As I checked into Room 313, a sense of unease washed over me. The receptionist hesitated before passing me the key, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s... recently vacant.” The dimly lit corridor echoed with my footsteps as I approached the door, the weight of the key feeling oddly heavy in my hand. Later that night, at 2:13 AM, a series of knocks broke the silence. Heart racing, I opened the closet door—empty. But when I turned back, my reflection was still facing the closet, and that’s when it happened. My reflection smiled at me—a horrifying grin that twisted my stomach. Suddenly, a second knock came from beneath the bed. Chills crept up my spine as my phone lit up with a message from an unknown number: “Don’t turn around.” Fear surged through me, but it was too late; I could hear breathing behind me, heavy and close. Looking in the mirror again, my reflection had vanished, leaving only an unsettling darkness, as the breathing intensified. What really lurked in Room 313? Sometimes, the scariest things are those we cannot see—especially when they are ourselves.