The Third Corridor

I never thought I’d find myself back in that part of Wales, but three years have passed since the accident, and my therapist suggested a change of scenery. She said revisiting the site might help me confront my fears. I chose the Cloverfield Manor, a sprawling Victorian estate turned hotel, nestled in the misty hills of Snowdonia. It was a far cry from the Scottish castle where it all began, but the brochure promised solitude and history. I arrived on a grey October afternoon, the manor’s gables looming against the sky like jagged teeth.

The check-in was uneventful. A young receptionist with tired eyes handed me a brass key to room 317, situated on the third floor. ‘Mind the east wing,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper, ‘It’s closed for restoration.’ I nodded, too weary to ask questions. The corridors were lined with faded portraits and threadbare carpets, each step muffled by the silence. My room was spacious but cold, with tall windows overlooking the overgrown garden. I unpacked, purposefully avoiding the bathroom at first, but eventually, I needed a shower.

As the water ran, I closed the door to the bathroom, leaving the main door locked, just as I had done at the castle. The steam enveloped me, and I tried to relax, but the same old unease crept up my spine, a tingling at the nape of my neck, as if someone were standing just outside the bathroom door. I dismissed it as a lingering trauma. After I turned off the water, I listened. The room was silent, save for the drip of the faucet. I wrapped a towel around me and opened the door. The room was empty.

But something had changed. On the writing desk, my journal lay open, not on the page I had left it, but a few pages ahead. My handwriting was there, but the ink was fresh, and the words were not mine. ‘The third corridor, behind the tapestry, counts seven steps from the window, then turn.’ My heart hammered. A prank? The hotel had staff, but why would they? I laughed it off, thinking I had forgotten, but I knew I hadn’t written that. I shut the journal and decided to explore.

The manor was quiet, the other guests either in their rooms or out. I wandered down to the ground floor, passing the library, the drawing room, and finally, a long hallway lined with ancient tapestries. I counted the tapestries. On the third corridor, if you faced the window at the end, and took seven steps back, there was a narrow door, almost invisible in the paneling. It was unlocked.

Beyond the door was a spiral staircase descending into darkness. My rational mind screamed to turn back, but curiosity, that fatal flaw, compelled me. I took out my phone and used its torch. The stairs led to a basement, but not the usual boiler room. This was a library, forgotten and dust-covered. Shelves lined with leather-bound books, many bearing strange symbols. On a central table lay an open tome, its pages yellowed. The title: ‘The Rites of the Unburied.’ As I leaned in, I felt a breath on my ear, and a voice, so faint, said, ‘You found it.’

I spun around, but no one was there. The air grew cold. I backed away towards the stairs, but the door at the top slammed shut. I was trapped. Panic set in, and I raced up the stairs, but the door wouldn’t budge. I pounded on it, screaming for help, but the wood was thick, and my voice was muffled. Then, from behind me, I heard the sound of pages turning. I turned, and the book was now open to a different page, revealing an illustration of a woman with hollow eyes. Her gaze followed me. I ran to the other side of the basement, looking for any other exit.

In the corner, I saw a grate, possibly a cellar chute. I managed to wrench it open and crawled through darkness, scraping my knees, until I emerged into the garden, cold and trembling. I looked back at the manor, and in a third-floor window, I saw a silhouette of a woman, her face pressed against the glass, watching me. It was the same woman from the illustration. I fled to the village and called the police, but they found no secret door or basement. They dismissed my story as a hallucination. The next day, I checked out, but as I left, the receptionist, same tired eyes, said, ‘She likes to play games. You shouldn’t have read her journal.’

I never returned to that manor, but I still have the journal. Sometimes, when I open it, there are new entries, written in my hand but not my words. They describe things I haven’t done, places I haven’t seen. And always, the same phrase: ‘The third corridor, behind the tapestry, counts seven steps from the window, then turn.’ I’ve never tried again. But last night, I woke to find the journal open on my nightstand, and a new line: ‘She’s waiting for you at the castle.’ My therapist said I should confront my demons. I think she’s right. But I’m not going back to that manor. I’m going back to Scotland, to find the castle we stayed in, the one I can’t remember the name of, because I never wrote it down. But the journal has. And there, in the margin, it says, ‘The Black Tarn Hotel.’ I’ve booked a room. I’m leaving tomorrow.