I Worked at a Haunted Hotel

A paycheck should have solved the problem. Instead, a desperate night clerk finds himself in a grand-but-rotting hotel where rules feel like incantations and the front desk phone has a will of its own. We step into the Crescent Bay’s night rhythm: the buzz of tired lights, the weight of a leather logbook that remembers too much, and the one command that matters most—never go into Room 237. Then the phone rings from that vacant room, the elevator opens for no one, and the camera catches a door easing wide to reveal something watching from the dark.

As the hours crawl, the building grows more alive. A neighbor hears whispers through the wall, three deliberate knocks answer his complaint, and the carpet outside 237 turns wet with no source in sight. The tension pivots from eerie to personal when a guest calls about her husband: eyes open, unresponsive, whispering “come inside” at the wall. By the time our clerk reaches their room, both are gone. Duty wrestles with fear, and the pull toward the second floor becomes impossible to resist. What waits beyond the threshold isn’t a ghost in sheets; it’s a place that breathes through the walls, a closet that opens into void, a bed shaped by years of unseen weight, and hands with too many intentions.

At first light, the manager’s quiet confession reframes everything. Something older than the hotel uses Room 237 as a mouth. The staff aren’t hosts so much as keepers, trying to keep a door shut in a building designed to open doors. The wave from the doorway, the ringing phone with no number, and the key that arrives on a doorstep suggest a haunting that travels by invitation and reply. If attention is a kind of entry, what happens when you pick up the call? Subscribe, share with the friend who loves smart horror, and leave a review telling us: would you keep the door closed, or would you need to know what’s inside?

Chapters

• 0:00 Hired Into Faded Grandeur
• 1:43 The Logbook And The Forbidden Rule
• 3:20 First Ring From Room 237
• 5:05 Elevator, Camera, And A Shape
• 6:18 Whispers Through The Wall
• 8:04 Footsteps, Flicker, And Something Tall
• 9:55 Panic On The Second Floor
• 12:03 One More Shift, New Terror
• 13:28 The Holdens Vanish
• 14:30 Crossing The Threshold
• 16:10 Hands From The Dark
• 18:05 Escape And The Wave
• 19:04 Whitaker’s Truth

