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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.
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At the reception, I signed the guest register.
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"Rahul Verma. One night."
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The receptionist didn’t smile. He just said,
“Room 304. Third floor.”
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I took the key and walked toward the staircase. The silence in the building was unsettling — like the walls were holding their breath.
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On the third floor, I found Room 301… then 302… then 303…
And after that — just a blank wall.
No Room 304.
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I stood there confused.
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I went back downstairs.
“There’s no Room 304. It just… doesn’t exist,” I told the receptionist.
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He stared at me with hollow eyes.
“Sir, I just gave you the key for 304...”
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I looked at the key again.
It clearly said 304 on the brass tag.
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I walked back up, this time more slowly. I examined the wall near 303 — and there it was: a faint outline, barely visible.
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I pushed the wall gently, and with a soft click…
A door opened.
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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.
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The moment I stepped inside,
the door shut behind me.
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I pulled out my phone —
No signal.
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The room had only an old, rusted bed, a broken cupboard, and a yellowed newspaper nailed to the wall.
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The headline read:
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> “Local boy Rahul Verma murdered in Room 304 of Mist Vale Hotel — body never recovered.”
(Dated: 1997)
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I dropped the newspaper.
That was my name.
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And then…
A whisper from behind me:
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"This time… you won't leave."
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I spun around —
No one.
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---
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🩸 Twist Ending:
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To this day, the reception register at Mist Vale still carries the name:
“Rahul Verma — Room 304”
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And every year, on the same date, someone checks in looking for that room…
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But they’re never seen again.
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