The Last Call from Room 306

Some phones should never be answered

The hotel was old but not abandoned, the kind of place that survived on low prices and forgettable stays. Paint peeled from the walls in thin curls, and the hallway lights flickered as if unsure whether to stay awake. Sameer checked in just after midnight, exhausted from travel and grateful for any bed. The receptionist barely looked up, slid a key across the counter, and said quietly, “Room 306. If the phone rings… don’t answer it.”

Sameer laughed, assuming it was a joke meant to sound mysterious. The receptionist did not smile.

Room 306 smelled faintly of dust and something metallic beneath it. The window faced a brick wall only a few feet away, blocking out the city lights. The room felt sealed off, as if it existed outside normal time. Sameer tossed his bag on the bed and told himself he was being paranoid. Old hotels always felt strange at night.

At 2:11 a.m., the phone rang.

The sound sliced through the room—sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore. Sameer froze. The receptionist’s warning replayed in his mind, but curiosity won. He lifted the receiver.

Static breathed into his ear. Then a voice followed—soft, broken, and terrified.

“Please,” it whispered, “don’t hang up.”

Sameer’s throat tightened. “Who is this?” he asked.

The voice hesitated. “I’m… I’m in 306.”

A chill crawled up his spine. “That’s my room.”

The line crackled. “It was mine first.”

The call ended.

Sameer sat there for a long time, phone still in his hand. He checked the hallway—empty. He knocked on neighboring doors—no response. When he returned, the phone was silent, resting innocently on the table.

He tried to sleep.

At 3:06 a.m., the phone rang again.

This time, the voice sounded closer. Not through the speaker—inside the room. It described details Sameer hadn’t shared: the scar on his knee, the message he never sent, the fear he carried quietly. With every word, the temperature dropped. His breath fogged the air.

“I didn’t answer either,” the voice said calmly. “That’s how it started.”

Sameer slammed the phone down and unplugged it. Relief washed over him—until the phone rang anyway.

The sound came from inside the walls now. From under the bed. From behind the mirror. The room vibrated with it, the ringing stretching unnaturally long, burrowing into his skull.

Lights flickered. The mirror darkened, reflecting not Sameer, but a pale figure standing behind him—its face twisted in silent panic, mouth moving as if screaming underwater.

Sameer ran.

The hallway seemed longer than before. Doors that once existed were gone. Room numbers changed as he passed them. 304. 305. 306. Again. And again. Every door labeled the same.

The phone rang everywhere now.

From the ceiling. From inside his chest.

He burst into the lobby, gasping. The receptionist looked up slowly.

“You answered,” she said, not accusing—confirming.

“What is that room?” Sameer begged.

She sighed. “A long time ago, a guest kept receiving calls. Each one sounded more like him than the last. When we checked the room, there was no body. Just the phone. Still ringing.”

Sameer looked down at his hands. They were translucent, edges blurring like smoke.

The receptionist slid a key across the counter. “Room 306,” she said softly. “Someone just checked in.”

The phone rang.

Sameer felt his mouth open against his will. Words left him, thin and terrified.

“Please,” he whispered into the receiver, “don’t hang up.”

And somewhere upstairs, a guest froze in bed, phone ringing beside them, about to make the same mistake.

And somewhere upstairs, a guest froze in bed, phone ringing beside them, about to make the same mistake.