I was desperate. Down to my last few bucks and on the run, the old Seabrook Inn was a haven in my stormy life. It was way off the main road, nestled among a grove of ancient trees, looking like it hadn’t seen guests in decades. The elderly innkeeper gave me a wary look but handed me the key to Room 417.
The first night was uneventful. But on the second, a faint, rhythmic tapping sounded at my window. Startled, I looked out but saw only the gnarled branches of the trees swaying. I chalked it up to the wind and settled back into bed.
On the third night, the tapping was louder, more insistent. Accompanying it was a soft, almost inaudible whisper. Straining my ears, I could barely make out a repeated phrase, “Let me in… Let me in…” I was on the fourth floor. What could possibly tap on a fourth-floor window?
I mentioned it to the innkeeper the next morning. His face turned a shade paler. He dismissed it as old building sounds and swiftly changed the subject.
But curiosity consumed me. I dug into the local archives, hunting for clues. What I discovered was a chilling tale of sorrow and obsession.
Fifty years ago, a woman named Elara stayed in Room 417. She’d fallen madly in love with a man from Seabrook, but their love was forbidden due to their families’ feud. In despair, she’d thrown herself from the window of Room 417, her last words being a plea to her lover to join her.
Legend had it that Elara’s spirit still haunted the room, seeking her lost love. I shivered. Surely it was just a myth.
That night, the tapping grew even louder. The whisper turned into a desperate plea, “Join me, my love… Join me…” Trembling, I peered out of the window, and there she was: Elara’s ghostly silhouette floated outside, her hand outstretched towards the glass, her eyes, hollow voids, fixed on me.
Panicking, I packed my things and bolted for the door. But it wouldn’t budge. The temperature in the room plummeted. Every shadow seemed to twist and writhe. Elara’s whispers now echoed all around, her sorrow palpable in every syllable.
“Stay with me… Stay…”
Hours felt like days. Trapped and terrorized, I desperately searched for an escape. The old legends mentioned her lover, but his identity remained a mystery. The answer to my escape, I believed, was to find out who he was and somehow convince Elara to release her grip on the living.
In the room’s old fireplace, I found a hidden compartment containing love letters between Elara and her forbidden lover. His name was Samuel, and he never knew of her tragic end. He had written of plans to reconcile their families and unite in love. Their story remained unfinished.
With newfound determination, I called out to Elara. “He loved you! He wanted a life with you! Read his words!”
A gust of wind scattered the letters around the room. The temperature slowly began to rise. Elara’s form appeared, more defined this time, reading each letter with tears streaming down her face.
“I waited… I hoped… But he never came,” she sobbed.
“He never knew, Elara,” I whispered, my own tears falling. “He loved you.”
A soft light enveloped the room, and Elara’s form began to fade. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice echoing one last time before vanishing entirely.
The door unlocked on its own, and I stumbled out into the hallway, gasping for breath. I left the Seabrook Inn that very night, never looking back.
Years have passed, and life has moved on. But every so often, when the wind howls and shadows dance, I hear a faint whisper, a soft thank you from a love once lost, echoing from the confines of Room 417.