The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway buzzed like angry wasps as I staggered out, my wallet lighter by a terrifying sum. The treatment had worked—mostly—but my body felt like a wrung-out rag, and my bank account screamed in protest. The city outside was a blur of noise and faces, all too loud, too close. All I wanted was silence.
That’s when I remembered what my friend had said about alone space. At the time, I’d shrugged it off—some pseudo-philosophical nonsense about solitude healing the soul. But now, as I dragged myself back to my hostel, the idea coiled around my thoughts like a lifeline.
The Hostel Room
The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in the dim, dusty quiet of my temporary sanctuary. No roommates tonight. Just four walls, a creaky bed, and the strange, almost-electric calm of being utterly alone. For the first time in days, I could breathe.
I collapsed onto the bed, my stomach growling—I hadn’t eaten in hours. But hunger could wait. The silence couldn’t.
Then, the scratching started.
At first, I thought it was the wind. But no—this was deliberate. Something was moving inside the walls. A rat, probably. Or so I told myself.
I forced my attention to my notes, desperate for distraction. The topics I’d neglected during my illness sprawled across the pages, and with grim satisfaction, I began to fill in the gaps. The scratching faded. The world outside didn’t matter. It was just me, the words, and the eerie, comforting void.
The Revelation
Hours slipped by. My hunger sharpened, but so did my focus. The more I worked, the more the room… shifted. Shadows stretched longer than they should have. The air grew thick, like the hostel itself was holding its breath.
And then I saw it.
A single sentence scribbled in the corner of my notebook—in handwriting that wasn’t mine.
"You’re not the only one who needed silence."
My blood froze. The scratching returned—louder now, rhythmic. Not from the walls.
From under the bed.
To Be Continued?
