Soft ambient music fades in — the hum of an old elevator, distant thunder, muffled city sounds.]
Narrator (calm, slow, and curious):
They say every hotel has a story. Some are stitched together from late-night whispers, others carved into the walls themselves.
The Briarwood Hotel was neither luxurious nor notorious. Just... old. Forgotten by time, tucked between high-rise towers like a memory wedged in the corner of your mind.
But it had one room.
Room 213.
Locals spoke of it in half-sentences, like finishing the thought might invite something in. Some said the door wouldn't open unless it wanted to. Others swore they heard voices — soft, pleading, right before sleep took them.
No one stayed there twice.
And still... I checked in.
[Pause — sound of a key turning in a door, soft creak.]
I had one goal: record everything.
If nothing happened, great. Just another urban legend. But if the rumors were true... well, that's exactly the kind of story I was looking for.
The room was colder than the hallway. Stale. Heavy. Like walking into a memory you didn't know you had.
I set up my camera on the desk, hit record, and spoke to the lens.
(Imitating character tone)
"Day One. Room 213. No signs of anything strange… yet."
I didn't know then… that it had already started.
[Music shifts — slightly more eerie undertone creeps in.]
---
Would you like to continue into Day One events, or develop what weirdness slowly unfolds through the night?
Perfect. Here's the continuation—the slow unraveling of weirdness through the first night in Room 213, keeping it eerie and atmospheric for your YouTube storytelling style:
---
[Ambient background: Soft ticking clock, distant city sounds, low hum of fluorescent lights.]
Narrator (steady, hushed tone):
The first hour was quiet. Almost too quiet.
No creaks. No sudden chills. Just the occasional sound of traffic far below and the soft buzz of the overhead light.
I sat on the edge of the bed, reviewing the camera feed. Boring. Still. Normal.
Until 1:13 a.m.
That's when the bathroom light flickered—once, then twice.
I hadn't touched it.
I got up, checked the switch. It was off. Still, the bulb dimmed again, just slightly, like it was breathing.
[Sound cue: faint electric flicker, distant whisper barely audible.]
I chalked it up to bad wiring. Old hotel, old problems.
But then… I heard it.
A knock.
Not at the door. Not on the wall.
From the inside of the closet.
Three slow knocks. Deliberate. Hollow. Like someone trapped inside.
[Silence — let the moment hang.]
I stared at the closet. Every part of me said don't open it. But I'm not like most people.
I grabbed the camera and pressed record.
(In character)
"Room 213. It's 1:27 a.m. I'm hearing knocking from the closet. Gonna check it out…"
The doorknob was ice-cold. I opened it slowly.
Empty. Just a coat hanger swaying slightly… like someone had bumped it seconds before.
Then the knocking came again.
From behind me.
[Sudden low bass hit — a sound cue to jolt the listener.]
I spun around. Nothing.
No one at the door. No one in the room.
But on the bed… my notebook was open. A page I hadn't written on. Just seven words, scrawled in shaky handwriting.
"Don't look in the mirror. Not yet."
I hadn't even unpacked a pen.