I checked into the hotel just after sundown, luggage dragging behind me as the city’s neon glow flickered in the glass doors. The place wasn’t particularly fancy—just a faded three-star tower tucked into a quiet corner of town. The kind of hotel with stale carpets, vending machines from another decade, and a front desk that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old books.

I was only staying the night, in transit between meetings, and I wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

The receptionist was an older man—mid-sixties, maybe—quiet and polite. His name tag read J. Ortiz, pinned crookedly to his lapel. He handed me a key card, the plastic slightly worn at the edges. Room 306.

“There’s complimentary breakfast until ten,” he said, then paused. “And one more thing…”

I looked up from the check-in form.

“Please keep the bathroom light on. Even while you’re sleeping.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He repeated it slowly, like it was part of some long-standing ritual: “Keep the bathroom light on, sir. Especially at night.”

I gave a short, awkward laugh, expecting a joke. But he didn’t laugh back. His eyes were tired—but serious. Steady.

“…Is there a reason?” I asked.

He hesitated. “It’s just… better that way.”

I debated pressing him further, but I was too tired to unravel someone else’s superstition. With a nod, I thanked him and made my way up the creaky elevator, which hummed like it had secrets of its own.

Room 306 was plain. Beige walls. A small TV sitting on a scarred dresser. A queen-sized bed with sheets tucked military tight. And yes—the bathroom off to the left, a narrow fluorescent bulb buzzing above the mirror like a mosquito trapped in glass.

I dropped my bags, took a quick shower, and got into bed.

I debated turning the bathroom light off. I wasn’t afraid of the dark—I actually preferred it—but Ortiz’s face stuck with me. The way he’d said it. The weight in his voice. It wasn’t just policy. It felt personal.

So, with a quiet sigh, I left the light on.

---

I woke up at exactly 3:12 a.m. The kind of wake-up that doesn’t come with panic, just a slow sense that something’s off. I stared at the ceiling for a long moment, the room glowing faintly from the light spilling in under the bathroom door.

That’s when I heard it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It wasn’t the heater, or the ice machine down the hall. It was deliberate. Rhythmic. Soft, but close. It was coming from the bathroom.

I sat up slowly. “Hello?” I called out, voice cracking from sleep.

Silence.

I got out of bed, heart beating a little faster, feet sinking into the thin carpet as I crept toward the door. It was cracked open, the light buzzing faintly.

When I pushed it fully open, the bathroom was empty.

But the mirror…

There were streaks on it. Long, thin handprints, as if someone had leaned against the glass from the inside and dragged their fingers downward. Still fresh. Still wet.

But I hadn’t showered in hours.

And I hadn’t touched the mirror.

I backed out, pulse racing, and left the door wide open. I didn’t sleep after that.

---

The next morning, I went downstairs to check out. Ortiz was behind the counter, stirring sugar into his coffee.

“You left the light on?” he asked without looking up.

“I did,” I said. “And… can I ask—what’s the deal with that room?”

He sighed, set the spoon down gently. “Years ago, a guest fell in the bathroom. Slipped, hit his head. No one found him until housekeeping came the next morning.”

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Since then, guests in that room have reported… things. Sounds. Water turning on by itself. Shadows. Even whispers. But only if the bathroom light is off. It’s like something wakes up in the dark.”

I swallowed hard. “So it’s haunted.”

“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “But I do know we haven’t had a single issue—not one—when the light stays on. So we ask. That’s all we can do.”

I nodded, thanked him, and walked to my car, still half-dazed.

As I drove out of the lot, I glanced up at the third floor. Room 306. The bathroom light was still on.

And just for a second, through the edge of the curtain, I saw a pale silhouette standing by the mirror.

Still watching.