THE GIRL IN ROOM 17

Emily Carter had always believed that ordinary lives were the safest ones. She liked routines. She liked knowing what would happen next. Her mornings were always the same: an alarm at seven, a quick breakfast, classes at college, conversations with her friends, and home before dinner. Nothing mysterious ever happened to Emily. Until the day she moved into Apartment 17B. The building was older than she had expected. It stood at the end of a quiet street, surrounded by tall trees and narrow sidewalks. Its walls were painted a faded gray, and the windows looked as though they had not been cleaned in years. Emily stood outside with two boxes in her arms and looked up at the building. “Perfect,” she whispered sarcastically. She had chosen the apartment because it was affordable and close to college. Her parents had warned her that the building looked old, but Emily didn't care. She wanted a fresh start. Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of dust and old wood. A small elevator stood beside the staircase, but an old handwritten note on the door said: OUT OF ORDER. Emily sighed and carried her boxes upstairs. Her apartment was on the second floor. Apartment 17B. The number seemed ordinary. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was small but comfortable. There was a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a living room, and one large window overlooking the street. For the next few hours, Emily unpacked her belongings. By evening, the apartment finally began to feel like home. She ordered dinner, watched something on her phone, and eventually fell asleep on the couch. At exactly 2:13 a.m., her phone vibrated. Emily opened her eyes. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then she remembered. The new apartment. She reached for her phone. One notification was waiting. Unknown Number. Emily frowned. She opened the message. DON'T OPEN ROOM 17. She stared at the screen. “What?” She checked the number. There was no name, no profile picture, nothing that could tell her who had sent it. Emily typed: Who is this? She waited. No reply. She looked around the dark apartment. Her first thought was that someone was playing a stupid prank. Maybe one of her friends had found her new number. But none of them knew about the apartment yet. Emily locked her phone and tried to go back to sleep. Five minutes later, another message arrived. WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T OPEN ROOM 17. Emily sat up. This time, she wasn't amused. She typed again. How do you know where I live? The message showed as delivered. No response came. Emily switched on the lamp beside the couch. The warm light filled the room, making the shadows disappear. She told herself not to worry. It was probably nothing. Maybe the previous tenant had received strange messages. Maybe someone had the wrong number. She put her phone beside her and walked toward the bedroom. Then she stopped. Something had caught her attention. At the end of the hallway, there was a narrow door. Emily hadn't noticed it earlier. There was a small metal plate attached to it. 17. She stared at it. Her stomach tightened. “Room 17?” She slowly stepped closer. The door was different from the others. It looked older, with scratches around the lock and a layer of dust covering the handle. Emily reached toward it. Then she remembered the message. DON'T OPEN ROOM 17. She pulled her hand back. “Okay,” she whispered. “Definitely not opening that.” She returned to her bedroom and locked the door. The next morning, Emily decided to ask someone about it. While carrying a box downstairs, she saw an elderly woman standing near the entrance. The woman looked at her carefully. “You're the new girl,” she said. Emily smiled politely. “Yes. I moved into 17B yesterday.” The woman's expression changed. For a second, she looked almost frightened. “17B?” “Yes.” The woman looked toward the staircase. Then she lowered her voice. “You shouldn't stay here.” Emily blinked. “Why?” But before the woman could answer, the building manager appeared from behind the reception desk. “Mrs. Hayes,” he said sharply. The elderly woman immediately became silent. The manager looked at Emily. “Everything all right?” Emily nodded slowly. “I just wanted to ask about something.” “What?” “There's a room upstairs. Room 17. Is it occupied?” The manager's face went completely still. “No.” “Is it empty?” “You don't need to worry about that room.” Emily frowned. “Why?” The manager forced a smile. “It's been locked for years.” “Why?” He didn't answer. Instead, he picked up a stack of papers and walked away. Emily watched him disappear through a door. Something about his reaction bothered her. That evening, she returned to her apartment. She tried to forget about Room 17. She really did. But curiosity has a way of becoming louder when someone tells you not to look. At around 10 p.m., Emily heard a sound from the hallway. Click. She froze. Another sound followed. Click. Like someone turning a key inside a lock. Emily opened her apartment door slightly. The hallway was empty. She stepped outside. Her eyes moved toward Room 17. The door was still closed. But something was lying on the floor in front of it. Emily walked closer. It was a small brass key. She picked it up. A tiny number was engraved on it. 17. Emily stared at the key for several seconds. Then her phone vibrated. Another message. This time, there were only four words. YOU HAVE THE KEY NOW. Emily's heart began to race. She slowly looked at Room 17. For the first time, she wondered what could possibly be hidden behind that door. And why someone was so desperate to keep her from finding out. To Be Continued...