不可思議傳說｜第九篇 – 814 房間 | Room 814: The Hotel Room That Was Never Checked Out – A True Haunted Stay Story
「今晚您住814號房。」她遞給我一張房卡，語氣平靜，但眼神中似乎閃過一絲不易察覺的不安。
「有什麼問題嗎？」我問道，因為她的表情讓我感到有些奇怪。
「啊，沒有，」她勉強笑了一下，「只是……希望您能睡個好覺。」
她的回答讓我感到更加疑惑，但我並沒有多問，拿著房卡走向電梯。電梯緩緩升到八樓，門打開時，我立刻感覺到一股異樣的氣息。
八樓的走廊比起其他樓層顯得更加昏暗，燈光微弱得幾乎無法完全照亮四周。地毯上覆滿了歲月留下的痕跡，每一步都發出輕微的嘎吱聲。走廊盡頭，就是我的房間——814號。
當我站在房門前時，一種莫名的不安感湧上心頭。但我告訴自己這只是疲憊所致，插入房卡，推開了門。
房間內部看起來還算整潔，但有一種說不出的壓抑感。牆壁上的裝飾畫似乎泛著陳舊的顏色，床鋪雖然乾淨整齊，但卻散發出一股淡淡的霉味。我將行李放在角落，打算簡單洗漱後早點休息。
就在我走向浴室時，我注意到床邊電話的燈光正在閃爍。這讓我感到疑惑，因為我根本沒有使用過電話。我猶豫了一下，還是拿起了聽筒。
「您有一則新留言。」機械化的聲音傳來。
我按下播放鍵，耳邊傳來一陣低沉而緩慢的呼吸聲。那呼吸聲彷彿近在耳邊，又像是從遙遠的地方傳來，每一下都帶著一種壓迫感。我全身僵硬，手心開始冒汗。
「這一定是系統故障……」我試圖說服自己，但心裡的不安卻越來越強烈。
掛斷電話後，我決定下樓詢問前台是否有人曾經使用過這個房間。當我走到櫃檯時，那位接待員看到我似乎有些驚訝。
「請問……814號房之前有人住過嗎？」我試探性地問道。
她眉頭微皺，低頭查看電腦螢幕。然而，她的手指突然停住了，臉上的表情變得更加古怪。
「沒有。」她說道，「今晚這個房間並未分配給任何人。」
「可是……您剛剛不是給了我814號房嗎？」我的聲音開始顫抖。
她再次查看了系統，然後抬起頭，用一種難以置信的語氣說：「其實這個房間很久沒有人入住了……」
聽到這句話，我感到一陣寒意從腳底竄上脊椎。我努力壓下內心的不安，勉強笑了笑，說：「可能是系統出錯了吧。」
回到房間時，我發現電話燈又開始閃爍。我站在門口猶豫了一會兒，終於鼓起勇氣走向電話。然而，就在我伸手準備拿起聽筒時，一聲低沉而緩慢的敲門聲響起。
那聲音是如此突兀，以至於我的心臟漏跳了一拍。我猛地轉身看向門口，但透過窺視孔卻什麼也沒看到——外面空無一人。
這時，電話突然響了。我僵硬地拿起聽筒，一個低沉而沙啞的聲音低語道：「你沒有離開……」
那聲音冰冷、陰森，如同從地獄深處傳來。我再也無法忍受，匆匆收拾行李，決定連夜離開這裡。即使再累，我也不想待在這個詭異的地方多一秒鐘。
當我走回大廳時，那位接待員似乎被我的樣子嚇了一跳。「您要退房嗎？現在已經很晚了……」
「對，我要退房。」我語氣堅決，把房卡遞給她。
她接過房卡，看了一眼後，臉色瞬間變得蒼白。「814號房？」她喃喃自語。「不可能……那個房間早已不在我們系統裡了。」
「什麼意思？」我皺眉問道。
她沒有回答，只是低頭查看電腦。幾秒鐘後，她抬起頭，用微微發抖的聲音說：「我們早就把那個房間封起來了……因為……」
「因為什麼？」我的聲音不自覺地提高了。
她深吸了一口氣，小聲說：「幾年前，有一位住客在814號房發生意外……他從未退房。」
聽到這句話，我只覺得全身發冷，再也不想多待片刻。我匆匆離開旅館，在外面打車離開那座小鎮。
直到今天，那晚發生的一切仍然深深烙印在我的記憶中。我不知道那通電話和敲門聲背後究竟是什麼，也不知道那位接待員所說的「從未退房」意味著什麼。但有一件事我可以確定——有些地方，不該輕易踏足；有些故事，也許永遠不該被揭開。
English Version
“Tonight, you’ll be staying in Room 814,” the receptionist said as she handed me the key card, her tone calm but her eyes betraying a flicker of unease that I could not immediately explain, and when I asked if there was any problem, she forced a small, unconvincing smile and replied that she simply hoped I would have a good night’s rest, a response that did little to settle the strange feeling forming in my chest, yet I chose not to press further and instead made my way toward the elevator, attributing her behavior to nothing more than fatigue or distraction, but the moment the elevator doors opened onto the eighth floor, I sensed that something was wrong, the corridor stretching out before me seemed darker than the rest of the hotel, its dim lighting barely illuminating the worn carpet beneath my feet, which creaked softly with each step as though echoing the passage of time itself, and at the far end of the hallway stood my destination—Room 814—waiting in an unsettling silence that felt almost deliberate as I stood before the door, an inexplicable hesitation took hold of me, a quiet warning I could not justify yet could not ignore, but I dismissed it as exhaustion, inserted the key card, and pushed the door open; inside, the room appeared orderly at first glance, the bed neatly made, the furnishings arranged with standard precision, yet beneath that surface normality lingered a subtle sense of oppression, as if the space itself carried a memory it could not release, the air tinged with a faint musty odor that hinted at long disuse despite the illusion of readiness, and as I set down my belongings and prepared to settle in, I noticed something that immediately disrupted any attempt at comfort—the telephone beside the bed was flashing, its small light blinking steadily as if signaling an incoming message, which made no sense because I had only just entered the room; after a moment of hesitation, curiosity overcame me and I picked up the receiver, where a mechanical voice informed me that I had one new message, prompting me to press the playback button, and what followed was not a voice, not words, but a slow, heavy breathing sound that seemed to exist both close to my ear and impossibly distant at the same time, each breath carrying a weight that pressed against my chest, causing my body to stiffen and my palms to grow cold with unease, and though I tried to rationalize it as a technical malfunction, the feeling that accompanied it was far too real to dismiss; after