The receptionist was an older man, quiet and polite. His name tag read J. Ortiz. He handed me a key card, the plastic slightly worn at the edges. Room 306.

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

I looked up.

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

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He repeated it slowly, as if it were part of a ritual he’d said a hundred times: “Keep the bathroom light on, sir. Especially at night.”

I chuckled awkwardly, waiting for a punchline. But his face stayed perfectly still. His eyes were tired, but serious.

“…Is there a reason?” I asked.

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

Not wanting to argue with a man who likely dealt with dozens of travelers daily, I nodded, thanked him, and made my way up the creaky elevator.

Room 306 was plain. A small TV on a dresser, a queen-sized bed, and yes—the bathroom was off to the left with a small fluorescent light humming from above the mirror. 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, and I preferred sleeping in complete silence. But something about Ortiz’s face made me pause. He’d said it with such gravity, like it mattered. So, with a sigh, I left the light on.

That night, something strange happened.

I woke up around 3:12 a.m., the way you do when a noise barely registers in your dream. I stared at the ceiling for a moment, groggy and unsure. The room was still dimly lit by the bathroom light, casting a faint glow across the carpet.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft tap-tap-tap.

It wasn’t the usual creaks of an old hotel. It was rhythmic. Intentional. Coming from the bathroom.

I sat up, heart picking up a little. “Hello?” I called, suddenly wondering if someone had entered my room.

No answer.

I got out of bed, walking slowly toward the bathroom. The door was cracked open, and the light buzzed faintly, casting odd shadows across the floor.

When I pushed it open the rest of the way, there was no one inside. Everything was exactly as I left it… except for the mirror.

There were streaks—long, thin handprints—running down the fogged glass, like someone had leaned against it from the inside and dragged their fingers downward. The hair on my arms stood up.

I hadn’t showered recently enough to fog the mirror. That was hours ago. And these… these were fresh.

I backed out slowly, leaving the door wide open. I didn’t sleep much after that.

In the morning, I went downstairs to check out. Ortiz was there again, pouring coffee behind the counter.

“You left the light on?” he asked immediately.

I nodded. “Yeah. Uh, quick question. Is there something I should know about Room 306?”

He looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. “That room… years ago, a guest fell in the bathroom. Slipped, hit his head on the sink. They didn’t find him until the next day.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“Since then,” he continued, “we’ve had reports. Guests waking up to sounds. Shadows. Water turning on by itself. But only when the bathroom is left dark. For some reason, the light… calms whatever’s in there.”

I frowned. “You’re saying it’s haunted?”

“I’m saying,” Ortiz replied carefully, “we’ve never had a single complaint when the light is left on. Not once.”

I thanked him and left, shaken but oddly grateful for his warning. As I drove away, I passed a window on the third floor and couldn’t help glancing up.

In Room 306, the bathroom light was still on.

And just for a second, I thought I saw a pale figure standing behind the curtain, watching me leave.