The stairwell smelled of iron and moisture.
Each step creaked differently, like the hostel tested her weight before allowing her forward. By the time she reached the third floor, her breathing felt too loud.
The corridor waited.
Long.
Too long.
White lights buzzed overhead, flickering unevenly. Doors lined both sides, most locked, some warped, some slightly open — just enough to look like watching eyes.
Room 317 stood near the end.
Her key turned slowly.
Inside, the room was small but clean — suspiciously clean compared to the rest of the building. A narrow bed. A desk. A mirror. One window facing thick fog.
Anaya dropped her bag and sat, trying to calm herself.
"It's just old," she whispered.
Still, she kept glancing at the door.
As night fell, the hostel became unnaturally quiet. No chatter. No footsteps. No phones ringing.
At exactly 12:17 a.m., a sound crawled into her room.
Tap… tap… drag…
Not from inside.
From the corridor.
Anaya froze.
The sound repeated.
Closer.
She slowly stood and opened the door.
The corridor looked different.
Longer.
The end was darker than before, like the lights refused to touch it.
"Hello?" she whispered.
No answer.
Then—
"Anaya…"
Her blood turned cold.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't angry.
It sounded curious.
Like something learning her voice.
She slammed the door, heart crashing against her ribs, and slid to the floor, hugging her knees as the whisper brushed against the walls all night.