It started innocently enough. I took a job at the Carraway Hotel, a historic establishment built in the early 1900s. The Carraway wasn’t particularly luxurious, but it had character. Plus, I’ve always been a sucker for anything vintage, so the opportunity to be a night receptionist there seemed perfect. Little did I know, it would lead to the most unsettling weeks of my life.
My duties were straightforward: check in late arrivals, answer any guest queries, and manage the switchboard. The latter was an archaic piece of machinery, but it had its charm. On my first night, Mr. Graham, the elderly manager, trained me on its operation.
“Everything’s fairly easy,” he explained, “but there’s one thing you should remember: If you ever receive a call from Room 423, do not answer.”
I chuckled. “Is it a prank caller or something?”
He didn’t smile. “Just never answer.”
For the first week, things went smoothly. However, curiosity about Room 423 lingered in my mind. During my rounds, I’d occasionally walk by it. It looked like any other door, but it remained conspicuously unlabeled.
Late into my second week, as the clock neared 2 AM, the switchboard buzzed. The light for Room 423 flickered. My heart raced. Remembering Mr. Graham’s warning, I ignored it. But the buzzing continued, incessant and demanding.
For three consecutive nights, at the same time, the call from Room 423 came through. On the fourth night, fueled by a mix of annoyance and sleep deprivation, I answered.
A chilling static met my ears, interrupted by a faint sobbing. “Help me,” a soft voice whispered.
Panicked, I hung up, my heart pounding in my ears. Against my better judgment, I decided to check Room 423. The hallway felt colder as I approached. The door handle was ice cold, but I turned it anyway. The door creaked open to reveal… nothing. An empty, untouched room, save for a thick layer of dust and a lone, disconnected telephone on the nightstand.
I reported the incident to Mr. Graham the next morning, and he went pale. He ushered me into his office, closing the door behind him. “I hoped you’d never experience this,” he began, his voice shaky. “Room 423 used to be occupied by a regular guest, Ms. Eleanor Watts, in the 1950s. She often complained about disturbances at night, saying she’d get phone calls but would hear nothing but static.”
My skin prickled. “What happened to her?”
“One night,” he continued, “she disappeared. The last record of her was a call she made to the reception. She was whispering, almost crying, asking for help. When the night receptionist arrived at her room, it was empty. The only thing out of place was the telephone, which was disconnected from the wall.”
A shiver ran down my spine. “Has no one stayed in the room since?”
“No,” he replied. “For years, it remained vacant. But every so often, the switchboard receives calls from Room 423. Always static, always a whisper. Always at 2 AM.”
The weight of the story hung heavily in the air. The phone calls, the whispers, and Eleanor’s mysterious disappearance intertwined into a nightmare that seemed far too real.
“Should we call the police?” I asked.
“They investigated long ago but found nothing. Now, it’s just a story most staff know and a warning we give to new hires.”
I couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease. The nights grew more challenging, the dread of 2 AM looming large. Two days later, the call came again. Without thinking, I answered. This time, the voice was clearer.
“Please… find me.”
The desperation in the voice was palpable. Armed with a flashlight, I once again approached Room 423. The temperature dropped as I neared, but the room was as I remembered: empty and silent. On a whim, I dialed the room from the reception phone. The disconnected phone in Room 423 began to ring.
The realization hit me: Eleanor was calling from somewhere, but not from this room.
The following day, I did some research at the local library. Old blueprints of the Carraway Hotel revealed a shocking detail: Room 423 originally had an adjoining room, later sealed off and forgotten. Behind the walls of 423 was another space, a secret room.
The police were called, and behind thick walls, they made a grim discovery: skeletal remains, clutching an old, disconnected telephone. Eleanor had been trapped, making desperate calls for help.
The Carraway Hotel closed down for investigations. They said it was a case of a forgotten renovation, a tragic accident. But I’ll always remember the chilling calls and the quiet whisper, pleading for release. Room 423 remains silent now, but I’m left haunted by the echoes of its past.