This story, inspired by true events, has been altered for reasons I prefer to keep to myself. I leave it to the reader—the task, or perhaps the game—to discern what is real and what belongs to the imagination.
14ymedio, Milton Chanes, Berlin, 16 August 2025 — This story, inspired by true events, has been altered for reasons I prefer to keep to myself. I leave it to the reader—the task, or perhaps the game—to discern what is real and what belongs to the imagination.
It all happened nine years ago, in a well-known hotel in Alexanderplatz. At the time, that part of Berlin was not so different from today: bustling and bright, wrapped in that ambiguous air that hovers between the weight of history and the thrill of the future.
The hotel, vast and majestic, seemed the perfect refuge for those eager to explore the city and lose themselves in the endless web of transport converging at the heart of the German capital.
One night, however, Alex’s stay took a disturbing turn. It had been an exhausting day; he felt a deep, bone-weary fatigue, as if each muscle weighed twice as much. In the early hours, he awoke suddenly, for no apparent reason, with that inexplicable sensation that something—or someone—was watching him in the darkness. The room, though it had no blinds, remained almost completely dark thanks to the heavy curtains; the silence was so dense that even the distant murmur of the city barely seeped through. Yet something felt different: Alex sensed, for reasons he could not explain, that he was not alone.
He remained motionless for a few seconds, holding his breath. The unease, vague at first, steadily grew until it became unbearable. Slowly, almost against his will, he turned his head—and at the foot of the bed, he made out a small figure. A child? For a split second, he was paralyzed; then panic overtook him, and he let out a cry that, in his mind, must have echoed throughout the hotel. Yet no one came.
Terrified, he ordered the boy to leave, his voice trembling with fear. He shouted again and again, desperately hoping for some logical reaction—a start, a cry, a retreat. But the child remained there, unmoving, impervious to the yelling, his gaze vacant and his eyes dull, as if he were looking right through Alex or trapped in some unsettling dream. That utter stillness finally shattered Alex’s composure; his heart pounding, he leapt out of bed and ran for the door.
Terrified, he ordered the boy to leave, his voice trembling with fear. He shouted again and again, desperately hoping for some logical reaction
He threw it wide open, still shouting, trying to assert himself over the fear and the absurdity of the situation. He pointed toward the hallway with a broken voice:
—Get out! Go on, out! This isn’t your room!
The boy moved at last, but in a strange, disturbingly slow way. He crossed the threshold with a hesitant step and, once in the hallway, stopped. For a seemingly endless second, he turned and looked at Alex with that same absent expression, his eyes sunken in the shadows.
Alex slammed the door shut and held it for a few seconds, trembling. The silence that followed only heightened the unreality of what had just happened. When he finally dared to let go of the door, he tried to find a rational explanation: perhaps the boy had simply gotten the wrong room, or maybe Alex himself, exhausted, had failed to close the door properly. He looked through the peephole: the hallway was empty; only the cold light from the lamps and the echo of his own breathing kept him company. He stared a moment longer, until the hallway lights suddenly flicked off, restoring the darkness and silence.
“Poor kid,” he thought, trying to convince himself it had all been a nocturnal accident, just another confusion in a hotel full of travelers and families. Still, guilt and doubt tangled themselves with his lingering fear.
Trying to regain control, he returned to bed and switched on the night lamp. His gaze swept the room: the closet, the bathroom, the connecting door— that second, almost forgotten door leading to the neighboring room— and the space by the window. No one else remained; just him and the echo of strangeness.
Still uneasy, he picked up the phone and tried calling reception. He dialed several times, but no one answered. The dead line only increased his discomfort, though he told himself that, at this hour, the staff were probably busy or away. He set the phone down, sighed, and little by little, the tremor in his hands began to fade. He told himself that the next day, he’d laugh about it, recount it as an incredible anecdote, one of those stories that only seem possible in hotels with too many rooms and too many stories of their own.
He kept repeating, like a mantra, that there had to be a logical explanation: the boy must have mixed up the doors, he must have left his own ajar, and all this tension was nothing but the result of exhaustion and an unusual night. With that thought, he switched off the lamp and lay back down. Still, something inside him—a sharp, insistent unease—told him that true rest was still far away.
Then, a sharp knock broke the silence. Someone was knocking at the door. This time, the sound came from down low, as if small hands were drumming insistently against it. Alex sat up with a start, fixing his eyes on the entrance. The knocking, soft but persistent, repeated itself, filling the room with a dull, anxious tension.
Then, a sharp knock broke the silence. Someone was knocking at the door. This time, the sound came from down low, as if small hands were drumming insistently against it.
Mixing anger with concern—after all, it was still just a child—Alex got up and went to the door. When he opened it, there he was again, standing in the same spot, staring at him with those lost, astonished eyes, utterly devoid of fear or wonder.
