Triskaidekaphobia

Back then, if you listened closely, you would hear it.

It was the sound of a clatter of numerous hooves on stone paths. That was the sound of the hearse carrying a wooden coffin containing the corpse of Ebenezer Morris.

He was the owner of the Wentworth Inn which was the only inn in that town. Rumors had it that he performed some forbidden rituals so that his business would blossom and the price was the soul of whoever the occupant of Room 13 was.

Every night, someone would check in at that inn, and spend a night at that room. But none who checked in at that room checked out – ever. His family ran the inn, so they all knew about the ritual. And they all kept it secret.

Soon enough, the locals found out about the gruesome details, and a mob marched to the inn at 1:00 AM to find him and kill him. But they were too late. That night, Ebenezer and his household had partied, and in their festivities, had forgotten to check someone into Room 13.

If you did not give Death what was his, he would take what was yours.

Ebenezer’s family had since bolted, and it was a little clear why. According to the coroner, the look on his face was one so horrific; the first police officer who saw it fainted. The cause of death was said to be ‘Death by the Visitation of God’ meaning a death by natural causes, but everyone who saw that face knew that there was nothing Godly or natural about his death.

Since that event, inns and hotels built in that town were built without Room 13.

But that was a scientifically unfounded event in 1843. This was 2020.

As you checked into the Royale Hotel, which was coincidentally built upon the area of land where Wentworth Inn once stood, you scoffed.

Superstition.

“Room 14,” the receptionist says.

You check into your room and soon you’re drowsy on your queen-sized bed, thinking about the whole story as you fall asleep.

You are suddenly awoken by the loud cackle from the room by your left. Great. The person in Room 12 loved to watch old horror movies at loud volumes.

As you get up from your bed, you can’t help but feel that your room is smaller than it was when you checked in. Were you really that tired?

The cackle becomes louder. You grumpily step out of your room, ready to give the wacko a piece of your mind. As you’re about to bang on the door, you freeze in your steps, shocked.

In between Rooms 12 and 14, was Room 13.

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Good Night, and don’t let the vampire bats bite!

I got the idea for the absence of Room 13 and its appearance at midnight from the story ‘The Number 13’ which I read in 2018. That was a great one!

Triskaidekaphobia is the irrational or obsessive fear of the number 13.