The Damp Room

The training facility at Thornfield Business Park was a maze of identical corridors and beige meeting rooms. I’d been there for a week, staying in Block C, Room 114, which was fine. But for the second week, they moved me to Block D, Room 209. As soon as I swiped my keycard and pushed the door open, a wave of cold, damp air hit me, carrying a smell like wet plaster and old rot. I shrugged it off as the mustiness of an empty room, dropped my bag, and flopped onto the bed. The mattress gave a little too much, as if it had been used by someone heavier.

That first afternoon, I attended a seminar on conflict resolution. The boredom was almost soothing, but when I returned to my room to freshen up before dinner, I felt a tightness in my chest. The room seemed darker than it should have been, even with the overhead light on. I checked the window – it was sealed shut, but the curtain swayed slightly as if a draft had passed. I tried to ignore it, changed into a sweater, and went to the dining hall.

Over the next few days, the feeling grew. It was like being watched, but not from outside – from within the walls. At night, I’d wake up with the impression that something had laid its hand on my forehead, cold and heavy. I told myself it was just nerves. But then I started noticing things. A faint scratching sound behind the wardrobe, like fingernails on plaster. The occasional whisper of a voice that seemed to come from the corner, just on the edge of hearing. I’d spin around, but there was nothing.

One evening, I decided to search the room. I pulled the wardrobe away from the wall and found a patch of damp, discolored wallpaper. It was peeled back, revealing a small cavity. Inside, wrapped in a moldy cloth, was a child’s drawing – a crayon sketch of a stick figure lying on a bed, with a dark shape looming over it. The drawing was signed ‘Lily’. Underneath was a date: 2014, three years ago. A chill ran down my spine. I shoved it back and pushed the wardrobe into place.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, listening to my own breathing. Then I heard it – a soft, wet sound, like footsteps on a soaked carpet, coming from the hallway. They stopped outside my door. The handle turned slowly, but the lock held. I fumbled for my phone and turned on the flashlight, but the light flickered and died. The footsteps retreated, and a child’s laugh echoed down the corridor.

The next morning, I went to the front desk and demanded to switch rooms. The receptionist, a pale woman with tired eyes, glanced at my room number and said, ‘Oh, 209. That was Miss Swan’s room. She was a student here a few years ago. She… fell ill.’ I asked what happened. She lowered her voice, ‘They found her in the bed, the sheets soaked through. The doctor said it was a heart attack, but the room smelled of something sweet, like decay.’

I didn’t wait for my things. I grabbed my bag and drove three hours home, leaving the training half-finished. But the damp smell stayed with me for weeks. And every night, just before I fell asleep, I’d hear that same wet footstep, and the faint, childish voice whispering, ‘Play with me.’