The Seventh Floor

In the autumn of 2011, after our final university exams, my then-boyfriend, now-fiancé, and I joined a group of friends for a weekend escapade to the remote mountain resort of Karakoram, a place known for its misty peaks, a modest casino, and an old, sprawling hotel that had seen better days. We were young and broke, so we booked the cheapest rooms available, which happened to be on the seventh floor of the hotel’s oldest wing. The elevator was ancient, groaning as it climbed, and the corridor was dimly lit, with frayed carpet that muffled our footsteps.

When we first opened the door to our room, a chill ran down my spine. The layout was odd: a narrow entryway with a bathroom on the left, and further in, a small sitting area with an old television and a large, lumpy bed. The wallpaper was peeling, and there was a faint smell of dampness. I felt uneasy, but I didn’t want to seem superstitious, so I kept my fears to myself. We dropped our bags and headed out with the others to explore the resort’s winding trails and the cluster of shops that seemed frozen in time.

That evening, after a dinner of overpriced noodles and too much laughter, the boys decided to go for a walk along the ridge to see the stars. I declined, feeling tired and oddly heavy, thinking a hot shower would do me good. My friend, Priya, stayed behind too, saying she wanted an early night. The two of us parted ways at the elevator, with her heading to her room on the eighth floor and me to mine on the seventh.

As I stepped into my room and locked the door, the silence was oppressive. The only sound was the hum of the old mini-fridge. I took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the tension in my shoulders. When I stepped out, I noticed that the bathroom mirror was fogged, but there, in the corner, it was clear, as if someone had wiped it. I wiped the mirror with my hand, but the clear spot remained. I stared at it, my heart beginning to race, and then I saw a faint handprint slowly appear on the glass, as if pressed from the other side. I stumbled back, but when I blinked, it was gone.

Trying to shake off the feeling, I walked into the main room and sat on the bed. The television flicked on by itself. The screen showed static, and then a distorted image of a woman in a white dress standing in a corner of a room identical to mine. The sound was a low, guttural whisper that I couldn’t understand. I quickly pressed the power button on the remote, but the TV only turned off after a long, agonizing second of blackness.

I tried to call my boyfriend, but my phone had no signal. I checked the landline on the nightstand, but it was dead. A cold draft swept through the room, and the curtains billowed even though the window was shut. I pulled the covers over me, hoping it was just my imagination. As I lay there, I heard a faint scratching from inside the wardrobe. I told myself it was the wind, but I knew better. The scratching grew louder, turning into a rhythmic tapping, as if someone was drumming their nails on the wood.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my jacket and rushed to the door, but when I opened it, the corridor was not the same. The lights were dimmer, the carpet darker, and the numbers on the doors were gone. The silence was deeper, and the air felt cold and thick. I walked toward the elevator, but the display showed ‘7’ and the doors didn’t open when I pressed the button. I ran to the stairwell, but the door was locked. A whisper seemed to come from all around me, in a language I didn’t know, but one word I could make out: ‘Mine.’

I ran back to my room, slammed the door, and pressed my back against it. The room was now darker, and the woman in white was standing in the corner, her face obscured by long, black hair. She didn’t move, but I felt her staring at me. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, she was gone. I spent the rest of the night in the bathroom, with the light on, shaking and praying for dawn.

When the first light filtered through the grimy window, I felt a sense of relief. My boyfriend returned at 7 AM, smelling of mountain air and cigarettes. He found me huddled on the bathroom floor, and I told him everything. He laughed it off, saying I must have had a nightmare. But when he opened the wardrobe to get his jacket, we both saw it: a child’s doll, old and decaying, with its head turned backward. Neither of us had brought it. We left the room and never spoke of it again.

But on our last night, as we were packing to leave, I found a note slipped under the door. It was written in a spidery script: ‘I saved you a spot on the seventh floor.’ We checked out early and never returned to Karakoram. Yet, sometimes, when the room is quiet, I can still feel a cold draft, and I catch a glimpse of the woman in white in the corner of my eye, waiting patiently for the moment when I, too, will take my place on that floor.