Motel Hollow Pine sat on the edge of nowhere—a fading red neon sign flickering in the fog, just off Route 217 in rural Pennsylvania. For truckers, it was a convenient overnight stop. For drifters, a last resort. But for me, that room—Room 9—was the epicenter of something I still don’t fully understand.
I’m not writing this to convince you. I’m writing it to remember. To make sense of the night time broke.
Chapter One: Check-In
It was late October, and I had been driving for twelve hours. My phone was dead, and my GPS had frozen somewhere between “no signal” and “recalculating.” The air smelled of wet leaves and something metallic. Hollow Pine appeared like a ghost, its vacancy light humming in the dark.
The man at the desk didn’t speak much. He handed me an actual key—brass, with a faded leather tag: Room 9.
“Don’t stay past 4,” he muttered.
I asked what he meant, but he was already walking away.
Chapter Two: The Room
Room 9 was straight out of a 1970s horror movie—patterned carpet, yellowed lamp shades, a buzzing mini fridge. On the desk was a Gideon Bible and a laminated sign: No refunds. No exceptions.
I noticed something strange right away. The digital clock on the nightstand was unplugged. Still, its display read: 3:33 AM.
I plugged it in. The display glitched, then reset to 3:33 AM again.
Chapter Three: The Knocking
I fell asleep around midnight. I remember because the bathroom light kept turning on by itself. I blamed faulty wiring.
At 3:30, I woke up gasping—as if something had pulled air from my lungs. Then came the knock.
Three soft taps on the motel room door.
I checked the peephole. No one.
But when I turned back, the bed was unmade. The sheets I’d tucked in were pulled back—as if someone had just climbed out.
Chapter Four: The Mirror
There was a full-length mirror bolted to the closet. Fogged. I wiped it with my sleeve.
There I was—and behind me, a figure.
Tall. Faceless. Wearing a long coat that looked soaked.
I turned. No one.
But when I turned back to the mirror—he was closer.
Chapter Five: 3:33 AM
The lights flickered. The digital clock sparked, then glowed brighter: 3:33 AM.
Suddenly, the room felt smaller. The air compressed. I couldn't move. I heard the knock again—but it was coming from inside the closet.
I ran.
I didn’t pack. Didn’t check out. Just bolted to my car and drove until sunrise.
Chapter Six: Aftermath
When I stopped at a gas station twenty miles away, I finally looked in my rearview mirror.
In the back seat: water.
Just water. Pooled in the seat. No leaks. No rain.
I looked up Hollow Pine later. It had been closed for decades. Burned down in 1997.
But I still have the key.
It still says Room 9.
And every night since, at 3:33 AM, I wake up.
Sometimes to knocking.
Sometimes... to footsteps.
