ROOM 314

The first time I heard the telephone ring from Room 314, I thought someone was playing a cruel joke.

The second time, I realized the room wasn’t empty.

And the third time, I heard my own name.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Everything began on a rainy Monday night, when I accepted a job at a hotel I should never have entered.

Blackwood Hotel stood in the heart of the city, surrounded by glass skyscrapers and expensive restaurants. Its black marble entrance reflected the golden lights of passing cars, while uniformed doormen greeted guests as if they were royalty.

It was the kind of place where people wore watches worth more than my mother’s entire medical bill.

And I desperately needed a job.

My mother’s treatment had swallowed every naira I had saved. The little money I earned from working at a neighborhood restaurant wasn’t enough anymore, and the hospital had given us another deadline.

I couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity.

Even if the hotel gave me the creeps.

“You’re Elena Hart?”

I turned toward the man standing behind the reception desk.

He was in his late forties, with a narrow face, silver-framed glasses, and a perfectly pressed black suit. His name badge read VICTOR HAYES — HEAD OF SECURITY.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re late.”

I glanced at the clock.

11:57 p.m.

“My shift begins at midnight.”

Victor looked at me for a moment before checking his watch.

“Three minutes early, then.”

He didn’t smile.

I decided I didn’t like him.

“Follow me,” he said.

I collected my handbag and followed him through a staff corridor. The farther we walked from the lobby, the quieter the hotel became.

The luxurious music faded behind us. The polished marble gave way to dark carpeting, and the warm golden lights were replaced by narrow white bulbs that flickered occasionally.

“Is this where I’ll be working?” I asked.

“Sometimes. Your primary station is downstairs, but you’ll be covering the third floor tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because the night receptionist called in sick.”

“Is there anything I need to know about the third floor?”

Victor stopped walking.

For a moment, I thought he hadn’t heard me.

Then he turned slowly.

“Yes.”

His expression was so serious that I instinctively straightened.

“Whatever you do, Miss Hart, stay away from Room 314.”

I blinked.

“Room 314?”

“Don’t enter it. Don’t touch the handle. If you hear anything coming from inside, ignore it.”

I stared at him.

“Is someone staying there?”

“No.”

“Then why would I—”

“Because I am telling you not to.”

His voice was sharp enough to end the conversation.

I swallowed my questions.

I needed this job.

I wasn’t going to lose it because I was curious about a locked hotel room.

“Understood,” I said.

Victor studied my face as though he were trying to determine whether I was telling the truth.

Then he continued walking.

We reached a small reception desk on the third floor. Behind it stood a computer, a desk lamp, and a vase containing three artificial white roses.

The corridor stretched away from us in both directions.

Doors lined the walls.

At the far end, beneath a flickering light, stood a single black door.

There was no number on it.

Yet I knew, somehow, that it was Room 314.

Victor placed a keycard beside the computer.

“This gives you access to the staff areas. Don’t use it on any guest room.”

“Okay.”

“Your shift ends at six. The morning receptionist will take over.”

“Okay.”

He started to leave, then paused.

“One more thing.”

I looked up.

“If the telephone rings at 3:14 a.m., do not answer it.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.

“Why?”

Victor’s face hardened.

“Because that telephone has been disconnected for three years.”

He walked away before I could ask another question.

I stood alone behind the desk, listening to the sound of my own breathing.

Then I looked at the clock.

11:59 p.m.

“Wonderful,” I whispered. “My first night at a haunted hotel.”

I sat down, opened the computer system, and tried to concentrate on my work.

For the first hour, everything was normal.

A couple returned from dinner. A businessman requested an extra pillow. A guest complained that the air conditioning in his room was too cold.

Ordinary problems.

Ordinary people.

By 2:30 a.m., I had almost convinced myself that Victor was simply an unpleasant man with an overactive imagination.

Then I noticed something strange.

The hotel’s room directory listed every room on the third floor.

301. 302. 303.

And so on.

But there was no Room 314.

I checked again.

The list went from 313 directly to 315.

I leaned closer to the screen.

Perhaps it was a storage room.

Perhaps the numbering had been changed.

Perhaps Victor had warned me away from it because the hotel kept valuable equipment inside.

I was still trying to find a reasonable explanation when the lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then the corridor went dark.

I froze.

A second later, the emergency lights came on, bathing everything in a dim red glow.

And from somewhere down the corridor came a sound.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate footsteps.

I stood up.

“Hello?”

The footsteps stopped.

I waited.

Nothing.

Then I heard a soft metallic rattle.

It sounded like someone trying to turn a doorknob.

I glanced toward the black door at the end of the corridor.

My stomach tightened.

“Nope,” I whispered. “Absolutely not.”

I returned to my chair, sat down, and stared at the computer.

I would not investigate.

I would not move from the desk.

I would finish my shift, collect my salary, pay the hospital, and never speak of this place again.

That was the plan.

Then the telephone rang.

I nearly fell out of my chair.

It was an old-fashioned black telephone sitting beside the computer. I hadn’t noticed it earlier because it blended into the dark desk.

The sound was deafening in the silent corridor.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

I stared at it.

The clock above the reception desk read 3:14 a.m.

I remembered Victor’s warning.

If the telephone rings at 3:14 a.m., do not answer it.

The telephone rang again.

I should have walked away.

I should have called security.

I should have done anything except what I did next.

I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

For several seconds, there was only static.

Then I heard breathing.

Shallow, uneven breathing, as though someone on the other end had been running.

“Hello?” I repeated.

