The rain hadn't stopped all morning.
Clara Johnson stood under the stone archway of Crestfield University, her suitcase wheels stuck in the mud and her heart pounding louder than the thunder overhead. Around her, the other freshmen buzzed with excitement, laughter echoing across the campus like music. But Clara's eyes weren't on the orientation banners or the smiling tour guides. Her focus was fixed on the dorm across the quad — the one that stood apart from the others.
Dormitory 6A.
The building was cloaked in ivy and shadow, its red bricks stained dark with age and rain. The windows were fogged, cracked in some places, and none were open. While the other dorms were lively, decorated with balloons and welcome signs, 6A looked forgotten. Or worse — avoided.
She glanced at the brass key in her hand. It was old, rough-edged, and strangely cold, as if it had just been pulled from a block of ice. On the tag, handwritten in fading ink, was the number: Room 213 – Dorm 6A.
"Great," Clara muttered. "Haunted house vibes on day one."
Dragging her suitcase through the puddles, she crossed the quad, her boots squelching in the mud. As she approached the door, she noticed the thick vines twisting around the frame, almost like they were trying to keep people out — or something in.
She hesitated. A strange chill crept up her spine.
It's just nerves, she told herself. New place. New life. You've got this.
The key slid into the lock with a heavy click.
The door creaked open slowly, revealing a hallway that swallowed the light behind her. Inside, the air was colder than outside — dry and heavy, like it hadn't moved in years. The lights overhead flickered as if struggling to wake up. The walls were faded yellow, stained with time, and the linoleum floor groaned under her weight.
"Hello?" Clara called.
No answer. Just the buzz of the old ceiling light.
She wheeled her suitcase forward, trying not to flinch at each creak beneath her feet. Halfway down the hallway, she passed a mirror—tall, old, and smeared. She paused, catching a glimpse of her reflection. Her auburn hair was damp, her green eyes tired, her expression uncertain.
Suddenly, behind her reflection, a shadow flickered.
She spun around.
No one.
Her heart kicked. She laughed nervously, brushing it off. "Get it together, Clara."
She reached the staircase and climbed to the second floor. A door marked 213 stood at the end of the hallway. It looked just like the others, but Clara's gut twisted when she stepped closer. The air outside the door felt heavier.
She slid the key in.
It resisted for a moment. Then—click.
The door creaked open.
Inside, Room 213 was dim. The curtains were drawn tight. Two beds, two desks, and a wardrobe lined the walls. Her side was bare; the other half already had a neatly folded blanket, a stack of books, and a black hoodie draped over a chair.
So her roommate had already arrived.
Clara stepped in cautiously and closed the door behind her. As she moved to set her suitcase by the bed, she noticed something strange: scratch marks—thin and sharp—etched into the wooden floor beneath the window.
She bent down. Five long gashes, as if someone had been dragged… or tried to claw their way out.
The doorknob rattled.
Clara jumped to her feet.
The door opened slowly, and a tall girl stepped in. She wore black jeans, a grey shirt, and had short dark curls. Her eyes—cold and unreadable—met Clara's.
"You're the new girl," the girl said. Her voice was flat, almost bored.
"Um, yeah. Clara."
"Maya." The girl didn't offer a hand. She walked past Clara, set her bag on the bed, and sat.
An awkward silence stretched between them.
"So... this dorm is kind of creepy," Clara said, trying to lighten the mood.
Maya looked at her, expression unreadable. "Then why did you choose it?"
"I didn't. It was the only one left."
Maya nodded slowly. "Figures."
Clara frowned. "Figures what?"
But Maya didn't answer. She pulled out a notebook and started writing.
Feeling unwelcome, Clara turned to unpack. But she couldn't stop glancing at the scratches on the floor. When she looked up again, Maya was staring at her.
"You hear anything tonight," Maya said quietly, "don't open the door."
"What?"
"I'm serious."
Clara blinked. "Why would I hear something?"
Maya stared at her for a long second. Then she shrugged. "Just don't."
Clara forced a smile. "You're not gonna haze me or something, right?"
Maya didn't smile back.
Later that night, Clara lay in bed, wide awake. The room was silent, save for the occasional groan of the old building. Maya's breathing was steady, rhythmic.
Then, at exactly midnight, Clara's lamp flickered.
Just once.
She sat up, heart thudding.
The hallway outside creaked.
Probably someone walking to the bathroom, she thought, though the sound was slow. Too slow.
Something scraped across the door.
She held her breath.
Then—a knock.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Clara's body went cold. She looked over at Maya.
The other girl's eyes were already open. Watching her.
Maya shook her head slowly.
Don't open it.
Clara didn't move.
The knocks came again.
Then silence.
The next morning, when Clara opened the door, there were no footprints in the dust outside their room.
But on the door's surface, faint and chilling, were five long scratch marks.