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The hospital room felt colder than it should. Aryan's fingers twitched around the phone that had just gone black. The last image it showed was impossible: a hand reaching over his hospital bed, though no one else had been there. Not even the nurse.
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He sat up slowly, sweat sticking to the back of his neck despite the chill. The beeping monitor beside him suddenly stuttered — one, two, three beats missing — before returning to its rhythm. The lights overhead flickered once. Twice.
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Something wasn’t right.
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He turned to look behind him, expecting the room to be empty. It was.
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But the mirror on the wall wasn’t reflecting him. It showed his bed — and in the bed, Aryan still lay asleep. Mouth slightly open. Eyes closed.
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What he saw in the mirror wasn’t himself now, but himself... left behind.
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He stumbled off the bed and reached for the mirror.
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His hand didn’t meet glass.
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It passed through.
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Suddenly, Aryan was no longer in the hospital room. He stood in a wide, dimly lit circular chamber. The air was heavy with static, and whispers echoed like insects crawling in his ears. Symbols glowed faintly on the walls — ancient, shifting.
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In the center of the chamber stood a curtain.
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Old. Velvet. Black as the void.
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A child’s voice whispered: "Behind the curtain lies the memory you forgot. But memories always have a price."
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Aryan approached the curtain, heart pounding.
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A hand reached out from beneath it. Thin, trembling. Human. Or once-human.
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He yanked the curtain back.
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Behind it stood a girl — the same girl from the motel mirror — her eyes hollow and lips stitched shut. Her hand grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.
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Images slammed into his mind:
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— A fire in the motel hallway.
— A girl trapped inside Room 13, banging on the door.
— Aryan as a child, watching through the crack in his own room’s wall... doing nothing. Frozen in fear.
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She had been left to die. He had seen. He had forgotten.
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"You were always part of this," a voice boomed around him. "Room 13 isn't haunted. It's hungry. It fed on her. Now it remembers. And so do you."
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Aryan screamed.
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---
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He awoke again — or so he thought.
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This time, he was not in a hospital. He was back in the motel.
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But it was not abandoned. It was fully operational. Clean. Polished. Music played in the lobby.
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A receptionist smiled at him: "Welcome back, Mr. Aryan. Room 13 is ready for you."
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He looked down.
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In his hand was a key. The tag read:
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Room 13 — Memory Reserved.
To Be Continued...
Chapter 5 coming 🔜
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