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:00

I took the job at the Crescent Bay Hotel because I was desperate. It wasn't much, just an old half-forgotten hotel on the edge of town, the kind of place that looked grand from a distance, but up close you could see the peeling paint, the stained carpets, and the lobby chandelier that buzzed like an angry insect. It had once been a luxury retreat in the 1920s, women in fur coats sipping champagne. Now it was just faded grandeur, cheap rooms, and even cheaper staff wages, which is probably why they hired me. But I didn't care. It paid daily and that's what I needed right now. My first night of training was with Mr. Whitaker, the night manager. He was a tall, gaunt man, who looked like he hadn't smiled in twenty years. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes like bruises. He gave me a half-assed tour, the front desk, the supply closet, the break room. He walked me through the security cameras, and the night shift duties, like how to handle late check-ins. Most nights are quiet, he said in a flat voice. You check in late arrivals, answer calls, and keep an eye on things. The only real rule is never leave the front desk unattended. He said it like it was a warning. Then he handed me a massive leather bound logbook, its pages yellowed and brittled at the edges. You'll record everything that happens during your shift, he said. Even if nothing happens. That's important. I flipped through it, and years of neat handwriting filled the pages, dating back decades. Some entries were mundane. Quiet night, no incidents. Others were stranger. Noise complaint, second floor. Investigated. Nothing found. And some were just unsettling. Guests reported knocking from empty room, did not investigate. Whitaker glanced at the clock, rubbing his temples. I'll be leaving soon. You'll be fine. Then as he reached the door, he turned back. His face was tight, his mouth in a thin, grim line. One last thing. I looked up. He let out a sigh as if he was annoyed that he had to say whatever it was he was going to say. We do have one more rule. His voice dropped low and stern. Whatever you do, do not go into room 237. I raised an eyebrow. Why not? He didn't blink and just continued with his warning. Never, under any circumstance, step foot in that room. When you walk past it, don't even look at the door. I let out a nervous laugh. You're messing with me, right? He didn't smile. And never, he exhaled sharply, as if choosing his words carefully. Never answer it back. The words settled in my stomach like cold stones. I wanted to ask him what he meant, but he was already walking out the door. And then I was alone. The lobby settled into an eerie silence. The only sound was the flickering buzz of the overhead light and the distant hum of the ice machine down the hall. I sat down behind the desk and opened the logbook, my pen hovering over a blank page. My hand was shaking slightly. I tried to convince myself that Whitaker was just hazing the new guy, but as the clock struck midnight, the shadows seemed darker, and every creak of the old building made me jump. And I wished I'd asked Whitaker why room 237 needed a rule in the first place. But before the night was over, I would find out. The first half of my shift passed in uncomfortable silence. The Crescent Bay had a strange stillness to it at night, like the building itself was holding its breath. The grand lobby sat empty, its velvet chairs gathering dust, its chandeliers swaying slightly despite there being no draft. I kept myself busy reorganizing check-in forms and flipping through the logbook, anything to distract myself from the boredom and the creepy unease. But no matter what I did, I couldn't stop thinking about room 237. Even though it was two floors above me, I could feel its presence, pressing at the edges of my mind, like an itch I couldn't scratch. And then the phone rang. I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs. The sound was shrill and demanding in the empty lobby. I found the blinking red light on the switchboard and glanced at the caller ID. Room 237. A chill crawled down my spine. I could almost hear Whitaker's voice. Never answer it back. So I ignored it and let it ring, let it go to the automated system. But it just kept ringing and ringing. Each shrill note scraped against my nerves like nails on bone. The sound seemed to grow louder with each ring, more insistent and almost angry. My hand moved before I could stop it, and I picked up the receiver. A front desk. My voice came out barely above a whisper. For a moment there was only static. But then a whisper came through the crackling distortion. My breath caught in my throat. The voice was wrong. It was muffled and garbled, like someone speaking with a mouthful of water or soil. I slammed the phone down, my hand trembling. The lobby was quiet again, and back to its oppressive silence. I sat there gripping the edge of the desk, my fingers digging into the wood. My breathing was too loud in the empty space, and for a long time I didn't move. I sat frozen in place as my mind flipped through the rational explanations like an old Rolodex. Just when I'd started to convince myself I'd imagined it, the elevator dinged. My head snapped towards the doors. They slid open, but no one stepped out. It was empty. But reflecting back at me from the mirrored back wall was the illuminated light for the second floor. I stared waiting for the doors to close. It had to be a malfunction or someone on another floor calling the elevator. But the door stayed open, waiting, like they were expecting me to get in and take a ride to the second floor. A cold sweat broke across my back. After what felt like forever the elevator doors slowly slid shut on their own. I told myself I wouldn't check the security camera. It was probably just a guess who'd changed their mind about coming down to the lobby. If it was anything else, I didn't want to know. But ten minutes later I broke. I pulled up the second floor feed and rewound it to just before the elevator doors had opened. At first nothing. It was just an empty hallway, dimly lit, the patterned carpet stretching into the darkness. And then, just as I was about to look away, the door to room 237 opened. Just a crack, a sliver of darkness beyond it. My pulse roared in my ears. And then the door slammed shut. The screen glitched for a second, static washing across the image, but when it cleared, the door was open again, only this time something stood just beyond the threshold. I couldn't see it clearly, not fully, just the outline of a shoulder, and a head maybe, watching the camera, watching