The Neighbor Who Returned Every Morning

The receptionist hesitated before handing Arman the key.

Not long. Just a second too long.

It was past midnight, and the rain outside had flooded half the highway, forcing him to stop at the only roadside hotel still open. The lobby smelled faintly of detergent and old carpet — clean enough to trust, but empty enough to feel watched.

“You’re in room 214,” she said quietly.

Arman noticed she didn’t make eye contact.

“Problem?” he asked.

“No.” A pause. “If you hear… movement, the building settles at night.”

That sounded rehearsed.

He took the key.

The hallway upstairs was unnaturally silent. Not the peaceful kind — the padded, suffocating silence of a place where sound refuses to travel. His footsteps seemed absorbed by the carpet before they existed.

Room 214 stood at the very end.

The door was slightly open.

Arman stopped.

He clearly heard the click of the latch when he pulled it shut downstairs. Yet now it waited for him, welcoming him in.

“Housekeeping?” he called.

No answer.

He pushed the door open.

The room looked normal — bed made, TV off, curtains drawn — except for one thing.

The bedside lamp was already on.

He stood still for a long moment before entering.

Travel exhaustion won over caution. He locked the door, placed his bag near the table, and checked the bathroom. Empty. Cold tiles. Dry sink.

When he returned to the bedroom, the TV was on.

Soft static filled the room.

He stared at it.

“I didn’t—”

The screen flickered to a black-and-white camera feed.

A hallway.

This hallway.

The angle was from the ceiling corner — exactly outside room 214.

He watched himself standing inside the room, perfectly visible through the slightly open door.

His chest tightened. Slowly, he turned toward the door behind him.

it was closed.

The TV still showed it open.

Then, in the screen, something walked past.

A man.

Same clothes.

Same height.

Same face.

Arman stumbled backward.

The bathroom light switched on behind him.

He hadn’t touched it.

From inside came the sound of running water.

He approached slowly, breath shallow.

The mirror above the sink was fogged, as if someone had just taken a shower.

Three words appeared, written from inside the steam:

YOU CAME BACK

His pulse hammered.

“I never stayed here before,” he whispered.

The water stopped.

A second later — a knock.

Not on the bathroom door.

On the room door.

Three slow knocks.

He checked the peephole.

The hallway was empty.

But the TV showed someone standing there.

Him.

The version outside raised a hand and knocked again.

The real knock echoed immediately after.

Arman backed away.

“This isn’t possible…”

The TV figure spoke — though the door never opened.

“You always leave,” it said calmly. “But the room remembers.”

Memories flickered violently inside his mind — a childhood trip, a lost night, a hotel corridor he couldn’t fully recall, police lights, and his parents whispering he’d been found wandering at age seven.

Room 214.

He felt sick.

“I was a kid,” he muttered.

The TV version smiled faintly.

“You never checked out.”

The bathroom mirror cleared completely.

Behind Arman’s reflection stood a small boy holding his hand.

His younger self.

The lights shut off.

Darkness swallowed the room.

The door unlocked by itself.

In the pitch black, footsteps entered.

Wet footsteps.

Walking around him.

Then stopping directly behind him.

A whisper near his ear:

“You left me here.”

Morning sunlight burst through the curtains.

Arman woke on the bed, fully dressed.

The receptionist stood at the doorway, pale.

“You… stayed the night?” she asked carefully.

“Yes,” he said weakly. “Why?”

She hesitated.

“We stopped renting 214 years ago. After a child was found sleepwalking inside rooms that weren’t his.”

Arman looked toward the TV.

Unplugged.

Dusty.

Untouched.

He checked out immediately.

While leaving, he glanced at the guest registry on the desk.

His name was already signed.

Twenty years earlier.