“Is he sleepwalking?” Alex wondered, now more bewildered than afraid. He glanced at the digital clock: 1:27 a.m. He fought to steady his trembling voice and spoke firmly:
—Go. This isn’t your room. Find someone at reception to help you—I can’t help you.
He closed the door firmly, almost with relief.
He hadn’t even stepped away when the knocking resumed—louder now, almost defiant, as if testing his resolve. This time, Alex lost his temper. He yanked the door open and shouted, overwhelmed by a mix of fear and exhaustion:
—Get out! I’ve had enough of this!
He slammed the door shut again, locking it carefully, and stayed there for a moment, leaning against the wood, his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for another knock, another sound. And then, in the thick silence, he heard it: a faint metallic click, different, coming from inside the room. It was the doorknob of the connecting door to the next room—the one he’d barely noticed until then. Someone on the other side was now trying that handle, too. The knob trembled softly, filling him with a new kind of unease.
“Shit…” he muttered, barely audible, as the trembling in his hands refused to subside.
He glanced at the clock: 1:43. He knew it would be impossible to get back to sleep. Maybe the best thing would be to go down to reception and let them know in person; after all, the child was probably just lost, searching for his parents’ room.
As he walked away from the door, he suddenly heard another attempt to open it from the hallway: footsteps, muffled voices, the unmistakable turn of the handle, as if several people were now trying to force their way in. It was no longer just the child—there were more people, impatient and tense whispers on the other side. A sudden surge of anger, mingled with exhaustion, ran through him. Without thinking, he grabbed his bathrobe from the bathroom and strode across the room, determined at last to confront whoever it was.
He flung the door open, but the hallway was completely empty. Only thick silence and the dim light from the corridor greeted him. For a moment, he doubted his own senses.
At that instant, the elevator hummed softly at the far end of the corridor.
Convinced it was time to put an end to the situation, he decided to go down to reception to complain. He chose not to wait for the elevator and headed for the stairs. It was only three floors. As he descended, he glanced into each landing and alcove, searching for any sign of the child, or whoever else might be wandering the hotel that night. But the hallway remained deserted and strange, like a stage abandoned after the last act.
On reaching the ground floor, the brightness of the mirrors and the immaculate lobby wrapped him in a deceptive calm. Reflected in the grand entrance mirror, he saw the receptionist speaking with a couple. The woman seemed agitated, the man frowned and gestured impatiently. Alex slowed his pace, unsure whether to interrupt, listening for fragments of their conversation…
As he drew nearer, Alex began to pick up snippets of what was being said, carried to him on the still air of the lobby.
As he drew nearer, Alex began to pick up snippets of what was being said, carried to him on the still air of the lobby.
—This is insane, the man was saying, his voice thick with indignation. We booked two adjoining rooms, connected by a door, precisely so our son—he’s only six—could move between them freely. How is it possible he ended up alone in the hallway? That door is supposed to be locked to the corridor; he should only be able to go into our room!
The woman, clearly upset, nodded repeatedly.
—The worst part—she added, her voice trembling—is that our son insists that, when he came back from the fridge—he’d gone to our room to get some water—he found someone sleeping in his bed. He says a man yelled at him to get out and locked the door behind him. Afterward, he tried to get back in, knocked, called out… but the door wouldn’t open.
—He knocked on our door, and we found him alone in the hallway. We tried to open the door from our side, but it was blocked —the mother explained, visibly shaken.
The receptionist shook her head, incredulous, clutching her notepad as if hoping to find some answer written there.
—That’s impossible, sir, ma’am. No one else has access. The room is registered under your name. The locks are electronic—they can’t be opened without the card.
The boy, pale, eyes wide and jaw clenched, hid behind his mother, gripping her hand tightly.
—Tell me, sweetheart, what did the man in your bed look like? —his mother asked, kneeling to meet his gaze.
The child hesitated for a moment, swallowed hard, and finally raised his arm, pointing at Alex, who at that moment stood by the counter, watching the scene from a distance.
—It was him, he whispered, his voice quivering as if he still feared coming face to face with that figure.
In that instant, everyone—the parents, the receptionist—turned to look at Alex. But their eyes seemed to pass right through him, as if he were made of air. No one reacted. Alex, bewildered, turned toward the large mirror behind the reception desk… and only then did he feel a true chill run down his spine: in the reflection were the couple, the boy, and the receptionist—but he himself was nowhere to be seen.
A dense, oppressive silence settled over the lobby. For the first time that night, fear overtook him completely—absolute, impossible to deny or explain away. He felt, with an icy certainty, that something had broken in the logic of reality, and understood—as one only understands things in dreams—that there are stories which never find an explanation.
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