This happened in 2019, in a small town near Dehradun, India. I'm writing this now because I still don't fully understand what I experienced, and honestly, I don't think I ever will.
My cousin Rohit worked as a night receptionist at a budget hotel near the highway. It wasn't a scary place—just one of those quiet hotels travelers use for a night and leave by morning. Three floors, about twenty rooms, old CCTV cameras, and dim yellow lights in the corridor that never felt bright enough.
One night, Rohit called me around 2:10 a.m.
His voice was low. Too low.
"Bhai… can you stay on call for a bit?" he asked.
I joked, "What, scared of ghosts now?"
He didn't laugh.
"There's a problem with Room 302."
Room 302 had been locked for three months.
That room was sealed after a guest—a middle-aged man—was found dead inside. Official cause: heart attack. No blood. No struggle. Just… gone. The room was cleaned, but for some reason, the manager never rented it again.
That night, the landline at reception rang.
When Rohit picked it up, the display showed: 302.
At first, he thought it was an electrical issue.
"Hello?" he said.
Only breathing came from the other side. Slow. Heavy. Like someone was standing very close to the receiver.
Rohit hung up.
Five minutes later, the phone rang again.
This time, a man spoke.
"Why did you lock me in?"
Rohit froze. He checked the key rack—302's key was still hanging there, dusty and unused.
Trying to stay professional, he said, "Sir, there is no guest in that room."
There was silence.
Then the voice whispered, "I never checked out."
The call disconnected.
That's when Rohit called me.
I told him it was probably a prank or faulty wiring. Still, I could hear his breathing—fast, shaky. He said the CCTV monitor had started flickering. Especially the camera facing the third-floor corridor.
Against his better judgment, Rohit took a torch and went upstairs.
He kept me on the phone the whole time.
The third floor was colder than the rest of the building. I could hear his footsteps echo. When he reached Room 302, he stopped.
"Someone is inside," he whispered.
I asked how he knew.
"The light under the door… it's on."
That was impossible. The power to that room was disconnected.
He knocked.
No response.
Then, from inside, came the sound of a chair scraping slowly across the floor.
Rohit stepped back.
The door handle began to move.
Not violently. Calmly. As if someone was deciding whether to open it or not.
Then his phone signal cracked.
Through the static, I heard the same voice from the call—now clearer.
"Why are you standing outside my room?"
Rohit ran.
He didn't even use the stairs properly—he almost fell down them. When he reached the reception, the landline rang again.
He didn't pick it up.
Instead, he checked the guest register from three months ago. The dead man's name was still there.
And next to the checkout column…
A date.
Tomorrow's date.
At exactly 4:00 a.m., all the lights in the hotel went out.
Total blackout.
In the darkness, the landline rang one last time.
When the power returned a minute later, the phone was silent.
Room 302 has been unlocked since that night.
But no one has ever stayed there again.
Rohit quit his job the next day.
Even now, he never answers unknown calls after midnight.
Because sometimes… the call isn't coming from outside.
It's coming from a place that never let you leave.