AOTP Campfire Tales Ep.1

Accounts of the Paranormal's Campfire Tales 

The Dripping Room

A chilling tale of a woman, Evelyn, who vanished from Room 312 of the Hawthorne Hotel, leaving behind a mystery and a growing stain.

Paranormal and mystery short stories told around the campfire, straight from our Accounts of the Paranormal YouTube channel! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9zKn4LcW3VJROe1-l9EAcQ 

If you have an account to share and would like to be a guest on the show, email me at show@accountsoftheparanormal.com and tell me what you saw!

Accounts of the Paranormal -

Creator/Producer/Host: Gino Barreto

WEBSITE: https://accountsoftheparanormal.com/ 

YOUTUBE: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9zKn4LcW3VJROe1-l9EAcQ 

INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/accountsoftheparanormal/ 

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Accounts of the Paranormal (theme song) 

Written by: Gino Barreto / Produced by: Kobe Ofei

All music produced by: 

Kobe Ofei https://www.fiverr.com/kobeofei 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Welcome to Accounts of the Paranormal's Campfire Tales. I'm Julia, your host and guide into chilling tales of the paranormal. Join us around the campfire for tonight's story. The Hawthorne Hotel had stood at the edge of the cliffs since 1919, its pale facade bleached by sea winds and time. Guests came for the view, the endless gray ocean, the hush of isolation, but they rarely stayed more than a night or two, and no one ever quite explained why. In the autumn of nineteen twenty six, a young woman named Evelyn Ward checked into room three hundred twelve. She arrived alone, carrying a single suitcase and wearing a dove gray dress that seemed perpetually damp at the hem. The clerk later said she spoke softly, as though afraid of being overheard, and asked a peculiar question before taking her key. Do the walls remember what they hear? Three days later, the maid unlocked room three hundred twelve to find it empty, bed untouched, suitcase gone, windows sealed from the inside. The only trace Evelyn left behind was a faint, briny smell, and a dark water stain that crept slowly across the ceiling, as though something above was leaking into the room. But there was no room above three hundred twelve. Years passed, the hotel changed hands, was renovated, renamed, and modernized, yet room three hundred twelve remained. Guess who stayed there reported similar things the sound of slow dripping in the middle of the night, though no pipes ran through the ceiling, the sensation of damp sheets, even when freshly changed, and most unsettling of all, the feeling that someone was standing just out of sight, listening. Then came Daniel Harper. He checked in on a storm heavy evening, dismissing the clerk's uneasy warning about choosing a different room. He laughed it off, until two hundred seventeen AM. That was when the dripping started. At first he thought it was rain, but it was too steady, too deliberate. Drip, drip, drip. He switched on the lamp. The ceiling above him was wet, not just damp, soaked. Water pooled and gathered, bulging as if something pressed against it from the other side. Then, with a soft, sickening sound, a single drop fell onto his cheek. It was ice cold. Daniel scrambled out of bed. Hello? he called, trying to keep his voice steady. What's going on up there? The dripping stopped. Silence flooded the room. And then, from the corner near the wardrobe, a voice answered, soft, fragile, unmistakably close. They don't fix it. Daniel turned slowly. At first he saw nothing, then a shape. A figure standing in the dimness, her outline wavering like a reflection in disturbed water. Her dress clung to her, soaked and heavy. Long strands of dark hair hung over her face, dripping steadily onto the carpet, but the floor beneath her remained dry. You hear it too, she said. Daniel tried to speak, but his throat tightened. She took a step forward. The air grew colder. I asked them to stop it, she continued, her voice trembling now. The dripping it never stopped. Not even when I covered my ears, not even when I she paused. Slowly she lifted her head. Her eyes were hollow, filled not with darkness, but with something deeper, like endless shifting water. They said there was no room above me, she whispered. But something was there, something that listened. The ceiling creaked. Another drop fell. Then another. Faster now. Drip, drip, drip. Daniel backed toward the door, fumbling for the handle. Don't leave, Evelyn said suddenly, her voice sharpening. It doesn't like to be alone. The dripping became a cascade. The ceiling split open with a wet, tearing sound, and from the darkness above, water poured down in a violent rush, carrying with it a stench of salt and decay. Shapes moved within it, writhing just beneath the surface, like shadows trying to break free. Evelyn reached out, her fingers brushed Daniel's arm, freezing, impossibly strong. It heard you, she said, her voice now layered with something else, something not her own. It knows you. The lights went out. The next morning, room three hundred twelve was found empty. The bed was soaked, the walls were damp, and a new stain had begun to spread across the ceiling, larger than before, darker, and still slowly growing. If you stand in that room long enough, they say, you can hear it. Not just the dripping, but two voices now, one begging to be let out, the other asking you to stay.com, where you can access full episodes and links to all our socials. And while you're there, be sure to sign up for our blog so you never miss show info or other announcements. I'll see you next time.