The Furious Guest of Room 14

My last paranormal experience took place two months ago during a business trip to the ancient city of Hue. My colleague, Lena, and I were staying at the Thanh Long Hotel, a crumbling colonial-era building near the Perfume River. The room, number 14, was on the second floor, with a view of a mossy courtyard and a dead banyan tree.

On the night of the third day, at exactly 2:30 AM, a violent commotion erupted from the adjacent room, number 15. We were jolted awake by the sound of furniture being thrown and glass shattering. A man’s voice, deep and guttural, and a woman’s voice, shrill and desperate, were locked in a furious exchange. Yet, to our horror, the words themselves were completely incomprehensible, a jumbled torrent of sound that seemed to warp the air itself. Lena clutched my arm, her face pale. ‘What are they saying?’ she whispered.

We heard the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the wall, followed by the frantic slam of a door. Then, the hallway outside exploded with the sound of frantic footsteps, pounding on the walls and doors as they passed. The runner descended the stairs, only to return moments later, the cacophony repeating itself. The banging grew louder, more desperate, and then, without warning, the brass handle of our own door began to rattle violently, twisting and turning as if someone was trying to force their way in. I shouted, ‘Stop! Who is there?’ but the rattling only intensified, accompanied by muffled, guttural cries. I threw on my trousers and grabbed a heavy antique lamp, my heart thundering. Lena hid behind the bed, whimpering.

Suddenly, the rattling ceased, and the hallway fell into a suffocating silence. We stood frozen, listening to the sound of our own ragged breathing. After a long minute, I crept to the door and peered through the keyhole. The corridor was empty, save for a faint, muddy footprint that seemed to be drying quickly. I opened the door a crack, and a wave of cold air washed over us. The hallway lights flickered, and the faint smell of sandalwood and decay filled my nostrils. Neither of us slept again that night.

The next morning, we confronted the hotel manager, an old man with eyes like deep wells. He shook his head, his face betraying a deep unease. ‘That room, number 15, has been sealed for decades,’ he said. ‘A couple was murdered there in 1954, during the last days of the French occupation. The husband, a French officer, accused his Vietnamese wife of betrayal. He strangled her and then turned the gun on himself. It is said their souls still fight, forever reliving that night. But no one has been in that room until last night. The door was locked from the inside, and the key was missing.’ We demanded to see the room. He reluctantly showed us, but the door was locked. He tried to force it, but it wouldn’t budge. It was only when we insisted that he used an old master key. The door creaked open to reveal a dusty, untouched room, exactly as it must have been in 1954. There were no signs of disturbance, no broken furniture, no shattered glass. It was as if the entire commotion had been a phantom echo.

Lena and I checked out that same day, but the experience followed us. In our new hotel, we could still hear the faint, garbled arguing and the frantic footsteps in the corridors, but only when we were alone. Nearing the end of our trip, I discovered that the hotel’s original name, ‘Thanh Long,’ meant ‘Green Dragon,’ but the locals had another, older name for it: ‘Nha Ma Quy,’ the House of Hungry Ghosts. I haven’t spoken of it since, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear that furious rattling on my door, and I wonder if I will ever find peace.