The rain never stopped.
It had been pouring since Arav arrived at the old hill-town lodge, and now it was midnight again—the second night. Thunder rolled like distant growls from the sky, and the wooden beams above his head creaked like something was shifting just above him.
But there wasn’t supposed to be a floor above.
He had checked. Twice.
Arav sat by the edge of the small, rickety bed in Room 10, with only a dim yellow bulb flickering on the wall. He hadn’t slept since the previous night—haunted by the sound of footsteps and that wet trail of footprints that stopped right at his door.
He asked the lodge caretaker that morning about it.> “Footprints?”
“Maybe water from the roof,” the old man said, looking away.
But Arav had seen them—bare feet, pointing inward.
The Window.There was something strange about this room.
The window.
It was large, shut tight, and fogged from the inside—but no matter how many times Arav tried to look out, he saw nothing. Not even darkness. Just a thick, moving blur—like something wet pressed up against it, breathing.
He wiped the glass. Nothing changed.
He turned the lights off. Still nothing.
He thought it was the fog, or maybe condensation. But now, at night, when the world should be pitch black, the window seemed to pulse with a dim, bluish glow.
A Whisper in the Rain
Arav decided to record everything. He opened the voice memo app on his phone and began:> “Day two. Heavy rain, no signal. I still don’t know why this place feels… off. The window doesn’t show anything. And there’s a scratching sound now, like something brushing the walls.”
Right then, a soft whisper—barely audible—floated in from the ceiling> “...eleven…”
He froze.> Did someone just whisper?
Eleven?
Room Eleven? The one that never opens?
His heart raced. He checked the time—2:14 a.m.
Arav slowly walked to the window and pressed his hand against the glass.
It felt warm.Warm?
Then he saw it.Just a blink of it.
A face.Pale. Eyeless. Floating in the fog on the other side of the glass.And gone.
He stumbled backward and hit the chair. The room felt smaller. The walls were humming. The bulb flickered violently and went out. Darkness swallowed everything—except the window.Which was now glowing.
Room Eleven Again
He couldn’t stay in that room anymore.
Grabbing his torch, Arav stepped out into the narrow corridor. The rain was louder here. It seemed to be inside the walls. As if the building itself was breathing the storm.
He turned left—toward Room Eleven.
The corridor was darker than before, even though the bulbs were on. The air smelled of damp wood and something foul, like wet iron and rot.
Room Eleven looked... different tonight.
It had always been shut. The brass number plate was tarnished, the knob rusted. But tonight, it looked like someone had been trying to scratch something into the door. Repeatedly. Over and over.
When he got closer, he realized it wasn’t scratches.It was a word, carved deeply with some sharp object:> “REMEMBER”Just that.
A strange, pressing pain filled his chest. He reached out to touch the knob—but it was warm, just like the window.
Suddenly—> THUMP.
Something banged from inside Room Eleven.
Then again.> THUMP. THUMP.
He staggered back.And then silence. Utter silence. Even the rain stopped.For the first time since he arrived, the lodge was quiet.Then—
> CLICK.
The knob on Room Eleven turned by itself.
Back in the Room
Arav didn’t wait. He ran back to his room. Slammed the door. Locked it. Pushed a chair against it.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until his hands began to tremble. He wiped his face and sat down.
The window was dark now. But this time, something else had changed.
There was a mark on his wall.
Drawn in wet ash or soot—was a simple circle, with three vertical lines cutting through it. Beneath it, written in dripping letters:> “You came back.”
The Photograph
Arav opened his bag, searching for his ID. But instead, he found something he hadn’t packed:
A photograph.Black and white. A faded picture of a boy, standing in front of the lodge. Dated: 1997.
The boy… looked like him.Same eyes. Same chin. Even the same mole under his ear. But he had no memory of being here. Not in childhood. Not ever.On the back of the photo, a message in pencil:> “They don’t forget.
You must not remember.”He stared at it until the torchlight began to flicker. Batteries dying. He turned it off, sat in darkness.
That’s when the voice returned.
From the window.
> "You were born in Room Eleven."
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