The Last Morning Shift

In 2018, I was sent to Kochi for a week-long logistics conference. My company, based in Pune, booked me into the newly-built Meridian Bay Hotel, a glass-and-steel tower on Marine Drive that had opened just weeks before. The building gleamed like a frozen wave, and the lobby smelled of fresh paint and orchids. The staff, still learning their routines, smiled too brightly.

My room was on the 14th floor, a corner suite with a panoramic view of the backwaters. The first thing I noticed was the bed—a king-sized cloud of Egyptian cotton. After months of sleeping on a lumpy mattress in my Pune apartment, I nearly wept at the sight. The bathroom had a rainfall shower and a deep soaking tub. I spent my first evening running the water, watching the city lights blink on across the water.

The conference was dull, but I didn’t care. My days were spent in fluorescent-lit seminar rooms, my evenings in the hotel’s infinity pool or the rooftop bar. I even attended the hotel’s grand opening party, a glittering affair with free champagne and a live band. I remember thinking that this was the life.

The trouble began on the third night. I woke at 3:33 AM to the sound of a woman’s voice, soft and lilting, like a lullaby sung in a language I didn’t recognize. I sat up, heart pounding, but the room was silent. I checked my phone—no notifications. I attributed it to a dream and went back to sleep.

The next night, same time, same voice. This time, it was clearer, and I could almost make out words—something about ‘the tide’ and ‘the last ferry.’ I turned on the lamp. The room was empty, but the air felt colder near the window. I drew the curtains, but the voice continued, now coming from inside the closet. I threw open the closet door, revealing nothing but a few hangers and my own suitcase.

I called the front desk. A groggy receptionist assured me there were no other guests on my floor—the hotel was only half booked, and the floor above was closed for renovations. He offered to send security, but I declined, feeling foolish.

The following day, I asked a housekeeper if the hotel was haunted. She glanced around, then lowered her voice. ‘This building is new, sir, but the land is old. There was a ferry terminal here. Many years ago, a boat sank during a storm. They say the fog that comes off the water at night carries voices of the ones who drowned.’ She crossed herself and hurried away.

I wanted to dismiss it, but that night, I decided to stay awake. I brewed coffee from the minibar, sat by the window, and waited. At exactly 3:33, the voice returned, but this time it was accompanied by a rhythmic sound—like water lapping against wood. The voice grew clearer: ‘Last ferry… last ferry… don’t miss the last ferry.’

I saw something in the reflection of the glass. A figure standing behind me, dripping wet, with seaweed tangled in its hair. I whipped around. Nothing. But the lamp flickered, and the voice said, ‘You’re in my seat.’

I ran to the door, but it wouldn’t open. The handle was cold and slick, as if coated in slime. I pounded on the door, screaming for help. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The door swung open, and a startled security guard stood in the hallway, flashlight in hand. ‘Sir, are you okay? We got a call about noise.’

I was shaking. I told him what I’d seen. He nodded slowly, as if he’d heard it before. ‘That room,’ he said, ‘the previous guest checked out early. Said he heard a woman crying. We thought he was a crackpot.’ He paused. ‘But the night before you checked in, a worker fell from the scaffolding on this side of the building. Died on impact. They say his ghost still haunts the rooms where he worked.’

I didn’t sleep for the rest of my stay. I avoided the room, spending nights on the lobby sofa. When my conference ended, I checked out at dawn. As I waited for my taxi, a man in the lobby—a local, I assumed—asked me if I’d seen ‘the lady in white.’ He said she walks the corridors of the hotel every night, searching for her lost child, who was on the ferry that sank.

I never told anyone the full story. Not my family, not my colleagues. And I’ve never stayed in a new hotel again. But sometimes, even now, I’ll wake at 3:33 in the morning to the faint sound of a lullaby, and I’ll wonder if that ferry is still waiting, and if one day I’ll miss it for good.