“Go inside Room 136 of the Telmont Inn. Sit on the bed facing the mirror and count to 10. If you can do it, I’ll give you $20.”
“Why? So I can get in trouble with whoever owns the room?” I asked.
“No, no. The rooms under renovation,” said my friend, “and it’s been under renovation since the eighties. There’s just a piece of caution tape on the handle and that’s all. Nothing to stop you from going in.”
“And you just want me to sit on the bed and count to 10?”
He nodded. “Just count to 10.”
“And you have the money?”
He showed me a crisp, $20 bill.
“Alright,” I said, “if that’s really all it’ll take to impress you.”
I turned and walked through the double doors of the Telmont Inn. Inside, many people were chatting and having a good time. The waitress was too busy with drinks to notice me come in. I slipped into the corridor at the far end without anyone trying to stop me. As soon as none of them could see me any longer, I darted down the hall towards Room 136.
My friend was right. There was just a piece of caution tape on the door. The handle was rusted, unlike the shiny brass of the others, and the paint of the door was chipped and deteriorating.
I opened the door. Inside was an old, covered bed with ghostly white sheets. The carpet had a rose pattern that was brown and matted from water damage and reeked of something dank and musky. The windows hardly let in any light, too covered in dust and grim to let in more than a dull gray. A standing mirror stood by itself in the corner, even taller than I was.
I supposed I could just tell my friend that I had said the numbers. But I felt compelled to do it having been brave enough to come this far. I sat on the side of the mattress and closed my eyes.
“One,” I said with a sigh.
The distant roar of chatter was hardly a murmur now. The air here was cold, as though the window wasn’t quite closed all the way.
“Two,”
“Three,”
This really felt silly. My friend hadn’t come up with the idea himself. It was a well-known rumor that this room was haunted. And that one or two who’d entered had left it screaming.
“Four,”
I felt a tightness in my throat. What if I was wrong and there really was something? Or had they just psyched themselves out with this silly number game, just as I was on the verge of doing to myself.
“Five,”
“Six,”
I could’ve sworn I felt the air get colder. And the mumbling of the guests I don’t hear as much anymore, as if they all had decided to stop.
“Seven,”
My skin started to prickle. I was drawing nearer to the end and suddenly feeling a little apprehensive about doing so.
“Eight,”
There was a soft creak of the floor closest to me. I wanted so desperately to open my eyes to make sure no one was standing over me, but I didn’t dare.
“Nine,”
I felt something icy on my arm. A cold sensation, dry and rough, like a finger sliding along my skin. I could hear a sound like a breath in my right ear, as if someone were whispering into it far too quietly for me to understand. And just as I was about to say ten, I felt the part of the mattress beside me lower, as if someone were sitting beside me.
I got up and ran out of the room. I kept my eyes shut as I did, afraid of what I might see if I looked. And though I lost the dare, and my friends still tease me about it, I’m still happy I didn’t count to ten. It makes me shudder to think of what might’ve happened to me if I had.