The Room With No Exit

Aamir was a traveling journalist, always chasing abandoned buildings for his articles. When he discovered an old hospital on the outskirts of the city, he was thrilled. Stories of patients disappearing and strange accidents had circulated decades ago. Most locals avoided the place entirely, calling it cursed or haunted. Aamir, armed with his camera, flashlight, and a notebook, ignored the warnings. To him, it was a story waiting to be told, proof that the supernatural was nothing more than exaggeration and fear.

The hospital smelled of damp plaster, mold, and long-decayed medicine. Hallways stretched endlessly, lined with empty rooms. Some doors led to corridors he had already passed. Others opened to rooms that felt impossibly long, ceilings stretching far above the weak beam of his flashlight. The further he ventured, the more disorienting the layout became, as though the building itself refused to be mapped or understood. It had an unnatural way of folding in on itself.

He eventually came to one room at the end of a narrow hallway: Room 214. Its door was ajar, and a strange warmth emanated from within. Stepping inside, Aamir noticed the room appeared perfectly preserved, furnished as though ready for a patient—even though the hospital had been abandoned for decades. A single bed sat in the center, sheets neatly folded, and a mirror covered much of one wall. The air was heavy, and a faint hum seemed to vibrate through the walls.

When Aamir looked into the mirror, he realized something was wrong. The reflection did not match the room. It was fuller, older, and filled with figures—pale, hollow-eyed, seated on the bed and standing near the corners, all staring directly at him. Their lips moved silently, whispering words he could not hear. Aamir stepped back in shock, heart hammering. The mirror fogged, then cleared, showing the room stretching impossibly, walls bending and doors vanishing, creating endless darkness beyond the reflection.

He tried to leave. The door slammed shut with a violent force, rattling the frame. He pushed and pulled, but it was immovable. Panic surged through him as he realized the room had no exit. The walls seemed alive, breathing and pulsing, closing slowly around him. A whispering sound filled the air, growing louder and more insistent. Names were called out—pleas and cries of people he did not know, trapped for decades in that same room. The shadows in the reflection began to move toward him, their hollow eyes fixed, patient and relentless.

Aamir backed into the corner, flashlight trembling in his hand, as the figures in the mirror began to step closer, their movements jerky and unnatural. Every time he tried to turn away, another version of himself appeared in the reflection, lying on the bed, eyes wide open, terror etched into his face. The whispers became intelligible: “You belong here… like us… forever…”

He pounded on the walls, screamed for help, and tried to force open the door, but the room resisted. The ceiling stretched higher, the floor stretching into darkness below. The air turned cold and thick, pressing against his chest, making it hard to breathe. Every sound he made echoed endlessly, but there was no response—only the constant, watching eyes of the figures in the mirror.

Hours passed—or maybe minutes—time no longer made sense. By morning, locals walking past the hospital noticed flickering lights behind Room 214. Some claimed they heard faint screams, others whispered of shadows moving unnaturally. When authorities entered that afternoon, the hospital was empty. No sign of Aamir. No sign of struggle. Only the door of Room 214, slightly ajar, waiting silently for its next visitor.

Aamir had entered seeking a story. The hospital had claimed another soul. Some doors, some rooms, exist not for safety or care, but to trap curiosity and fear, bending reality for those who dare enter. And in that abandoned hospital, the walls still breathe, wait, and watch for anyone foolish enough to step inside.