Room 237

The door creaked shut behind Adaeze, and for the first time since her arrival at Edevane, silence felt like a living thing. Room 237 wasn't just a space to sleep; it was a stage where secrets rehearsed their lines. It had already been hers since she arrived, assigned in that surreal haze of arrival and orientation, and she'd already met Clara, her second-year roommate with cryptic smiles and a talent for appearing in places she shouldn't.

Clara was the kind of girl who wore mystery like perfume, soft, lingering, and unmistakable. She'd explained little when Adaeze first arrived, only offering fragmented advice. Adaeze had chalked it up to upperclassman weirdness, the kind of mind games played in elite schools.

But tonight, things were different.

The room itself pulsed with unease. High gothic windows barely let in the moonlight, casting pale stripes over the warped wooden floor. Their beds were narrow and dark oak framed, like hospital cots in a forgotten ward. An enormous bookshelf sagged beneath the weight of leather-bound volumes, none of which had titles.

Adaeze sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the small leather-bound journal she'd found tucked beneath her pillow the night before. It hadn't been Clara's. Clara swore she never wrote with a quill, let alone one that bled ink that shimmered blue in the dark. The entries inside shifted each time she opened it, names erased themselves, entire pages reworded, and one night it whispered her name as she read.

Clara returned from wherever she'd disappeared to, tossing a half-eaten green apple onto her desk. She kicked off her shoes with a practiced thud and didn't look Adaeze's way when she spoke. "The walls listened again. Did you feel it?"

Adaeze nodded slowly. "Yes. I heard… humming. A low frequency. Like an engine starting up underground."

Clara turned then, her expression serious. "It's not the plumbing. And you shouldn't stay in bed when that happens."

"Why not?"

"Because sometimes the bed isn't where you left it when you wake up."

Adaeze stared. "Are you joking?"

Clara didn't answer. Instead, she moved toward the shared wardrobe, pulling open the door. Inside was the usual mess of uniforms, scarves, and cloaks. But on the inside panel of the door, Adaeze noticed something she hadn't seen before, a series of small etchings. Names. Dozens of them, some faded, some crossed out. One near the top read "H. Crosswell - 1981." Another at the bottom had only just begun to fade: "T. Rains - 2022."

"Are those... former students?" Adaeze asked.

Clara shut the door. "Former residents of Room 237. Not all of them left Edevane."

The hum returned.

This time louder. Like something groaning under the strain of holding itself together.

Adaeze stood abruptly. "We have to do something. We can't just sit here."

Clara lit a small candle by her desk. "We don't run from the room. We watch. Room 237 doesn't want to be feared, it wants to be understood."

"That's ridiculous," Adaeze snapped. "It's a room, not a living thing."

"Is it?" Clara whispered.

The shadows in the corners twisted.

And then the bookshelf groaned, and shifted.

With the unmistakable sound of scraping wood, it moved half an inch away from the wall. Just enough to reveal a hollow slit of darkness behind it.

Adaeze's breath caught. Clara moved to the shelf and placed a hand on the top row of books. "It's time."

"Time for what?"

"For Room 237 to show you who it really is."

With surprising ease, Clara slid the bookshelf aside. A hidden doorway, narrow and barely lit, descended behind it, no stairs, just a slope into blackness. A gust of air, stale and cold, swept into the room.

Adaeze's heart thudded.

Clara handed her the candle. "Every student has to face it. The room tests us differently. Last year, I got mirrors. You? You'll see."

Adaeze hesitated, then took the candle.

She stepped into the dark.

The space narrowed around her immediately, pressing against her shoulders, the air thick with mildew and something faintly metallic, like blood. The walls were stone and pulsed with faint warmth, as if alive. Behind her, Clara whispered, "Don't speak to anything unless it speaks your name."

Then she was gone.

The tunnel led Adaeze into a chamber shaped like a perfect circle. Twelve small chairs surrounded a single desk, and above it floated an ancient oil painting of the academy, bathed in red mist. A single quill hovered mid-air, scratching notes on parchment, except the ink was crimson.

Her name appeared.

"Adaeze Nwosu."

And then the painting bled.

She screamed, but no sound came.

And the candle went out.

The room swallowed her.

Back in Room 237, Clara sat cross-legged on her bed, reading an old journal. The candle on her desk burned steady. She didn't look toward the hidden door.

She just whispered, "Good luck."