The Boy in Room 311

The boy woke up in the dark, and at first he was afraid. Images from his nightmares lingered; bad things, horrible things, things that made him shake and shiver. As the shadows became familiar, he calmed down. He knew where he was; his quiet dark hotel room. Room 311.

“Remember that number,” Anthony had told him. “That’s your number.”

It had been a long time and Anthony hadn’t returned yet. The boy waited by the window, scanning the parking lot for any sign of Anthony. What was taking him so long?

There was never anything to do in his room. He spent his time pacing and waiting by the window. He tried to turn on the lights but none of the bulbs and switches worked. He learned to fumble his way through the dark, feeling along the walls and around the furniture.

He knew the rules. Don't use the phone. Don't leave the room. Stay put. He knew the rules, but he broke them sometimes.

Sometimes, when he was really scared, he would call the front desk, but lose his nerve and hang up. Sometimes, when he felt really brave, he would take the elevator down to the lobby, but when the doors opened on the big room with all the bright lights and milling people, the boy would stand there shaking, watching the world until the doors closed. He would press the button to open them again, over and over, until his nerves finally failed him and he retreated back to the room.

One day, other people came into the room. A man and a woman the boy didn't recognize. The strangers knew how to get the lights on, but they didn't seem to notice the boy following them. They put their clothes in the drawers and their food in the fridge. They sat together and watched TV, wrapped in each other’s arms, whispering sweet nothings.

Angry, afraid, the boy broke the rules and called the front desk.

“Thank you for calling the front desk. How may I help you?” A woman’s voice answered and the boy was relieved.

“Help me!” the boy said. “There are strange people in my room!”

“Hello?” The woman sounded confused.

“I’m in Room 311!” the boy called to her. “There are people in my room who aren’t supposed to be here!”

There was a long silence on the other end before the woman spoke again. “Is that you?” she asked. “Are you the ghost in 311?”

The question surprised the boy. "No, no! I'm not a ghost! I live here in Room 311! 3-1-1! That's my number!" he tried to tell the front desk lady, but she’d hung up.

The boy was desperate. He tip-toed to the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. He jumped when the elevator doors opened. He stood there, shaking, unable to move. Anthony would be very angry that he’d broken the rules and left the room, but, what was he supposed to do? How else could he get those strangers out of his room? There was nothing for it.

Holding his breath, the boy took one step out of the elevator. Then another. He was now farther from his room than he could ever remember being before. There was no going back.

The boy heard voices from around the corner. One was the voice of the front desk lady who had answered the phone. The other was a front desk man.

"Yeah," the front desk lady told the front desk man, "Room 311 is haunted."

Room 311. They were talking about him! But, his room wasn't haunted! The boy would have known if it was. He inched forward, straining to hear what they were saying about his room.

"Seriously?" the front desk man asked the front desk lady.

The front desk lady nodded. "It's a sad story, actually." She told him about a bad man who hid children away in hotel rooms, and how he was very sneaky so he was never caught. She told him how the bad man invited his friends over to do bad things to the kids, but the kids were too afraid to leave. All except the boy in Room 311. He had used the phone to call the police -- 9-1-1 -- but he was caught before anyone arrived. When the police got there, the bad man had cleared out, but there was so much blood in that room everyone knew what had happened.

“But I think that little boy is still in that room," the front desk lady concluded. "Weird things happen in there. The phone rings when the room is vacant, and when you answer there’s just a bunch of static. It's even called 9-1-1 a few times. And guests complain about the smell. They say it smells like men's cologne at night. Some people say they hear him crying. One guest says they saw him standing by the window watching them sleep. I think he's trapped in there for some reason."

“No!” the little boy screamed, his small voice echoing through the lobby. “No! No! No! It’s not true!"

But even as he stood there screaming at the top of his lungs, the visions from his nightmares came back to him. The bad men were in them, their limbs twisted and grotesque, their grins wide and toothy and malicious. It made him scream even louder, until he realized no one could hear him. The front desk lady and the front desk man continued talking, their conversation moving on to a flickering light bulb in a hallway that needed to be replaced, the creaks and groans of an older building, and other mundanities.

“No! No! No! It isn’t true!” the boy cried and cried. “I’m not a ghost! I’m the boy from Room 311! 3-1-1 is my number! I’m right here! Why can’t you hear me? Why can’t you see me?”

But no one heard him because no one could.