My Creepiest Experience Working in a Haunted Hotel — Horror Story

 Would you stay the night in a hotel where Room 209 was permanently sealed… and guests kept vanishing from the floor above? 

In this chilling full-length horror podcast, a former night shift hotel employee shares the terrifying true-style story of what really happened during his time at the historic Marrowbone Inn. 

From late-night phone calls with no one on the line, to a mysterious guest who checked in over 100 years ago and never checked out — this story will pull you into the shadows of a place where time folds, reflections lie, and something… or someone… is waiting in Room 209. 

My Creepiest Experience Working in a Haunted Hotel is a deeply immersive, slow-burn horror tale designed to keep you listening from beginning to end. 

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🕰 Runtime: ~15 minutes
 🎧 Best experienced with headphones
 📅 New episodes weekly 

🖤 Follow for more: @BlightyNightmares
 💌 Submit your horror story: blightynightmares@gmail.com

Transcript

“I don’t believe in ghosts. Let me say that up front.”
“But I worked the overnight shift at a century-old hotel in upstate New York for three years… and I’m not sure I walked away whole.”

The hotel was called the Marrowbone Inn.

Even the name sounded wrong.

It sat just off Route 9, tucked into the woods like a forgotten building in a ghost town. You wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking for it—or unless your car broke down nearby, which happened more than you’d think.

It was a beautiful place, in a way. Three stories. Wraparound porch. A lobby that hadn’t changed since 1920. Everything creaked. Every hallway felt a little too narrow. Like it had been built for people who didn’t mind being watched.

I was hired for the night audit—11 PM to 7 AM.

It paid well.

Too well.

My manager, Bill, trained me. He was in his sixties, thin, with a voice like someone dragging rocks across a driveway.

“You’ll see things,” he told me on my second shift.
 “But they don’t matter unless you talk to them.”

I thought he was just weird.

There were rules, sure:

• Don’t use the elevator after midnight.
• Don’t go past the third floor.
• Never open Room 209.
• If the phone rings and there’s no one there, don’t hang up—just listen.

I thought it was some kind of hazing.

Until the third night.

When the phone rang.

It was 3:03 AM.

I remember the exact time because the lobby clock stopped ticking the moment the phone rang.

Not after. Not before.

Exactly as the phone rang.

I picked it up.

Dead air.

Then, faintly, what sounded like breathing.

I was about to hang up when I heard it.

“Room two-oh-nine.”

Whispered.

Like the words had been scraped out of dry lungs.

I froze.

Then it hung up.

I stood there for ten minutes before realizing I was holding my breath.

I checked the registry.

No one had been checked into Room 209 for over twenty years.

And when I tried to open the door with the master key, it didn’t even fit.

Not like the lock was broken.

Like it had been changed.

Replaced.

Like someone didn’t want anyone getting in. Or getting out.

On night five, I saw her.

A woman in a gray dress.

Sitting in the lounge by the fireplace, which hadn’t worked since the 70s.

She was reading a book.

Only… the pages weren’t turning.

I greeted her.

She didn’t look up.

I turned to call Bill—to tell him someone must’ve come in after hours.

When I turned back?

She was gone.

Not vanished in a blink.

Just… gone. Like I’d remembered her wrong.

But on the table?

An old library card.

Stamped: March 3, 1931.

And her book?

Still open.

Still unread.

“I wish I could tell you that was the creepiest thing that happened.”
“But Room 209 wasn’t finished with me yet.”

Bill didn’t laugh when I told him about the woman in the gray dress.

He didn’t act confused. Didn’t roll his eyes.

He just nodded, picked up his coffee, and said:

“She likes the quiet. She only comes when the fireplace is cold.”

I waited for him to explain.

He didn’t.

When I asked about Room 209, he turned pale.

“Don’t go near it. Don’t mention it. Don’t let it in.”

Let it in?

That was the first time I realized: he wasn’t afraid of a ghost.

He was afraid of what was behind that door.

The phone rang again three nights later.

Same time.

3:03 AM.

Same silence.

