Room 313 — Chapter 2: Echoes Behind the Wall
I woke up to silence.
Not the peaceful kind. It was the type of silence that presses on your eardrums, makes you question if the world around you still exists. The kind that makes every shallow breath feel too loud.
The ceiling stared back at me, dull and off-white, cracked in one corner like a vein under pressure. My body didn't want to move. It felt like something had pinned me down during the night — not weight exactly, but exhaustion thick and sticky, clinging to my skin.
I turned my head. The notebook was still there on the desk. Open. That one sentence stared back at me like an accusation.
"I think something lives behind the wall."
I don't remember writing that. And yet, the handwriting... it was undeniably mine.
I blinked at the words, trying to convince myself they were a leftover from a dream, a fragmented memory, a prank I'd played on myself after too little sleep and too much stress.
I almost tore the page out. Almost.
But my hand stopped halfway.
What if I didn't write it?
What if I just thought I did?
I sat up, slowly. The air in the room was cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from an open window — this felt internal. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting.
Outside, the city was already awake. Muffled footsteps, voices, car horns — all distant, like they belonged to another world. I looked at my phone. 6:42 a.m. I hadn't set an alarm. I hadn't needed to.
The mirror was still crooked.
I didn't bother fixing it.
---
The university was only a fifteen-minute walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last. My backpack wasn't even that full. Just a couple of notebooks, some pens, and my ID. Nothing to justify the weight on my shoulders.
Campus was already alive when I got there. Students rushing between buildings, laughing, talking on their phones, slamming car doors. I tried to blend in. Walked with them. Matched their pace. But it was like they were moving faster than time, and I was stuck behind.
I introduced myself to three people in total. Only one remembered my name five minutes later.
I kept hearing someone whispering my name. But every time I turned, no one was there.
Maybe I just needed more sleep.
Maybe the train ride had worn me out more than I thought.
Or maybe that sentence in the notebook was still in the back of my mind, festering.
---
I got back to the dorm before sunset. My legs were sore, my head was pounding, and all I wanted was to collapse onto the bed and disappear.
The hallway was too quiet again.
Door 313 was slightly open.
I knew I had locked it. I knew.
I stood there, frozen, one hand tightening around the strap of my bag. My other hand reached for the doorknob. It was cold to the touch.
I pushed the door open slowly.
Nothing had changed.
Everything was where I left it. My notebook on the desk. My folded clothes on the chair. The mirror... still crooked.
But something was off.
The air smelled faintly like damp wood. The kind of scent you get in old basements — forgotten places.
I walked in slowly, kicking the door shut behind me. The sound echoed too loud in the small room. I dropped my bag and sat on the bed.
I stared at the mirror.
It stared back.
---
I got up and opened the drawer beside the bed. I just wanted a pen. I needed to write something down. Anything.
That's when I saw the folded piece of paper wedged in the corner of the drawer.
I hadn't put it there.
I unfolded it with shaky fingers.
"Don't look behind the mirror."
I stared at those five words for what felt like minutes.
The handwriting was the same as the notebook. My handwriting.
No. Not mine.
Not anymore.
My hands trembled as I looked up again. The mirror was hanging slightly to the right. Just barely. Like it had been moved. Like something behind it had nudged it forward.
I didn't want to get closer.
But I did.
I stepped forward. Slowly. Each footfall like thunder in the quiet.
I reached up.
My fingers touched the frame. Cold. Dusty.
I moved it.
Behind the mirror was a patch of wall, cracked, faintly yellowed. Nothing unusual.
Except for one thing.
There were scratch marks.
---
I dropped the mirror. It clattered against the desk, somehow not breaking, but echoing like a gunshot.
I stood there, staring, breathing too hard.
Then my phone rang.
I jumped.
"Adam?" Jeff's voice. "You home yet?"
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound normal. "Got back a while ago."
"Dude, your mom's been trying to call you. I have too. What's going on?"
"I… I didn't get anything. My phone's on."
"No, man. It says you're unavailable."
I looked at my phone.
Battery: 3%.
How? It was plugged in last night.
"I'll call you back," I said.
"Wait, Adam—" Click.
The phone died in my hand.
---
I sat on the edge of the bed. My body was heavy. My thoughts were loud.
Was I losing it?
I looked at the mirror again. It was back in place.
No.
I hadn't touched it again.
Had I?
I opened the notebook.
The sentence was gone.
In its place was something else.
Two words.
"Keep lying."