The Occupant of 3318

In the autumn of 2018, I had to attend a week-long logistics conference in the sprawling business district of Cedar Falls, Iowa. I booked a room at the Summit Plaza Hotel, a towering glass monolith that looked out onto the endless cornfields beyond the city limits. My room was on the 33rd floor, number 3318. The first night was uneventful: I checked in late, ordered room service, and fell asleep watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures.

I woke up at 3:14 AM, a precise time that would become all too familiar in the coming days. There was a soft, warm glow emanating from the bathroom, and I figured the hotel had installed motion-sensor nightlights. I shuffled to the bathroom, but the light was not from any nightlight—it was the makeup mirror on the counter, its ring of bulbs blazing bright. I distinctly remembered turning it off before I went to bed. I clicked it off, rubbed my eyes, and went back to sleep, chalking it up to an electrical glitch.

The next morning, I mentioned the incident to the front desk. The clerk, a woman with a tight smile, simply said, ‘These mirrors can be finicky. We’ll have maintenance check it.’ I didn’t think much more about it.

The following night, I returned to my room after a long day of meetings, exhausted. I took a hot shower and got into bed, leaving the bathroom light on as a dim nightlight, a habit I had from home. At 3:14 AM, I was jarred awake by the sound of the toilet flushing. I sat up, heart pounding. The bathroom light was on, and I saw the silhouette of a figure—tall, slender, with long hair—standing just outside the bathroom door. As I reached for the bedside lamp, the figure vanished. The bathroom light clicked off by itself.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I left the room at dawn, determined to get through the day and ask for a room change. But by the time I returned, the hotel was fully booked due to the conference, and I was stuck in 3318.

The third night, I decided to stay up, armed with a book and a glass of scotch, determined to catch whatever was causing the disturbances. Around 2:30 AM, I felt a draft of cold air from the bathroom. The door creaked open slowly. I held my breath. The makeup mirror flickered on, and in its reflection, I saw the figure again—this time it was closer, its face obscured by tangled hair, but I could see its eyes, dark and hollow. I felt a whisper against my neck, but it was not words; it was the feeling of a cold, dry breath.

I grabbed my jacket and fled to the hallway. As I waited for the elevator, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in, pressing the lobby button repeatedly. Just before the doors closed, I heard a soft, high-pitched whistle from the direction of my room, and then a sharp slap on my left ear, as if an unseen hand had struck me. My ear stung and rang.

I told my colleague, a burly guy named Mike, about it. He laughed it off, but I made him come back with me. We stood in the hallway outside 3318, and I pointed to the exact spot where I felt the slap. ‘Right there,’ I said. Mike shrugged, ‘Maybe a draft.’

But then, as we stood there, the door to 3318 slowly opened by itself. A faint, sickly sweet smell drifted out, like rotting flowers. Mike went pale. We pushed the door open fully. The room was dark, but the bathroom light was on, and the makeup mirror glowed. On the bed, lying perfectly still, was a woman in a white dress, her face obscured by wet hair. She sat up slowly, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, and pointed one long, pale finger at me.

Mike grabbed my arm and dragged me out of there. We ran to the elevator, pressed the button, and didn’t look back. We went to the bar and drank until we couldn’t stand. The next morning, I checked out without even packing. I didn’t care about my things.

As I drove away from the Summit Plaza, my ear still tingling from the slap, I glanced in the rearview mirror. For a split second, I thought I saw a figure standing at the window of the 33rd floor, waving at me. I didn’t look again. I never stay in hotels above the third floor anymore, and I always check the mirrors before I go to bed. But some nights, at 3:14 AM, I still hear that whistle in my left ear, and I know the occupant of 3318 paid me a visit that never really ended.