me. I pushed away from the monitor, my hands trembling. The phone rang again, but this time I didn't pick it up, and I didn't breathe until it stopped ringing. But then on the security monitor, I watched in horror as the figure took a step forward into the hallway. Its movements were wrong. It moved like it was stiff as a board. But just as I was about to get a good look at it, the security feed glitched and the screen went black. I barely slept after that first night. I honestly don't know why I went back. Maybe it was desperation, and I really needed the money. Maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe some part of me needed to know if what I had seen was real. I tried to convince myself it was just exhaustion, my first overnight shift in an old creepy hotel, my imagination running wild. And Whitaker did leave me after setting the scene for me to be scared. But my next shift proved I wasn't imagining anything, and Whitaker wasn't playing around. At 1 15 AM a guest came down to the lobby. He was a man in his fifties, bald, wearing a faded t-shirt and slippers. But it was his eyes that caught my attention, dark circles underneath them, bloodshot, like he hadn't slept in days. His hands were shaking. Listen, he said, his voice was tight. I don't want to make a fuss, but I need to change rooms. What's wrong? He shifted uncomfortably. The room next to mine, someone's they're whispering through the wall. My stomach dropped. Which room are you in? 235. Right next door to 237. What were they saying? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. He ran a hand over his face. At first I thought it was the pipes. It was just soft hissing noises, but then I realized they were words. He paused. I couldn't make them out at first, so I put my ear against the wall. A cold weight settled in my chest. And it was the same thing over and over. He looked at me, and I saw a genuine fear in his eyes. Come inside. Come inside. Come inside. My mouth went dry. And that's not even the worst part, he continued. I got annoyed, so I knocked on the wall, you know, like shut the hell up kind of thing. I waited, not wanting to hear what he was going to say next. And then they knocked back, three times, deliberate like they were answering me. I moved him to a first floor room immediately and gave him a partial refund. As he left to go gather his things, he turned back one more time. There's no one in that room, is there? He asked quietly. I checked the system. Room 237 showed as vacant. It's never been occupied. No, I said. No one's checked in there. At 212 AM the phone rang again. This time it wasn't room 237. It was room 239. Woman's voice came through, hushed and tense. Hi, I'm sorry to call so late, but someone's in the hallway. My skin prickled. What do you mean? I keep hearing footstep pacing back and forth, heavy, like boots, and someone's been tapping on my door. Not knocking, but tapping, like with fingernails. I pulled up the second floor camera feed. The hallway was empty, but something was off. The light outside room 237 was flickering, faster than before, almost strobing, and the carpet in front of the door looked damp, dark, like something had soaked through from underneath. I don't see anyone, I said, my stomach twisting. The woman exhaled sharply. It stopped now. Maybe whoever it was was finally left. But I barely heard her, because on the screen, the door to 237 was opening, slowly. Only an inch, and then another. The damp patch on the carpet was spreading, and just before the feed glitched out completely, I saw something step out into the hallway. It was tall, too tall to fit through any normal doorway, but it came through anyway, its body bending at angles that made my eyes hurt. The screen went to static, and when it cleared the hallway was empty again, but the door to 237 stood wide open. I should have stayed downstairs. I should have called Whitaker, called the police, called anyone, but the guests were frightened, and if I didn't check room 237, if I didn't see what was happening with my own eyes, I'd never know if I was losing my mind. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the master key card and stepped into the elevator. The ride up was slow. With every second that passed, the air grew heavier and harder to breathe. The elevator seemed colder than it should be. The door slid open, the second floor was silent. I stepped into the hallway, and immediately my shoes sank slightly into the carpet. It was wet, not just damp, but soaking, like someone had poured buckets of water across the floor. The air smelled wrong, it was stale and organic, like old water left standing in a closet space for too long. Underneath that was something else, something that made my stomach turn, and before I knew it I was standing in front of room 237. The door was closed now. I stared at it, waiting, my breath coming too fast. And then a knock. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but the sound wasn't coming from inside the room. It was coming from the wall behind me, from inside the wall. A slow, deliberate knocking, traveling down the length of the hallway like something moving through the structure itself. My pulse hammered in my ears, and just then a voice from inside room 237 whispered, The voice was just behind the door, so close I could almost feel the breath against the wood. I turned and ran. I slammed the elevator button over and over until the doors finally slid open. I practically fell inside, jabbing the lobby button with my shaky fingers. As the door began to close, I made the mistake of looking up. Down the hallway the door to room 237 was standing wide open, and something was in the doorway, something almost human looking, its head tilted at an impossible angle, watching me. As the elevator door slammed shut, I heard it laugh. Not a human laugh, but something wet and broken. I didn't look at the cameras for the rest of the night, and I didn't answer the phone when it rang again. I just sat behind the desk, heart hammering, staring at the clock, waiting for morning, waiting for Whitaker, waiting for someone to tell me this wasn't real. But in my gut I already knew the truth. I wasn't alone at the Crescent Bay Hotel, and room 237 wanted me to know it. I knew I should have quit, after the calls, the knocks, the whispering voice, after seeing that thing in the doorway of room 237. But I told myself I'd last one more shift. Just one. One more overnight, one more paycheck, and I'd be done. But the hotel had other plans. At 1.45 a.m. the phone rang. I almost ignored it until I saw the caller ID. It was not room 237. It was room 233. I picked up my