Karan arrived at the Lakeside Motel half an hour past midnight, the kind of hour where exhaustion mutates into something hungrier. His knuckles were pale from gripping the wheel too long. The motel’s neon sign buzzed like an insect dying on its back. “Vacancy,” it insisted, although the lot looked deserted except for a pale van parked at an angle, its wipers raised like broken arms.

Inside, the air was flat and cold, like someone had vacuum-sealed the atmosphere years ago and forgotten to open it. The man behind the desk barely acknowledged him, a sunken-eyed clerk who looked more like a portrait than a person.

“You alone?” he asked, not with curiosity, but with the weariness of repetition.

Karan nodded, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag.

The clerk slid a brass key across the counter. It was heavier than it looked, the tag attached to it red like a drop of paint that had dried too long ago.

“Room 117,” he said. “Do not lose the key.”

Karan offered a tired smile. “Thanks.”

The clerk’s voice dropped, barely more than breath. “And do not answer the phone.”

That made him pause. “Excuse me?”

The clerk was already typing, keys clicking in a rhythm that felt almost patterned, like ticking. Karan waited, but no further explanation came. Just silence and that distant, dull buzz of the vacancy sign outside.

He took the key and walked down the dim corridor. The carpet smelled faintly of mildew and overused lemon cleaner. Every second bulb flickered, and the buzzing followed him like static.

Room 117 waited at the end, farthest from the lobby, tucked into the quiet corner of the hallway like something meant to be forgotten.

The door opened with a reluctant creak. The room smelled like rust and something vaguely medicinal. The kind of scent that lingered after bleach failed to kill something.

The bed was too neat. Taut, perfect corners. Not one dent in the pillow. It looked made for a corpse. The curtains were drawn, sealing out the world. Karan stepped in, flipped on the light, and saw it.

A beige rotary phone sat on the nightstand. Its cord curled in tight, deliberate spirals like a sleeping snake. The receiver looked worn, not cracked, but tired.

It stared at him.

Karan’s skin crawled.

He walked over and unplugged it. The socket let go with a small, reluctant pop. The phone was now just plastic and metal, harmless. He told himself that twice.

He undressed quickly, washed his face in lukewarm water, and lay down without bothering to get under the covers. The mattress was too stiff. The room too still.

Sleep took longer than it should have. When it came, it did not stay long.

Karan woke with a jolt, throat dry, mouth open, unsure if he had screamed. He sat up fast. Heart pounding. The digital clock blinked.

2:13 a.m.

He could not remember the dream, only the aftertaste of it, numbers whispered like lullabies, shapes behind a curtain of water.

Then, the phone rang.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a distant bell, muffled like it came from underwater.

He stared at it.

The cord still lay disconnected. The plug rested on the nightstand exactly where he had left it.

Another ring. This one felt closer.

Karan stood. The hair on his arms rose. The air in the room had shifted, somehow thicker. Charged. The curtains swayed slightly, though no window was open.

A third ring. Then silence.

No clicks. No dial tone. Just the weight of a room that had witnessed something it would not explain.

He did not sleep after that.

By sunrise, the phone looked innocent again.

At the front desk, the same clerk sat as if he had not moved in hours. His fingers hovered above the keyboard but did not type.

“The phone rang,” Karan said. “Even unplugged.”

The clerk did not look up. “They do that sometimes.”

“They?”

“The phones.” A pause. “Guests, too.”

Karan frowned. “That is not an answer.”

The clerk’s eyes finally lifted, pale, almost translucent. “You are the third one this year. All of them said the same thing. The phone rings. Always at 2:13. Always in that room.”

“Why that room?”

The clerk handed him a towel. “Do not answer the phone.”

That night, Karan put the phone in the bathroom and closed the door. He wedged a chair against the handle, as if that would matter.

Still, at 2:13 a.m., the ring came. Soft. Deliberate. Through the wall.

He stayed frozen in bed.

Then another.

And another.

The phone did not stop until he opened the bathroom door.

It was gone.

No dial, no receiver. Just empty counter.

He turned, heart in his throat.

The phone sat on the nightstand again.

Unplugged.

The receiver hung slightly ajar, as if someone had just finished speaking.

The next day, he left the motel and drove into town. He needed facts. Logic. Anything that would undo the slow crawl of madness beneath his skin.

At the public library, the archive room was quiet and cold. Karan scanned yellowed papers, old police reports, clippings.

Three stories.

A man found dead in Room 117. No marks, but the bed was soaked through with blood. Police called it spontaneous rupture. No one believed it.

A woman vanished after making twenty seven calls. All to her own number. The clerk at the time told officers she had requested the same room.

A teenage boy checked in alone. Surveillance showed him entering Room 117. No one saw him leave. Phone records indicated one outgoing call.

It lasted 22 seconds.

Recording transcript read: “Let me out. Please. Let me out.”

Karan left the library shivering.

He returned to the room because he did not know what else to do. Running would not help. He could feel it. This thing had noticed him now. A hallway would not stop it.

That night, he dreamed.

Not in fragments. In perfect, lucid clarity.

He was watching himself sleep.

His own body, curled on the bed, brows twitching. The phone glowed faintly.

He tried to shout. His dream self began to move.

Reached out.

Lifted the receiver.

Whispered, “Hello.”

And then the room exploded with whispers.

Dozens. Layered. Overlapping. Like a storm of breath and secrets.

Karan gasped awake, lungs tight. His hand was on the receiver.

The phone was plugged in.

He stumbled backward, knocking over the lamp. The bulb burst in a flurry of sparks. He ran to the door and yanked it open.

Only blackness.

No hallway. No exit. Just void. As if the motel ended at his door and the world had collapsed around it.

He slammed it shut. Tried the window.

Same.

Nothing.

And then the phone rang.

2:13 a.m.

It rang again.

And again.

He backed into the corner, knees against his chest, breathing fast, each ring scraping across his nerves like a dull blade.

Then silence.

He should have left it. He should have.

But silence was worse.

He stood, reached out, and picked it up.

“Hello?”

There was no static.

Just his own voice.

Calm. Icy.

“Too late.”

Click.

At 6:00 a.m., the maid unlocked Room 117 and peeked inside.

The bed was made. The room smelled faintly of dust and bleach.

There was no sign of a guest.

No checkout log. No luggage. No car in the lot.

Only a red tagged brass key on the nightstand.

And the phone, gently swaying, just off the hook.