Room Eleven Remembers

 The Rainfall Room 

The storm outside hadn't stopped. The rain fell like it had something to say, pounding on the roof and windows, soaking the town in secrets. Inside the lodge, Arav stood frozen in front of the strange photograph that had slipped out from behind the cracked mirror. A photo of Room Eleven, lit by an eerie orange glow—yet the room, as far as anyone knew, had been locked for years.

He stared at the number etched faintly behind the photo. It wasn’t ink—it looked scorched, like it had been burned into the paper:

"I see you."

Arav’s fingers trembled. The message felt personal. He knew he hadn’t slept much, but this wasn’t a dream. The air in Room 10 was heavy, like it was being pressed down by invisible hands. He could hear something breathing… not loudly, but slowly, almost in rhythm with his own heartbeat.

He turned away from the photo and stared at the window—the one that had no view. Rain slammed against the glass from outside, but there was no landscape, no reflection, no light. Only blackness.

But this time, something had changed.

In the glass, a shadow moved.

Not outside. Inside the reflection.

He turned back to check the room. Nothing there. Just him.

But the reflection still showed movement.

He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. Something inside him had locked down every normal reaction. He moved closer to the window. His breath fogged the glass. Then, with the edge of his sleeve, he wiped it—and for a fraction of a second, he saw her.

A woman in white. Wet hair clinging to her face. Standing behind him.

He turned around instantly.

Nothing.

But his room door was slightly open now.

He hadn’t left it that way.

Arav stepped out into the hallway.

It was colder. And darker.

The lights that had worked earlier flickered now, shadows dancing across the damp walls. The hallway stretched longer than before. The far end, where Room Eleven was supposed to be sealed, looked… unlocked.

He began walking, slowly, listening to the creaking wood beneath his feet. Each step echoed like a knock—on wood, on memory, on something that didn’t want to be disturbed.

When he reached the door of Room Eleven, he hesitated.

The doorknob was rusted, but clean—like it had been used recently. The sign DO NOT ENTER hung slightly crooked now, and a faint scratch ran across the door like someone had clawed at it.

He pressed his ear against the wood.

Breathing.

Steady. Calm. Inside.

His fingers gripped the knob and turned it slowly. The door creaked open.

What he saw wasn’t dust and cobwebs. It was a room still living in a moment long gone.

Room Eleven.

The walls were pale green, with torn photographs pinned in odd places. The curtains fluttered from an open window, though the air was still. A kettle sat on the table, long cold, and an old radio sat on the shelf playing static. The bed was made neatly—almost too neatly, like it hadn’t been disturbed in years but someone had made sure it still looked perfect.

But the strangest thing was the scent.Not of mold or dust, but tea and rainwater.And something else—sandalwood.

Memories.

Arav felt dizzy. Like he’d stood here before. But he had never been to this town until two nights ago.

Right?He walked over to the table. On it lay a small journal.

Its cover read: "For those who forget too soon."

He opened it.

Entry: July 17th, 2005

"The boy from the river is back. He stands on the street like he’s never left. But he has forgotten. I don’t know how, but he has."

Entry: July 18th, 2005

"He walks into the lodge. He doesn’t recognize me. But I remember the storm. The scream. The water. The door that never opened. I remember."

Entry: July 19th, 2005

"He’s staying in Room Ten. Just like before. The window will show him. The photograph will find him. The lodge always brings back what you bury."

The handwriting was elegant, feminine. Familiar.

Arav backed away. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned the rain. Who was writing this? Why did it sound like they were watching him?

He flipped to the last page.

Blank.No...... Not blank. A sentence started to appear, slowly, like ink bleeding through from the other side.

“Open the floorboard beneath the bed.”

His hands moved before his mind could process. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. A loose wooden plank.

He pulled it up.

A box.

Inside the box—an old red scarf… and a photograph of a boy standing at the riverbank, laughing.

It was him.Younger, But it was him.And beside him—the same woman he’d seen in the window reflection.

The one in white.

He staggered out of the room.Down the hallway.Past the flickering lights.Back to Room Ten.

When he closed the door behind him, he turned to find something scrawled on the mirror.

“Why did you leave her to drown?”

His knees buckled.

Flashes came—childhood, the town, a storm. A scream. A girl slipping under the water. His hands frozen. The cold. The running.

His memory wasn’t broken.

It had been sealed.By him.And now, this lodge—this room—was unsealing it.

That night, Arav didn’t sleep. He sat by the window, staring into the void that offered no view, no sky, no end. The rain continued, like a ticking clock.

At 3:33 a.m., a knock came.

He froze.Not ,on the door.

On the window.

Three soft taps.

Then a voice. Gentle. Familiar. Echoing through the walls.

“Tomorrow. The river. Come back.”And silence returned.

The Lonely Pen By Aj