pulse pounding. Front desk. A woman's shaky voice came through barely above a whisper. There's something wrong with my husband. I pulled up the guest file, Mr. and Mrs. Holden. They checked in two nights ago. What's wrong? I asked. She was quiet for a moment. I could hear her breathing. It was quick and shallow and panicked. He he won't wake up, but his eyes are open. My stomach tightened. Is he breathing? Yes, but her voice cracked. He's whispering. He won't stop whispering. A cold sweat broke across my skin. What is he saying? She was crying now, trying to keep quiet. He just keeps saying, Come inside over and over. My hands went numb. I tried to shake him, she continued, her voice rising. But he wouldn't look at me. He's just staring at the wall, whispering at it, like he's trying to get through it. I'm coming up, I said, already standing. Miss Holden? He's getting louder, she whispered. And I think I think I hear somebody answering him. The line went dead. I sat there gripping the phone, my mind racing. I ran over to the elevator and hit the button for the second floor. By the time I got there, the door to room 233 was standing wide open. The room beyond was dark, but I could see the bed. It was empty. Both Mr. and Mrs. Holden were gone, along with all of their stuff, like they had checked out, but that was impossible. I should have called the police, but I didn't. I just sat there at the front desk in disbelief. My daze was shattered a few minutes later when the elevator door dinged. I looked up. It was 2.30 in the morning. My blood was running cold. The door slid open and the button for the second floor was already lit. The air in the lobby was suddenly thick, pressing against my chest like a weight. I don't know why I stepped inside. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe something was pulling me, some invisible thread I couldn't resist. But the moment the doors closed, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. The elevator lurched upwards, the lights flickering overhead. The cables groaned like they were straining under too much weight. When the door slid open, the second floor was dark. Every light had gone out except for the one above room 237. It buzzed softly, casting a sickly yellow glow against the soaking wet carpet, and the door to 237 was standing wide open. A cold whisper snaked through the hall, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. My legs moved on their own. I stepped forward towards the door. The moment I crossed the threshold, everything changed. The air was thick and wrong, like wading through something that wasn't quite liquid but also wasn't air either. It clung to my skin, was cold and damp. The room smelled of stagnant water and rotting wood, with an underlying sweetness that made my stomach turn, like flowers left on a grave too long. The bed was perfectly made, the sheets crisp and white, but there was a deep indentation in the mattress, as if something heavy had been lying there for years pressing it down. The TV was on, showing nothing but static, but in the static, I could almost see shapes moving, figures, faces pressing against the screen from inside. I almost jumped out of my skin when the door slammed shut behind me. I spun around grabbing the handle, but it was locked. The whisper started immediately, all around me, from inside the walls, from under the bed, from behind the closet door. Dozens of voices, maybe hundreds, all whispering the same thing. Come inside, come inside, come inside. And then in the dim glow of the flickering bedside lamp, I saw the sheets begin to peel back, slowly, deliberately. The indentation in the mattress deepened, the fabric sinking as if something invisible was sitting up, a hand slipped out from beneath the covers. The fingers were long and gray, as if the blood had stopped circulating to them years ago. The fingernails were yellow and cracked, extending at least three inches past the fingertips. I backed up, slamming into the dresser, my breath coming in short, panic gasps. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, building into a horrible chorus. The television static intensified, shapes in the screen becoming clearer, pressing against the glass, trying to push through. The creak of the closet door slowly opening caught my attention. My head snapped to the side so I could get a better look. The door was slowly opening. An inch, and then wider. The darkness inside was absolute, not the darkness of a shadow, but the darkness of void, of nothing. And from that void something was emerging. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. I could feel it watching me from multiple directions at once. From the bed, from the closet, from inside the walls, and then a voice, not a whisper this time, low, wet and raspy from directly behind me, so close I could feel the cold breath against the back of my neck. You shouldn't have come. The thing behind me exhaled, and the smell hit me, a smell like rotten meat. And just then the lights went out, and in the darkness I felt hands grabbing my clothes, my hair, my skin, pulling me towards the closet. I don't remember everything that happened next. I remember screaming. I remember hands, so many hands, with too many fingers grabbing and pulling. I remember the closet opening wider than it should, darkness spilling out like liquid. I remember something wet touching the back of my neck, trailing down my spine. I remember the whispers becoming shouts and then becoming screams. And then I was in the hallway, running. My shoes squelched on the carpet that was now completely flooded, water sloshing against the baseboards. Behind me I could hear the door to room 237 rapidly opening and closing, banging against the frame. I slammed the elevator button over and over again, looking back only once. The hallway was longer than it should be, stretching away into an impossible distance, and at the far end something was coming, a tall dark shadow reaching across the ceiling, across the walls, across everything. The elevator door opened and I threw myself inside, hitting the lobby button so hard I thought I might break it, and as the door began to close, I saw it clearly for the first time. A figure stood in the doorway of room 237. Its face was stretched into something that had once been human but wasn't anymore. The mouth was wide, filled with too many sharp teeth. The eyes were hollow sockets that somehow could still see. It lifted one hand, those long gray fingers spreading wide. And it waved, and the door slammed shut. When I burst into the lobby, I didn't stop running until I was outside in the parking lot, gasping for air.

