Two days later, Aryan checked into a new hotel — this time alone, under a false name, carrying nothing but the journal and a camera.
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The place was called Hotel Suryantra, a rust-colored building on the edge of the city that once served as an orphanage. Room 9 was on the first floor, nestled between a janitor’s closet and a utility shaft. A single bulb flickered above its frame.
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He unlocked the door.
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The scent of lavender hit first — sweet and strange.
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The room looked ordinary: single bed, rusted mirror, yellowed curtains. But on the bed lay a diary — already open.
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In delicate handwriting:
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“My dreams are too loud. They won’t let me sleep anymore.”
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Aryan flipped the pages.
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Each entry got darker.
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“They come when the lights go out.”
“She’s wearing my face now.”
“Mom said I screamed in my sleep again. But mom’s not alive.”
“They say if you dream of Room 9, you never wake up.”
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The last entry was scrawled in smeared ink:
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“If I fall asleep tonight, please don’t let her take me.”
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---
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Aryan sat on the bed. Turned off the light. Waited.
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Minutes passed.
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Then — soft humming. Like a lullaby.
A child’s voice, echoing from the walls.
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He turned toward the mirror.
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A girl stood behind him. But her eyes were white — no pupils. Her smile trembled. And she wore Aryan’s university hoodie.
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She whispered:
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“You dream too loud. She heard you too.”
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Aryan gasped. The room spun.
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Suddenly, he was lying on the bed, paralyzed. His body wouldn't move. Shadowed figures gathered near the ceiling, watching.
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One descended. Slowly. Crawling across the wall.
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A girl — burned, melted, eyes black like ink. She opened her mouth but didn’t speak. Instead, Aryan felt the words in his skull:
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“This is where we’re buried. In dreams. You opened the files. Now you must carry the screams.”
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He closed his eyes and whispered:
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“I’m listening.”
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A sudden gust.
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And silence.
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When he opened his eyes again, it was morning.
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The room was empty.
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Except for a new page in the black journal:
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Room 9 – Delivered
Room 27 – Next
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