Same whisper.

But this time, it didn’t say the room number.

It just said:

“He’s awake.”

“He’s… hungry.”

Click.

The temperature in the lobby dropped ten degrees in a second. I could see my breath.

I checked the thermostat.

It hadn’t moved.

But the chair in the lounge?

It was facing the fire again.

And on the cushion—long, gray hairs.

I started digging.

There’s a backroom behind the reception desk full of old paperwork—ledgers, invoices, junk from the 1940s.

Tucked into a binder labeled “Structural Changes – 1962” was a blueprint of the third floor.

Room 209 wasn’t listed.

But between Rooms 208 and 210?

There was a void.

A blank space the size of a small apartment.

Walled off.

No doors.

No windows.

Just… hidden.

But I swear to you—

The room was there.

I’d stood outside it.

Heard the hum behind the door.

Felt the pressure—like something was waiting on the other side.

A man checked in that Friday.

Middle-aged. Travel writer. Said he was documenting “the haunted northeast.”

Asked a lot of questions. Took photos. Wore a stupid hat with pins in it.

Room 212.

Next to 209.

That night, he asked for extra towels.

I brought them up.

As I handed them over, he paused and asked:

“Who’s playing piano at this hour?”

I blinked.

There’s no piano.

Not anymore.

It was removed in the 90s.

He didn’t believe me.

“I heard it. Clear as day. Old jazz. Coming through the walls.”

He disappeared that night.

No checkout.

No bags.

Room key still on the desk.

And in the sink?

Ash.

I told Bill everything.

He didn’t react.

Just lit a cigarette, exhaled slow, and said:

“This place eats memory first.”

“That’s how it feeds.”

“First you forget time, then faces, then yourself.”

“And if you ask too many questions—Room 209 opens for you.”

“Once.”

“You ever have a moment where everything goes quiet, like even time’s holding its breath?”
“That was how it felt the night I found the guest book.”

It was buried in the back of the supply room, behind a tower of dented mop buckets and a box labeled HOLIDAY NAPKINS – 1986.

The original Marrowbone guest ledger.

Leather-bound. Nearly falling apart. Smelled like mold and chimney soot.

The dates started in 1913.

Names in elegant cursive. Black ink. Room numbers. Occupation, sometimes.

I turned each page carefully, scanning.

And then I saw it:

“E. Harlan – Room 209 – March 3, 1917.”

That didn’t seem strange.

Until I realized E. Harlan had checked in again.

Same name.

Same handwriting.

March 3, 2023.

We had no digital records for Room 209—it wasn’t in the modern system.

But I went to the camera logs anyway.

Our third-floor hallway security feed—motion-triggered.

I pulled up the night of March 3.

At exactly 2:09 AM, the footage glitched.

Not a skip.

A replacement.

One frame.

Just one.

And in it:

A tall man in a 1910s suit.

Hat in hand.

Standing outside Room 209.

Smiling.

Looking directly into the lens.

Then gone.

That night I stayed later than I should’ve.

2:30 AM, the lights flickered.

And I heard it:

Piano music.

Not loud. Faint. Like it was leaking through a dream.

I followed it up to the third floor.

Every door was closed.

Except Room 209.

Just cracked.

Not wide—but enough to see a sliver of candlelight.

And something else.

A hand.

Pale. Long fingers.

Resting against the frame like it was waiting for me.

I should’ve walked away.

I didn’t.

I stepped forward and whispered:

“Mr. Harlan?”

The hand twitched.

And a voice replied.

Low. Calm. Familiar.

“You're early.”

Then the door slammed shut.

Hard.

So hard the hallway lights blew out.

I ran downstairs.

Grabbed the old guestbook.

Turned to the page where Harlan had signed in 2023.

The ink was still wet.

Fresh.

But the pen next to it?

It was dry.

Out of ink.

I opened to the front cover.

Written in pencil:

“If you see your name in this book twice… you never left.”

That was the last night I saw Bill.

He didn’t quit.

He didn’t die.

He just… stopped showing up.

