Don’t Stay In Room 13

The inn was quaint, the price was right,
The sheets were clean, the lamp gave light.
But when I asked, “What rooms are free?”
The clerk looked strangely back at me.

“We’ve one upstairs—just past the beam—
But no one stays in room thirteen.”
I scoffed and grinned, “Superstition?”
He frowned. “It’s not a real condition…”

He handed me the heavy key,
(And strangely, wouldn’t look at me).
The hallway stretched in awful hush—
The walls were damp, the carpet plush.

The door was scratched, the knob was cold,
The air inside smelled slightly old.
A single bulb swung overhead,
The floorboards groaned like something dead.

But still, I laughed, undressed, and yawned—
The ghost, I guessed, had long since gone.
I brushed my teeth, I dimmed the light—
And locked the door real tight that night.

At 3:03, I woke and found
A tapping rhythm, a soft, wet sound.
It dripped. It clicked. It scraped and slid—
Like something small that likely hid.

I whispered, “Hello?” like a fool,
And climbed out barefoot—like a tool.
The mirror fogged. My breath grew thin.
The closet creaked. I leaned right in—

And found a note pinned to the wall:
"You’re next in line. Enjoy your fall."
The floor gave way. I screamed. I flew!
(As ghosts all clapped. It's what they do.)

Now here I am—please hear my plea:
Pick any room but thirteen’s key.
The beds are cursed. The ghosts are rude.
The breakfast? Meh. The staff? All chewed.