Room 313: Where The Final Bell Means Death

 

Chelsea, a die-hard WWE fan and aspiring wrestler, was driving late through Ohio after a long day at WrestleMania in Cleveland.

Her phone had died somewhere near Mansfield, and the rain was relentless. With no signal and no other choice, she pulled into a rundown roadside motel called the Red Lantern Inn.

The flickering neon sign looked like it might go out any second—much like Chelsea’s own energy.

Inside, the air smelled stale and heavy, like old sweat and forgotten memories. The lobby was eerily silent.

Then, a pale woman appeared silently from a side door.

“You want a room?” she asked, expressionless.

“Just for the night,” Chelsea replied, tired but with her signature wrestler grit.

The woman handed her an old brass key.

“Room 313,” she said flatly.

Chelsea raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a death match.”

The woman gave no reaction, only one warning:

“Don’t stay past 3:13 AM.”

Chelsea laughed it off, but the words settled deep in her stomach like a cold weight.

The room was old and musty. Wrestling posters from decades ago peeled off the walls—ghosts of legends no longer living. The mirror above the dresser lagged behind her movements like a bad replay.

On the nightstand was a leather-bound journal, open to the first page. Written in jagged red ink:

“The final bell tolls at 3:13.”

Chelsea scoffed, tossed her duffel on the bed, switched off the light, and drifted into an exhausted sleep.

At exactly 3:07 AM, she woke up in a cold sweat.

The clock’s red digits glowed like coals: 3:07.

The room was dark, but the shadows outside the window looked... too thick. Too still.

She turned toward the mirror.

Her reflection wasn’t sitting.

It was standing.

And smiling.

Her heart pounded like a match bell. She jumped up and tried the door. It wouldn’t budge.

The lights buzzed, then shifted to a deep red.

A voice echoed from the walls:

“Room 313 is the final ring.”

The closet door creaked open.

Inside stood a dark figure in a tattered wrestling mask.

Eyes like pits.

Its voice a whisper:

“You’re the challenger now.”

Chelsea bolted to the bathroom and locked the door.

No mirror in here—only cracked tiles and rotting wood.

She looked down.

Bruises. Around her wrists.

As if she’d been in a chokehold she couldn’t remember.

Outside, footsteps creaked slowly.

Then—

A whisper through the door:

“You left the ring before the match ended, Chelsea.”

Her name echoed like a ghostly chant in an empty arena.

3:13 AM.

The bathroom door melted away like fog.

Darkness poured in, thick and choking.

From the shadows stepped her own face—twisted and bleeding, eyes stitched shut, mouth sewn tight like a wrestler who’d been silenced forever.

Chains shot out of the darkness and wrapped her arms.

She tried to scream.

But all she heard was the roaring cheer of a long-dead crowd.

---

THE NEXT MORNING

The innkeeper wiped dust from the counter.

A traveler walked in.

“Got a room?”

She handed him a brass key.

“Room 315.”

He looked around. “What about Room 313?”

She smiled darkly.

“There’s no such room.”

Behind her, the mirror shimmered.

And deep inside its surface—

Chelsea’s scream echoed forever.