No forwarding address.

No resignation.

Just gone.

I checked the log.

He never clocked out.

The last motion on the camera?

Bill standing outside Room 209.

Hands at his side.

Mouth open.

And the door just starting to open.

“If you see your name in the guestbook twice… you never left.”
“And now, I understand why.”

The night I opened Room 209 started like any other.

The lobby clock struck 3:03 AM.

Phone rang.

But this time?

No whisper.

No breath.

Just the sound of piano music.

Slow. Haunting.

A song I somehow knew—though I’d never heard it.

I walked to the desk.

The master key drawer was open.

And sitting right on top:

A key labeled 209.

I never made one.

No one ever had.

And yet there it was.

Old brass. Cold to the touch.

Waiting.

As I climbed to the third floor, the building changed.

The walls—once yellowed and cracked—looked freshly wallpapered.

The carpet no longer stained.

The lights no longer flickered.

Everything was too clean.

Like I’d stepped back in time.

The music got louder.

And then I saw it—

The door to Room 209.

Fully open.

Warm golden light pouring out like a stage set.

Something was inviting me in.

It was beautiful.

Candlelit sconces.

Velvet curtains.

A grand mirror above the fireplace that hadn’t existed in decades.

At the center of the room:

A man playing the piano.

Back turned.

Same gray suit from the footage.

He didn’t stop playing.

Even when I spoke.

“Mr. Harlan?”

He turned.

And I saw my face.

Not similar.

Not close.

Mine.

Exactly.

Same eyes. Same scar above the eyebrow.

He smiled.

“You’re late.”

I backed up.

Heart pounding.

But the door—gone.

Just wall now.

Harlan stood.

Walked slowly toward me.

Never blinking.

“This place remembers you,” he said.

“Every night you worked here, it copied you. Layer by layer.”

“And now… it doesn’t need you anymore.”

I asked what he meant.

He tilted his head.

“You opened the door.”

“Now it opens you.”

The mirror cracked.

Behind it, a hallway.

Identical to the third floor—but folded.

Endless.

Lined with doors that pulsed like veins.

From inside each one, I heard voices.

My voice.

Dozens of me.

Screaming.

Begging.

Whispering.

Laughing.

“We should’ve stayed out.”

“You knew better.”

“But you never listen.”

The piano started playing itself again.

Slower now.

Each note like a heartbeat.

I fell to my knees.

When I looked up—

Room 209 was empty.

No piano.

No mirror.

Just ash.

And in the middle of the floor:

My name tag.

Still warm.

Still mine.

But the name had changed.

“E. Harlan”

“I walked out of Room 209 just before sunrise.”
“But I don’t think I was the same person who went in.”

I don’t remember how I got to the lobby.

One minute, I was on my knees in ash.

The next, I was standing behind the front desk, phone ringing in my hand.

The clock read 7:01 AM.

Bill’s notebook was still on the counter.

But the pages were blank.

The guestbook was gone.

Room 209?

No longer listed in the registry.

I walked upstairs.

Nothing between Rooms 208 and 210.

Just a stretch of flat wall.

Like it had never existed.

I stayed through checkout.

Smiled at guests.

Handed out receipts with shaky fingers.

No one noticed.

No one said anything.

That night, I packed up my locker.

Left my keycard on the desk.

Walked out the front door and never went back.

No one called to ask why.

No one filed a report.

It’s like they expected me to leave.

Back home, things were… different.

Not wrong.

Just off.

The bathroom mirror fogged on its own.

When I passed shop windows, I always saw myself blinking half a second too late.

I’d wake up to piano music coming from my kitchen.

Sometimes just one note.

Sometimes the whole melody.

I stopped answering the phone.

Stopped talking to people.

Stopped trusting my own voice.

Two weeks ago, I got a package in the mail.

No return address.

Inside was an old hotel key.

Brass.

Heavy.

Stamped: 209

And underneath it, a folded piece of paper.

In my handwriting.

“Check-in complete.”
“Now you get to play the music.”

I’m making this because I think someone needs to hear it.