Tonight marks my first shift manning the reception desk at this charming, albeit slightly shabby, historic hotel. What began as a bartending gig a few months ago has morphed into a multifaceted role involving waiting tables, room service, and now, dealing with every needy guest at the front desk—all in the name of saving for a condo down payment. Condo living with no ghosts, I assume.
It’s a quiet, uneventful night, and with the relentless storm outside, the hotel’s more alive than the guests. I can’t tell if it’s the storm rattling the windows or the age-old creaks in the floorboards from a million past lives. The lights flicker—standard spooky hotel stuff—but tonight, I feel it. Like, really feel it. That eerie sense of being watched, which is odd because the only other living thing here is the half-dead potted plant in the corner.
I try to distract myself with my latest Stephen King novel, but the words blur, and my mind drifts to the ghost stories the staff shared. You’re alone, but not really. They said she watches. Maybe she’s a benevolent specter who just wants company—yeah, that’s it. Who wouldn’t want to haunt this beautiful place with vintage red velvet curtains that smell like old soup?
Then the phone rings, jolting me from my haunted reverie. “CAN YOU STOP MOVING FURNITURE ON OUR FLOOR!” a woman yells. Great, my first night on desk duty and already getting blamed for ghost redecorating. I try to respond professionally. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll have our… specialist look into it.”
I hang up, feeling a little braver but still not brave enough to take the elevator up there. The chair next to the bookcase definitely wasn’t at that angle before. My heart does a little skip—probably the cardio I’ve been avoiding—but I convince myself it’s all in my head. That’s when something cold brushes against my arm. Not the good kind of cold, like the chill of a margarita. More like, your grandma’s icy stare when you forgot her birthday cold.
I jump up. “Okay, okay, ha ha. Real funny, universe!” I call out to the empty room, like that’s going to make the creepy factor disappear. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
Another call comes through. This time, I’m quick to answer. “Hello, front desk. How may I assist you on this spooky, stormy night?” My attempt at humor dies when all I hear on the other end is heavy breathing—like someone out of breath from… moving furniture, perhaps? It’s probably just static, right? The line clicks dead before I can say, “Please hold while I pass out.”
I glance over at the trash can. Can I really? No, that’s rock bottom, even for me. So I brace myself and make the terrifying trek to the bathroom, where, naturally, the door creaks like I’m in a horror movie.
After doing my business, I wash my hands. I splash cold water on my face and stare into the mirror. This is ridiculous. My reflection looks surprisingly good for someone who’s been scared witless all night. And then, just as I’m about to congratulate myself on my survival, I see Her. The ghost. Standing right behind me, smiling.
In a moment of pure panic, I scream… and then—because the night couldn’t get any weirder—the ghost raises her hand, waggles her fingers, and says, “You missed a spot.”
