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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ConsiderationTop4315 on 2024-09-12 10:12:56+00:00.
I was staying at an old, rundown motel for the night. It was one of those places off the highway where everything feels like it's stuck in the 1970s—faded carpets, chipped paint, and a flickering neon sign outside that buzzed all night long. I was exhausted from the drive, so I didn’t care about the state of the place. I just needed a bed.
The room I got was 303. As soon as I walked in, there was this faint, rancid odor, like something had spoiled. I assumed it was the old carpet or maybe the mildew growing in the bathroom tiles. I opened the window to let some fresh air in and shrugged it off.
I settled into bed, but the smell grew worse. It wasn’t constant—it would come and go in waves. One moment, the room would be fine, just the faint smell of musty fabric, but then the stench would return, thick and putrid. It was like the scent of decaying meat, something rotten that had been left to fester for days.
I called the front desk to complain, but the old man who answered was indifferent. “It’s an old building,” he said in a gruff voice, like that was supposed to explain everything. “Air it out. There ain’t nothin’ we can do tonight.”
Frustrated but too tired to argue, I lay back down, hoping sleep would take me. But the smell got stronger, and I started to feel nauseous. I got up to inspect the room, convinced there had to be something dead in the walls or under the bed.
That’s when I noticed it—the closet door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for a thin crack of darkness to spill into the room. I didn’t remember opening it when I came in.
Hesitant, I approached the closet. The stench was unbearable now, as if something inside was rotting. I grabbed the handle and yanked the door open.
Nothing.
The closet was completely empty. No suitcases, no dead animals, just a barren space. But the smell was so strong it made my eyes water. It was coming from inside, I was sure of it.
I slammed the door shut and backed away, my heart pounding. I tried to convince myself that my mind was playing tricks on me—that I was just tired, that it was just an old building with bad ventilation. But something didn’t feel right.
I crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over my head, trying to block out the smell, trying to block out the creeping dread building in my chest. I must have drifted off eventually because the next thing I remember was waking up to a sound.
A soft scraping noise.
It was coming from the closet.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The door was moving. Slowly. Like someone—no, something—was on the other side, pushing it open. My pulse thundered in my ears as the door creaked wider, the darkness inside seeming to spill out, thick and suffocating.
And then, I saw it.
A hand. Pale, skeletal, with blackened nails, reached out from the shadows of the closet.
I didn’t wait to see what it was attached to. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my keys, and bolted out of the room. I didn’t stop running until I was in my car, peeling out of the parking lot.
I’ve never gone back to that motel. I’m not even sure it’s still there. But I can’t shake the feeling that something—someone—is still waiting in Room 303.