The storm had passed, but the quiet it left behind was heavier than thunder.
Lena lay still on the bed in Room 402, her eyes closed, her body sinking slowly into the mattress as if the room itself was drawing her down. The silence was complete. No creaks from the floor above. No chatter from guests in the hallway. Just stillness—and that peculiar sense that she wasn't entirely alone.
Sleep came reluctantly, like a wary visitor. But when it did, it arrived in waves.
First came the warmth—a numbing, honey-thick sensation that spread through her limbs. Then the sound. Faint, almost imperceptible at first. A hum. Low, like the vibration of a cello string in another room. It resonated through her bones, steady and lulling.
In her dream, she was still in Room 402.
But it wasn't her version of the room.
The wallpaper had changed—now a faded floral print with yellowing edges. The curtains were drawn, but sunlight streamed through like it belonged to another decade. Dust floated in the beams. And seated by the window was a woman.
She wore a blue dress, high-collared and pressed, her auburn hair curled perfectly around her ears. Her face, though, was hazy—smudged like a figure in an old photograph. She didn't look up. Just sat there, slowly brushing her hair and humming a tune that Lena couldn't place. It was haunting but soft. Almost tender.
Lena opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
She looked around. Everything felt real. The air. The warmth. The familiar weight of the room—but filtered through a lens of nostalgia and dust. She tried to move, but her feet wouldn't cooperate. The bed behind her was neatly made, the same brass key she'd received still resting on the desk.
The woman stopped humming.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Lena's presence. Her voice, when she spoke, was no more than a whisper carried by static.
"Don't stay too long."
Then the window shattered.
Lena gasped and sat upright.
Darkness. Real darkness. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, hand clutching the edge of the blanket. The curtains were drawn tight. The storm outside had faded into a damp silence. The bedside clock read 3:17 AM. Her skin was clammy, her heart still racing from the vision.
She rubbed her face and leaned back, trying to steady her breath. "Just a dream," she muttered. "Just a—"
Something caught her eye.
The closet.
The door, which had been firmly closed when she arrived, was now ajar by a few inches.
Lena froze.
For a moment, she convinced herself it might've been the draft. Old hotels were full of creaky hinges and loose frames. But the air was dead still. No breeze. No sound. No movement.
Slowly, she slid out of bed. Her bare feet touched the cool floor as she approached the closet, one cautious step at a time. She reached for the handle and opened it fully.
Inside was nothing unusual—just a hanging robe, thick and white, the kind she'd seen in countless hotels.
But when she reached out to examine it, something made her stop.
The stitching.
On the inside of the collar, embroidered in neat golden thread, was a name:
Marjorie R.
Not the hotel's name. Not Grand Marietta. And certainly not hers.
She stared at it, a strange chill settling in her stomach. A personalized robe. Why would it be here?
And who was Marjorie?
Lena stepped back from the closet. Her instincts screamed for logic—an explanation. Maybe it belonged to a long-time guest. Maybe the staff forgot to remove it.
Her thoughts trailed off as she heard it again.
The hum.
Not loud. Not in her head.
Coming from behind the walls.
Low and pulsing—like someone humming the same lullaby from her dream.
She pressed her ear to the wall near the bed.
It was faint. So faint she almost doubted it.
But it was there.
A tune with no words, just a rise and fall. A melody you wouldn't know how to sing, yet it felt… familiar. Intimate. Too intimate.
Lena backed away, her breath shallow.
She sat on the edge of the bed, robe still in her hand. The name on it stared up at her like a question carved into fabric. Marjorie R.
She glanced at the rotary phone on the desk. It hadn't rung. It hadn't moved. But she was starting to think it might.
She didn't sleep again that night.
Instead, she sat up by the window, listening to the quiet hum behind the walls, wondering if she was still dreaming… or if the dream had followed her into waking life.
And on the desk, unnoticed in the soft lamplight, was a note she hadn't seen when she checked in.
Folded neatly. Pressed flat.
Lena picked it up, hands trembling.
It read:
"Don't answer the phone. No matter what you hear."
She stared at the words, heart thudding.
And then—
The rotary phone rang.