White With Red (Creepy Pasta)

White with Red

The hotel was unassuming—brick walls softened by ivy, a wooden sign swinging faintly in the evening breeze. I’d been driving for hours and decided to stop for the night. Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of lavender and something else I couldn’t quite place.

The woman at the front desk looked tired but kind, her smile practiced. “Welcome,” she said, sliding a key across the counter. It was an old-fashioned brass key with the number 13 etched into it.

“There’s just one thing,” she added, her tone lowering as if she were letting me in on a secret. “On your way to your room, you’ll pass a door with no number. It’s locked, and for your own safety, please don’t try to enter. It’s just a storage room, but it’s... well, it’s better left alone.”

I nodded, too tired to question her peculiar warning. “Got it,” I said, grabbing the key and heading toward the stairs.

The hallway was dimly lit, the carpet soft beneath my shoes. Halfway down, I saw it—the door with no number. Unlike the others, its paint was slightly chipped, and the doorknob gleamed like it had been polished far more than the rest.

I felt an inexplicable pull toward it, a magnetic curiosity. But I shook it off and hurried to my room, telling myself the woman’s warning was enough reason to stay away.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her words looping in my mind. *It’s better left alone.* But why? Was it really just a storeroom? Or was there something else, something she didn’t want to say?

By the second night, my curiosity had grown unbearable. I decided to take a look. Just a quick peek, I told myself.

The hallway was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that makes you feel watched. As I approached the door, I noticed how cold the air had become, almost icy. I hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, bending down, I peered through the keyhole.

What I saw was... a room. Not a storeroom, but a bedroom almost identical to mine. The furniture was the same—the bed, the nightstand, even the curtains. But in the far corner, there was a woman.

Her back was to me, her skin unnaturally pale, like it had been drained of life. She wore a simple white gown, and her head tilted slightly, leaning against the wall. Her hair, black and stringy, hung limply over her shoulders.

I couldn’t move. There was something about her stillness that felt wrong, unnatural.

Then, without warning, she moved. Not gradually, but sharply, like a marionette being yanked by invisible strings. Her head twisted, and I pulled back from the keyhole so quickly I nearly fell.

My heart pounded as I hurried back to my room, slamming the door behind me. I told myself it was just a guest, someone who didn’t want to be disturbed. But that explanation didn’t sit right.

The next morning, I resolved not to think about it. But as the day wore on, the image of her pale skin and sharp movement haunted me. By nightfall, I found myself standing before the door again, unable to resist.

This time, when I looked through the keyhole, all I saw was red. Deep, vivid, unmoving red. It was as if someone had painted the other side of the lens with a crimson brush.

A chill ran down my spine. Had she seen me the night before? Had she covered the keyhole to block me?

Feeling uneasy, I returned to the front desk. The woman looked up from her ledger, her expression stiffening as if she already knew why I was there.

“You looked through the keyhole,” she said, more a statement than a question.

I hesitated, then nodded.

She sighed, her shoulders sinking under some invisible weight. “I suppose you deserve to know the truth.”

“Years ago, a man and his wife stayed in that room. They were quiet at first, polite. But one night, he snapped. Nobody knows why. He killed her—left her lying there in her white gown, her blood staining everything red. When the police arrived, they found him sitting in the corner, staring at her body, mumbling about her eyes. He said they had turned red, as if her very soul had been consumed by anger.”

The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They say her spirit lingers. She’s pale all over, except for her eyes. Those are still red, burning with the fury of her final moments.”

My stomach turned. “But... the red I saw...?”

She looked at me, her expression grave. “She wasn’t blocking the keyhole. You were looking directly into her eye.”

I froze. My hands went cold, and the room seemed to tilt. I thanked her weakly and stumbled back to my car, abandoning my belongings in the room.

I haven’t slept properly since. Every time I close my eyes, I see hers—wide, bloodshot, and filled with a rage that feels eternal.

Even now, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s watching me. Waiting. For what, I don’t know.

But sometimes, when I’m alone in a dark room, I swear I see a flash of white... followed by red.