The hotel receptionist looked surprised when Kabir asked for Room 307.
“Are you sure?”
Kabir laughed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
The receptionist hesitated.
“No reason.”
Kabir was traveling for work and only needed a place to sleep.
Room 307 looked ordinary.
A bed.
A television.
A desk.
A painting of a forest.
At 2:13 AM, Kabir woke to the sound of someone knocking.
Three slow knocks.
He checked the door.
Nobody.
He returned to bed.
Five minutes later:
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
This time, he opened the door immediately.
The corridor was empty.
Annoyed, Kabir called reception.
“No one is outside your room, sir,” the receptionist said.
“Someone is knocking.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then the receptionist asked:
“What time did it happen?”
Kabir checked the clock.
“2:18.”
The receptionist hung up.
Kabir stared at the phone.
A minute later, someone knocked again.
But this time, the sound came from inside the room.
Three knocks.
From the wardrobe.
Kabir froze.
He slowly approached it.
The knocking stopped.
Against every sensible thought in his mind, he opened the wardrobe.
Empty.
Except for a small folded newspaper clipping.
Kabir picked it up.
The article was dated seventeen years earlier.
HOTEL FIRE CLAIMS THREE LIVES
A grainy photograph showed smoke pouring from a third-floor window.
Room 307.
According to the article, a family had been trapped inside.
A mother.
A father.
And their eight-year-old daughter.
Kabir turned the clipping over.
Written in pencil were three words:
OPEN THE WINDOW.
Suddenly, the smell of smoke filled the room.
Kabir coughed.
The fire alarm did not ring.
Orange light flickered beneath the bathroom door.
Panicking, he ran to the window.
It was locked.
He pulled harder.
Nothing.
Behind him, flames began crawling across the carpet.
Then he heard a child’s voice.
“Please.”
Kabir slammed his shoulder into the window.
Once.
Twice.
On the third attempt, it flew open.
Cold night air rushed inside.
The fire vanished.
The room returned to normal.
Kabir stood shaking.
The newspaper clipping was gone.
The next morning, he demanded an explanation.
The hotel manager finally told him the truth.
The family had died because the room’s window had been painted shut during renovation.
After the fire, the hotel replaced every window.
“Except something strange keeps happening in 307,” the manager said.
“What?”
“Guests complain about knocking.”
Kabir left immediately.
Before checking out, he looked back toward the third floor.
A little girl stood at the window of Room 307.
She smiled.
Then disappeared.