The Letter in Room 13

I flopped onto the bed in Room 12, alone with the creaky fan whining above me in this North hostel dump. The night bus from South India had dumped me here at 10 PM, my dupatta still wrestling with my suitcase strap. B.Tech late joiner—some transfer mess-up—and the warden, this sour woman with a tika, snapped, "Room 12, no fuss," tossing me a rusty key. My phone buzzed—Arjun, my college boyfriend, texting, "Reached, babe?" I shot back, "This hostel’s a creepy pit, just got here," smiling at his winking emoji. First year lo canteen chaos lo we clicked—his dimpled grin, my South India freshness—and he’d been my rock since. That smile didn’t stick. By 11:45 PM, the silence was choking—then tap, tap, tap—someone’s outside my door. What’s this now? I’d barely unzipped my bag, still in my faded churidar, when I kicked off my chappals and stretched. My foot hit something hard under the pillow—huh? I yanked it back and dug around—a worn diary, leather cracked like stale bread, pages curling at the edges. Where’d this come from? I flipped it open—red ink, wet like fresh spice paste: "Those first days were golden—Arjun was my everything." My chest tightened—Arjun? My Arjun? The next line shifted: "Don’t sleep tonight. Room 13 knows what happened." Below, shaky: "He broke me—check his lies." My stomach flipped—what’s this mess? I’d heard whispers on the bus—girls giggling about a senior who vanished, some placement crash tied to this hostel. Nonsense, I thought, chewing a roadside chole kulcha. Arjun had called yesterday from the city he’d moved to, laughing, "You’re not Deepika Padukone to buy ghost stories—relax." That grin of his, warm like jalebi, always got me. But this diary? No laughing matter. The ink smeared on my fingers, sticking like a bad sign. Clock hit 11:55—no signal, Wi-Fi dead—and I slipped my chappals back on, stepping out. Why Room 13? They’d shifted me from Room 10 to 12 last minute—warden didn’t care. The corridor stretched dark, lights flickering like they’re tired. Room 13 sat at the end, door warped, streaked with something gross—dried ghee or worse. I pushed it open—cold air slapped me, stinking of stale flour and damp walls. Inside, a wreck—walls peeling like burnt roti, a cracked mirror in the corner, a bed buried in dust. The mirror caught me—bun messy, eyes tired, like Alia Bhatt in a spooky flick—but something shifted behind my reflection. "Hey…" a whisper, low and close, like it’s brushing my dupatta. What’s going on? I spun around—nothing, just the bed sitting there, my breath loud in the stillness. Phone buzzed—Arjun: "Awake, babe?" Ignored it—flipped the diary: "Arjun’s laugh lit up my days—then it all turned sour." No name for me, just that red ink. My throat went dry. Arjun’s ex from college—same flirty "babe" texts, same charm—he’d dumped her over butter chicken at some city spot last year. "She was too much, you’re different," he’d said after we graduated. But this diary felt alive—too alive. The door slammed shut, lock clicking hard. I banged it, yelling, "Who’s out there?" Nothing—just the hostel’s eerie hum. Arjun texted: "Where are you, babe? Worried." Didn’t reply. The wall had "He lied" scratched into it—my knees buckled. That senior was here, maybe Room 13, before it got locked. Arjun dated her back then—then she vanished after placements. Now me, stuck in this room? That whisper again, right by my neck: "Check his lies." I turned fast, dupatta flapping—empty room. The mirror flickered—my face, then a shadow with the same bun, same panic—gone quick. My breath fogged up, even though it wasn’t cold. I rummaged under the bed—another page, ink faded: "Love caged me. Goals were his game. Room 13 saw it all." Lights cut out—pitch black. Phone rang—Arjun calling. Didn’t pick up. The hostel groaned, walls rumbling like a North storm, and I pressed against the door, diary tight in my hands. Why this room? Why me?