hanging up, I decided to go downstairs and ask the front desk whether the room had been occupied earlier, hoping for a simple explanation, but when I approached the receptionist, her expression shifted the moment I mentioned Room 814, her initial confusion giving way to something closer to disbelief as she checked the system and informed me that the room had not been assigned to anyone that night, a statement that contradicted my own experience so completely that I felt a chill run through me, and when I reminded her that she herself had given me the key, she checked again, her fingers pausing over the keyboard as her face grew pale, before quietly adding that the room had not been in use for a very long time; unable to process the contradiction, I forced a nervous smile and suggested it might be a system error, though neither of us truly believed it, and with no clear answers, I returned reluctantly to the room, only to find that the telephone light had begun flashing once more, as if whatever had reached out before was attempting to do so again, and as I stood there debating whether to approach it, a sudden, slow knock echoed from the door behind me, the sound so deliberate and out of place that my heart seemed to skip a beat, and when I turned and looked through the peephole, I saw nothing—no movement, no figure, only the empty hallway stretching into darkness; before I could react, the telephone rang sharply, breaking the silence with a jarring urgency, and with trembling hands I lifted the receiver, where a low, hoarse voice whispered a single chilling sentence: “You didn’t leave,” the words carrying a coldness that felt almost physical, as though they had emerged from somewhere far beyond the confines of the room, and in that moment, whatever composure I had managed to maintain collapsed entirely, replaced by a singular instinct to escape, and without hesitation I began packing my belongings, abandoning any intention of staying the night, because no level of exhaustion could outweigh the overwhelming certainty that I should not remain there; when I returned to the lobby, the receptionist seemed startled by my appearance, her concern evident as she asked if I was checking out, and I confirmed that I was, handing her the key card with a firmness that left no room for reconsideration, but as she took it and glanced down, her expression changed instantly, her face draining of color as she murmured the room number under her breath, repeating it as if trying to convince herself it was real, before looking back at me with a mixture of fear and confusion and stating that it was impossible, that Room 814 no longer existed in their system, and when I demanded an explanation, she hesitated before admitting in a hushed voice that the room had been sealed off years ago following an incident involving a guest who had never checked out, her words hanging in the air with an implication too unsettling to fully grasp, and though I wanted to ask more, to understand what had truly happened, a deeper instinct urged me to leave immediately, to distance myself from whatever presence might still linger there; I exited the hotel without looking back, stepping into the night where the cool air felt almost reassuring compared to the suffocating atmosphere I had left behind, and as I made my way away from that place, I could not shake the feeling that the experience was not entirely over, that something had followed me, not physically but in memory, in the quiet moments when the world grows still and the mind begins to wander, returning me again and again to that dim corridor, that silent room, that voice that seemed to know I was there, and even now, long after that night, I find myself wondering what truly occupied Room 814, whether the guest who never checked out is still there in some form, waiting, reaching out through flickering lights and unanswered calls, and whether, if I had stayed just a little longer, I too might have become part of that unfinished stay, another presence lingering in a place that no longer officially exists, yet refuses to disappear.
