Room No .11


                                                        Room No .11




One stormy evening, a traveler named Hamza arrived. The guest house was full, except for Room No. 11. The manager looked pale when Hamza insisted, but he finally handed him the rusty key, whispering:

"May God protect you."

When Hamza unlocked the door, a cold wind rushed out as if the room had been waiting. The walls were stained, and a cracked mirror hung crookedly. A foul smell filled the air, but Hamza, tired from his journey, lay down.

At midnight, soft footsteps echoed inside the room. Hamza opened his eyes—no one was there. The mirror caught his attention. Instead of his reflection, he saw a man with hollow black eyes, silently watching him.

The door slammed shut. Hamza tried to run, but the floorboards creaked, and a shadow figure crawled out of the corner, whispering:
"You are the 11th… the others are here too."

Hamza screamed as dozens of faces pressed against the mirror, all trapped souls begging for release. His body froze, and the shadow dragged him toward the mirror. His reflection twisted in terror before vanishing into the glass.

The next morning, the manager unlocked Room No. 11. It was empty. Only the cracked mirror remained, showing Hamza’s horrified face among the others—forever imprisoned in the cursed Room No. 11.

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