The Nightshift Visitor

It had been three weeks since the night shift began at the old Meridian Hotel, and I was already losing my mind. My name is Lena, and I was the night auditor, the only soul awake between the hours of eleven and seven. The hotel was a relic from the 1920s, all creaking floors and flickering sconces, and it had a reputation for being, well, off. But I needed the money, and the day staff warned me about the ‘late-night wanderer’ with a wink and a smirk. I thought they were messing with the new girl.

My first few nights were uneventful, just the hum of the ice machine and the occasional stray cat outside. Then, on a Tuesday, I saw him. A thin man in a faded blue suit, standing at the end of the hallway that led to the dead-end storage room. He wasn’t moving, just staring at the wall. I called out, ‘Sir, can I help you?’ He didn’t turn. He just faded, like a puff of smoke. I blamed my imagination, the late hour, the shadows from the parking lot lights.

But he kept coming back. Not every night, but often. Always the same spot, always facing the wall. I started to feel a chill whenever he appeared, and the air would thicken, like a storm about to break. I tried to ignore him, focusing on my ledgers, but I felt watched. Then, last Thursday, I was walking the perimeter, checking the fire exits, and I passed the storage room. The door was slightly ajar, which was odd because we kept it locked. I pushed it open, and the smell hit me—wet earth and rotting wood. The room was empty, but on the floor, there was a small brass key, old and tarnished, with a tag that read ‘Room 217.’ I’d never seen it before, and the hotel didn’t have a 217. The top floor only went to 204.

I took the key to the front desk and logged it in the lost and found. But that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I heard footsteps behind me, soft and deliberate, but when I turned, nothing. The next morning, I mentioned it to the day manager, a gruff man named Mr. Ellison. He went pale and muttered, ‘Don’t touch anything in that room again.’ He refused to elaborate, but he looked over his shoulder as he said it.

That evening, I decided to do some digging. There was an old hotel ledger in the back office, bound in cracked leather, recording guests from 1922. As I flipped through the pages, I found an entry for a Mr. Arthur Vane, who stayed in room 217 and never checked out. The next page had a note in pencil, barely legible: ‘He says the walls talk. He wants to go home.’ I felt a cold knot in my stomach.

On Saturday, I brought a flashlight and opened the storage room again, determined to find where that key came from. The room was dusty, lined with shelves of old linens and broken furniture. But in the back, behind a shelf, there was a door, painted over, almost invisible. I tried the key. It fit. The door swung open to a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. The air was stale, and I heard a faint, rhythmic sound, like dripping water, or maybe a heartbeat.

I descended, my footsteps echoing. The stairs ended in a corridor lined with doors, each with a brass number. I passed 213, 214, 215… and then I saw 217. The door was slightly ajar, and light, warm and golden, seeped through the crack. I pushed it open and saw a room, not like the hotel rooms above, but a Victorian parlor, with velvet chairs and a roaring fireplace. A man sat in a chair, his back to me, reading a newspaper. He wore a suit, and he was smoking a pipe. I recognized the shape of his head, the blue suit. I stepped forward, and he turned, his face gaunt and pale, with hollow eyes.

‘You found me,’ he said, his voice like gravel. ‘I’ve been waiting for someone to come. I can’t leave. I left something behind, and I need it back.’ I asked what. He said, ‘My watch. My gold pocket watch with the initials A.V. I misplaced it the night I died. I was in the hotel, and I felt my heart give out. They found me in the morning, but my watch was gone. Someone took it, and they’ve been carrying it all these years. I can feel it, walking the halls at night. The new night shift, she has it. She sits at the desk, and I can hear it ticking.’

I swallowed, thinking of my own watch. I wore a cheap digital one, no initials. But then I remembered the manager’s office, where he kept a display of old hotel relics, including a gold pocket watch. He said it was found in the wall during renovations. I asked, ‘Is it a man with gray hair, looks like a fox?’ He nodded. ‘Please, bring it to me. Then I can rest.’

I returned to the front desk, my mind racing. I couldn’t just take the watch from Mr. Ellison’s office; he’d notice. But the thought of that poor soul trapped in the basement, wandering the hallways, waiting… it haunted me. I decided to wait until the manager left, then carefully unlock his office door. The watch was in a glass case, and I wrapped it in a cloth and hurried back to the storage room, down the stairs, to the room.

He was still there, sitting by the fire. I held out the watch. His eyes lit up, and he reached for it, but as his fingers brushed the gold, the room began to shake. The fire extinguished, and the walls turned to stone. The light faded, and I heard a scream, not from him, but from above. I froze. I realized too late that I hadn’t checked if the watch was real; it was a replica from the gift shop. I had brought him a cheap fake.

His face contorted in rage, and he lunged at me. I stumbled backward, up the stairs, slamming the door behind me. I shoved the shelf back in place, and ran to the lobby, my heart pounding. But the footsteps followed, heavy and relentless, echoing in the empty corridors. I grabbed the phone, but the line was dead. I hid in the break room, under the desk, shivering until dawn.

When the sun rose, I told Mr. Ellison everything. He listened, his face grim. Then he said, ‘You’ve made it worse. He was a man who was never at peace, and now you’ve fed his anger.’ He showed me the real watch, still in its case. ‘This is the one he wants. But we can’t give it to him. If we do, he’ll leave, but he’ll take the hotel with him. The whole building is held up by his presence. It’s the only thing keeping the walls from collapsing.’

I quit that day, but I couldn’t escape. That night, from my apartment across the street, I saw the hotel lights flicker, and a figure in blue standing at the window of the second floor, staring at me. I haven’t slept since, and every time I close my eyes, I hear the ticking of a watch that isn’t there, and I see his face, hollow and hungry, waiting for me to return. I’ve moved twice, changed my number, but last night, I found a brass key on my doorstep, with a tag that read ‘Room 217.’