from 300 to 302. The spot where 301 should be was a bricked-up wall, faded wallpaper curling at the edges.
He stared at it now, flashlight trembling slightly in his grip. Behind the peeling flowered print, he found wood. Not just drywall—an actual wooden door frame.
He removed the paneling. Then the boards. Then the nails.
Then the door.
Room 301 exhaled a breath of cold, wet air.
The room beyond was silent and still. But not empty.
Ravi stepped inside.
And froze.
It was a replica of his own apartment. Same peeling paint. Same layout. Same flickering lightbulb. Same broken photo frame—except inside it was a photo of him, much younger, about seven. Eyes wide. Mouth open in a scream.
He didn't remember this photo being taken.
He didn't remember screaming.
There was something on the bed. A figure, curled tightly, facing the wall.
Ravi took a step closer.
The figure whispered:
"You left me here."
Its voice was like rust scraping against a tooth.
It turned.
And Ravi saw himself. But… not. This version was raw, skinned—muscles twitching, teeth broken, lips sewn in twisted knots of black thread. One eye dangled, the other stared directly into him.
"You promised you'd come back," it gurgled.
The walls began to bleed.
Photographs curled from the ceiling like skin molting. Each one showed Ravi inside this room, entering again and again—different days, same fear. One showed him slitting his own throat. Another showed him smiling with no skin. Another showed nothing at all—just a dark shape growing in the corner.
Ravi backed away, but the hallway stretched.
The door he came through was gone.
He ran through the corridor, only to find another 301.
Inside:
His mother. Hanging from the ceiling. Mouth open. No eyes. Whispering his name backwards.
He screamed. Screamed until his throat tore.
He smashed a window—but there was no outside. Just darkness. Writhing. Watching.
He collapsed on the floor. Cried.
Then… light.
A door creaked open behind him. He ran.
He burst into the hallway.
He was back.
Home.
Safe.
The hall was silent.
He stepped into his real apartment—301 was gone again. As if it never existed.
But everything was quiet. Too quiet.
His phone rang.
He picked it up.
His own voice on the line:
"You promised you'd come back."
He turned toward the mirror.
And saw no reflection.
Only the door to Room 301, waiting behind him again.
---
You blink. Your lights flicker.
The floor creaks behind you.
And for a moment—just a moment—
You swear you heard a door open where no door ever was.