This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Carbodex on 2023-07-06 09:58:42+00:00.

So, there I was. Just a simple man, with my 9 to 5 and a lonely apartment. It was one of those boring days when everything seems to be blending in with the shadows of routine. Until it wasn’t. It all started when my boss, old man Jenkins, sent me on a last-minute business trip to a small town in the countryside.

Now, you gotta understand, I’ve worked for Jenkins for a long time. He’s a decent guy, albeit a bit eccentric. Then there’s me - Rob, a simple numbers man who’d rather spend his weekends nestled with a book than frolicking on a beach somewhere.

The town was one of those places where everyone knows everyone, and you can’t help but feel like an alien the minute you step foot. My accommodation was the only hotel in town, a quaint old establishment named “The Traveler’s Rest”. My room? Room number 3. There was nothing remarkable about it at first glance - the faded wallpaper, the antique desk and chair, the creaky wooden bed with an old-fashioned quilt.

After a day of endless meetings and getting to know the locals, I retreated to my room for some well-deserved rest. The silence was eerie. But it was the countryside, I reminded myself. These places were supposed to be quiet.

One night, as I was about to doze off, I heard something. The sound was subtle, almost imperceptible. A soft whisper, a desperate plea, echoing from the walls. My heart pounded in my chest. This can’t be real, I thought. I must be dreaming.

Despite the unsettling whisper, I decided to stay. My nature, always drawn to logic and reason, urged me to dismiss the uncanny experience as a product of my exhausted mind. It was an old building, after all, with its share of creaks and noises. Surely, it was just a trick of acoustics or perhaps a distant echo from the town outside. I wasn’t about to let some unfounded fear disrupt my important business trip.

But the whispers grew louder. They filled the room, swallowing the silence. It was the voice of a woman, begging for help. I could feel the desperation seeping into the room, sending chills down my spine. The fear was visceral, almost palpable. Yet, there was no one there, just the echoes of a voice, growing more desperate and more agonizing. A sense of dread enveloped me, stealing my peace.

My logical brain kicked in, trying to reason. Old building, strange acoustics, someone having a late-night conversation. But the whispers continued, tormenting me, and there was no ignoring them anymore. My anxiety skyrocketed. What was going on? Why could I hear these pleas in my room?

For days, the haunting voice visited me, gnawing at my sanity. I felt like I was being consumed by the room. Room number 3. It was alive, filled with despair and fear. Despite its emptiness, it was too full, filled with unseen terror that was slowly seeping into me, making me question my reality. The fear was now part of me, clutching at my heart, refusing to let go.

One evening, unable to bear the torment, I decided to confront the hotel manager. He was an old man with wrinkled skin and rheumy eyes that held too many secrets. When I told him about the voices, he paled. His old eyes flickered with recognition, and then fear.

“Room 3,” he muttered under his breath, as if the room was a living, breathing entity. He confessed that years ago, a woman stayed in Room 3. Her name was Elizabeth, and she disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The room had been silent ever since, or so he thought until I arrived.

My blood ran cold. I felt a chill sweep over me. The whispers, the pleas, they belonged to Elizabeth. I was sleeping in her tomb, haunted by her pleas for help. My skin crawled at the thought of it. I couldn’t spend another night in that room.

Determined, I decided to uncover the truth. I reached out to the local police, but they were of little help, brushing off the decade-old case. But the whispers didn’t stop. The desperation in her voice pushed me on.

I spent my days digging into the past, into Elizabeth’s life. I spoke to the locals, read old newspaper articles, anything that could give me some closure. My search led me to her last known boyfriend - a local with a history of violence. After talking to him, it became clear that he knew more than he was letting on. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable when I mentioned Elizabeth’s name.

One evening, after a confrontation, he admitted to the unspeakable. In a fit of rage, he had ended Elizabeth’s life, burying her within the very walls of Room 3. As the confession tumbled from his lips, the whispers in my head screamed. The truth was horrific, more than I had imagined.

The police were notified, and the man was arrested. Elizabeth’s remains were found within the walls, just as he’d described. Once the truth was revealed, the whispers in Room 3 fell silent. I had given Elizabeth a voice, bringing her story to light.

The room was no longer a tomb but a testament to Elizabeth’s life and the horrors she had to endure. I left that town, leaving behind Room 3 and its haunting memories. But the fear, the anxiety, they remained, nestled within my soul. Room 3 was my tormentor, my horror. And even now, when I close my eyes, I can hear her whispers, a chilling reminder of the horrifying reality I was a part of.