A woman whispered, “Is he there?”

My fingers tightened around the receiver.

“Who is this?”

“Please.” Her voice trembled. “You have to listen to me.”

“Listen to you about what?”

A faint sound came through the line.

A door closing.

Then the woman spoke again.

“He’s coming back.”

“Who is coming back?”

She began to cry.

I could hear it clearly now, the terrible, broken sound of someone trying not to sob.

“Listen carefully,” she whispered. “You must leave that hotel before sunrise.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Why?”

“Because if he discovers who you are, he’ll never let you leave.”

A chill crawled down my spine.

“Who am I?”

The woman stopped crying.

For a moment, I heard nothing.

Then she whispered a name.

My name.

“Elena Hart.”

The receiver slipped slightly in my hand.

“How do you know my name?”

A sudden crash echoed from the corridor.

I spun around.

The black door at the far end was open.

I knew it had been closed before.

Now a narrow strip of darkness separated it from the doorframe.

And someone was standing inside.

A woman.

She wore a long white dress that hung loosely from her thin frame. Her dark hair covered most of her face, but I could see one pale hand gripping the edge of the door.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Who’s there?” I called.

The woman lifted her head.

Even from that distance, I could see that she was looking directly at me.

Then she raised one finger to her lips.

Shhh.

The telephone crackled.

“Elena?”

I jerked the receiver back to my ear.

“Yes?”

The woman’s voice had changed.

It was no longer frightened.

It was desperate.

“Don’t trust Adrian Blackwood.”

My blood turned cold.

A man’s voice sounded behind me.

“Who told you that name?”

I spun around so quickly that my hip struck the desk.

A man stood a few feet away.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

Dressed in a black suit that looked as though it had been tailored specifically for him.

His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his face was strikingly handsome in a severe, almost unsettling way.

But it was his eyes that frightened me.

They were fixed on the telephone in my hand.

Then they moved to my face.

“Give me that,” he said.

I couldn’t move.

“Who are you?”

His jaw tightened.

“You already know my name.”

The man stepped closer.

And suddenly, I understood why Victor had been so afraid.

This was Adrian Blackwood.

The owner of the hotel.

The man no employee dared question.

The man connected to the room that didn’t exist.

I slowly lowered the telephone.

“Someone called me,” I said. “A woman.”

Adrian’s expression changed.

Only for a second.

But I saw it.

Fear.

Real, unmistakable fear.

“What did she say?”

I hesitated.

Adrian moved closer until I could smell his expensive cologne.

“What,” he repeated quietly, “did she say?”

I should have told him everything.

Instead, I remembered the woman’s warning.

Don’t trust Adrian Blackwood.

“Nothing important,” I lied.

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then he reached past me and placed the receiver back on its cradle.

His fingers brushed mine.

The contact was brief, but something about it sent an unexpected shiver through me.

His gaze dropped to my hand.

Then returned to my face.

“What’s your name?”

“Elena.”

“Elena what?”

“Hart.”

The silence that followed was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

Adrian went completely still.

His face lost every trace of color.

For a moment, he looked at me as though I’d risen from the dead.

Then he took a step backward.

“No,” he whispered.

I frowned.

“What?”

He looked toward the open door at the end of the corridor.

It was closed again.

There was no woman in white.

No movement.

No sound.

Just a black door beneath a flickering light.

Adrian turned back to me.

“Who hired you?”

“The hotel did.”

“Who interviewed you?”

“A woman from human resources.”

“Did you tell anyone your full name?”

I stared at him.

“What is this? Why are you asking me these questions?”

He ignored me.

“Have you ever been here before?”

“No.”

“Have you ever met my family?”

“No!”

My voice echoed through the corridor.

Adrian looked almost angry now, but beneath his anger was something else.

Something that resembled grief.

He took a slow breath.

“Listen to me carefully, Elena. You’re going to finish your shift, collect your belongings, and leave this building.”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You can’t fire me because a mysterious woman called the reception desk!”

“I’m not firing you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He looked at me, and for the first time, his expression softened.

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

A bitter laugh escaped me.

“Alive? From what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a small silver key.

The key was old, its surface darkened with age. A number had been engraved into its handle.

314.

He placed it on the desk between us.

My stomach dropped.

“What is that?”

Adrian looked toward the black door.

“Something I should have destroyed three years ago.”

I stared at the key.

Then at him.

“What happened in Room 314?”

His face hardened again.

“Nothing you need to know.”

He turned to leave.

But before he reached the elevator, I asked the question that had been burning inside me since the telephone rang.

“Who was the woman?”

Adrian stopped.

For several seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he turned his head slightly.

“Her name was Isabella.”

“Was?”

His eyes met mine.

“She was my fiancée.”

I felt the air leave my lungs.

“Was she the woman on the telephone?”

Adrian said nothing.

“Is she dead?”

His expression became unreadable.

Then he said something that made the entire night feel suddenly colder.

“That’s what everyone wants you to believe.”

The elevator doors opened behind him.

He stepped inside.

Just before the doors closed, he looked at me one last time.

“And Elena?”

I swallowed.

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens, don’t open Room 314.”

The doors slid shut.

I stood alone behind the reception desk, staring at the silver key.

Then the telephone rang again.

I didn’t answer it.

I couldn’t.

Because this time, the ringing wasn’t coming from the desk.

It was coming from behind the black door.

And beneath the ringing, I heard a woman’s voice.

Soft.

Familiar.

Terrified.

“Elena,” she whispered.

“Please.”

“Let me out.”