the screaming shadow in Room 404

The old Midland Hotel had seen better days. Its once grand façade, with peeling paint and rusting ironwork, gave the impression of a building clinging stubbornly to the past. Room 404, on the fourth floor, was the sort of room no one wanted but everyone ended up with when the hotel was full. Even the staff seemed to avoid it, whispering about strange noises and sudden chills that made their skin crawl. I arrived at the hotel on a rain-slicked Thursday evening, lugging my suitcase up the narrow staircase. The lift groaned like a dying animal, and the dim bulb in the corridor flickered, casting shadows that danced across the faded wallpaper. I had been warned about the room, of course—every local in the small town had a story—but I dismissed it as the usual folklore, the sort of thing people said to scare themselves when the wind howled through the eaves at night. The receptionist, a thin woman with an anxious smile, handed me the key without a word. “Room 404,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting something—or someone—to be watching. Her hesitation should have been my first warning, but I was tired, wet, and far too practical to entertain superstition. When I opened the door, a musty smell rolled out to greet me, and the single lamp on the bedside table flickered weakly. The room was small, almost claustrophobic, with a bed pushed against the far wall and a wardrobe that looked ready to collapse at the slightest touch. A heavy velvet curtain shielded a grimy window, and beyond it, the night seemed to press against the glass, thick and suffocating. I unpacked quickly, trying not to notice the chill that had nothing to do with the cold rain. By the time I had settled in, the hotel was silent, except for the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the distant hum of the radiator. It was just after midnight when it began. At first, I thought it was the wind—soft, almost pleading, like a child calling for attention. Then it became a scream, sharp and raw, echoing through the corridor outside my door. I froze, my heart pounding. The sound didn’t belong to anyone alive. It twisted and bent around the walls, a distortion of something human yet impossibly wrong. I stood and pressed my ear to the door. Silence. I could hear nothing but the ticking of the radiator. I told myself it was a nightmare, a fragment of tired imagination. Yet when I returned to the bed, I saw it—briefly—a shadow stretched across the far wall, tall and misshapen, its form writhing as if in agony. I blinked, and it was gone. Sleep became impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, the screaming came again, louder and more insistent. And the shadow—always the shadow—crept along the edges of the room, lingering in corners, waiting. I started to speak aloud, rational explanations tumbling from my lips. “It’s the wind. It’s the hotel settling. Nothing is here.” But the words felt hollow, and the instant I said them, the temperature dropped, my breath misting in front of me. On the third night, I could no longer ignore it. I stepped into the corridor, following the faint sound of the screaming, which now seemed to circle the fourth floor, rising and falling like a tide. The hallway was empty. The walls, once beige, now appeared grey and sickly under the flickering lights. I passed room after room, but the scream always drew me back to 404. That was when I noticed the door was slightly ajar. I was certain I had closed it. My hand shook as I pushed it open. Inside, the room looked empty, just as it had been when I first arrived. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. And yet—the shadow. It sat on the bed, a mass of darkness that defied the shape of any human form. It was waiting. “I know you’re here,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. The shadow did not respond. Instead, it expanded, stretching across the ceiling, the walls, until the room itself seemed swallowed by darkness. The screaming returned, piercing through my skull, and I felt my knees buckle. And then it spoke—not in words, but in a memory that wasn’t mine. I saw flashes: a man slamming the door on a terrified child, the muffled cries of someone pleading, the echo of betrayal and anguish that had somehow lingered in this room for decades. The shadow wasn’t just a presence; it was a vessel for every scream that had ever been silenced here. I ran. I don’t remember how I reached the stairwell, but the moment I crossed the threshold of the fourth floor, the screaming stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than the noise, pressing against me like a physical weight. I never looked back, though I could feel the shadow watching, waiting for the next guest foolish enough to step into Room 404. When I checked out the next morning, the receptionist offered no explanation. She only smiled faintly and handed me my key deposit back. “Room 404 has a way of letting its stories out,” she said, almost apologetically. I never returned to the Midland Hotel. Friends who asked me why I avoided the town found my explanation vague: draughty old hotels, nightmares, too much imagination. But deep down, I knew better. Some places keep secrets, and some shadows are older than memory itself. Even now, years later, when the wind howls through my own apartment, I sometimes swear I hear it—the screaming. Not loud, not persistent, but unmistakable. And when I close my eyes, just for a moment, I can see it, creeping along the edges of the room, waiting. Room 404 isn’t just a room. It’s a reminder. Some doors should never be opened. --- write ✍️ by Parmod Kumar Prajapati