unknown: 18:20

Mr.

SPEAKER_00: 18:21

Whitaker was waiting for me when I came back later for my things. The sun was just beginning to break over the horizon, pale gray light filtering through the lobby windows. He didn't ask what happened. He just looked at me, his face drawn and tired, and said quietly, You went inside, didn't you? I didn't answer. My hands were still shaking. How many fingers did it have? he asked. I stared at him. What? The hand. How many fingers? I couldn't answer. I couldn't remember. Too many? Not enough? The memory kept shifting. Whitaker just nodded, like that told him everything he needed to know. You should leave town for a while, he said. Sometimes it doesn't let go right away. What is it? I finally asked. What is in that room? He was quiet for a long moment. Something that was here long before we built this place. We didn't do the proper research on the area or the land. I just wanted to get this place done as fast as possible. Why do you stay? He looked at me with tired eyes that had seen too much. Because someone has to make sure the door stays closed. I turned in my keys and grabbed my final paycheck and walked out. As I got into my car and listened to the engine roar, it hit me. What Mr. Whitaker had said, those words he used. Something that was here long before we built this place. We didn't do the research properly on the area or the land. That's impossible. This place is over a hundred years old. Whitaker couldn't have been around when they built it, could he? I never went back to the Crescent Bay Hotel. I moved across town, found a new job, and tried to forget. But I can't. It won't let me. I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing, and when I check the caller ID, there's no number. It just says room 237. I never answer it. And this morning when I left for work, I found something on my doorstep. A hotel room key. A key for room 237.