It was a cold, misty evening when I checked into The Mist Vale Inn — a quiet, old hotel perched on the edge of a lonely hill in Shimla. The wooden staircase creaked under my steps, chandeliers hung like forgotten memories, and the walls carried faded portraits of strangers long gone.

At the reception, I signed the guest register.

"Rahul Verma. One night."

The receptionist didn’t smile. He just said,

“Room 304. Third floor.”

I took the key and walked toward the staircase. The silence in the building was unsettling — like the walls were holding their breath.

On the third floor, I found Room 301… then 302… then 303…

And after that — just a blank wall.

No Room 304.

I stood there confused.

I went back downstairs.

“There’s no Room 304. It just… doesn’t exist,” I told the receptionist.

He stared at me with hollow eyes.

“Sir, I just gave you the key for 304...”

I looked at the key again.

It clearly said 304 on the brass tag.

I walked back up, this time more slowly. I examined the wall near 303 — and there it was: a faint outline, barely visible.

I pushed the wall gently, and with a soft click…

A door opened.

The air was stale and damp. The room was dark — no lights, no windows. It smelled of mildew… blood… and something else I couldn’t describe.

The moment I stepped inside,

the door shut behind me.

I pulled out my phone —

No signal.

The room had only an old, rusted bed, a broken cupboard, and a yellowed newspaper nailed to the wall.

The headline read:

> “Local boy Rahul Verma murdered in Room 304 of Mist Vale Hotel — body never recovered.”

(Dated: 1997)

I dropped the newspaper.

That was my name.

And then…

A whisper from behind me:

"This time… you won't leave."

I spun around —

No one.

---

🩸 Twist Ending:

To this day, the reception register at Mist Vale still carries the name:

“Rahul Verma — Room 304”

And every year, on the same date, someone checks in looking for that room…

But they’re never seen again.