The Sixth-Floor Registry

In November of 2014, I was a fresh graduate from a hospitality program, landing an internship at the Aster Crest Hotel in Quezon City, just off the busy España Boulevard, not far from a university and a 24-hour convenience store. The hotel was only a year old, with the top two floors still under renovation, wrapped in plastic sheeting and scaffolding. I joined five other interns from different schools, and we rotated through departments: front desk, housekeeping, kitchen, and the small café. The shifts were alternating, and the senior staff loved to tell ghost stories, especially about the basement storage and the unused ballroom. But I never felt anything odd until my first week on the morning housekeeping shift.

It was a cold, drizzly Tuesday. My supervisor, Ate Liza, handed me a master key and a cart stocked with linens and cleaning supplies. ‘Start on the sixth floor,’ she said, her voice neutral, but I caught a flicker of something in her eyes—maybe pity? ‘Rooms 601 to 610. The guests have already checked out, so you just need to freshen them up.’ I took the elevator, which rattled slightly as it climbed. When the doors opened on the sixth floor, the hallway was silent, the air still and heavy. The corridor lights flickered, casting long shadows, and I could see the plastic sheeting at the end of the hall where the renovation was happening, fluttering as if from a draft, though there were no windows open.

I started with Room 601. The door swung open to a tidy, empty room. I stripped the bed, replaced the sheets, wiped the bathroom, and checked the mini-bar. Routine. Then Room 602, 603, 604. Everything normal. But as I reached Room 605, the doorknob felt cold to the touch, even though the rest of the hallway was lukewarm. I turned it, and the door creaked open. The room was identical to the others, but the air inside was heavier, and the smell of stale perfume lingered. I noticed a small, leather-bound book on the nightstand, which seemed out of place. I picked it up; it was a registration log, but the binding was old and cracked, despite the hotel being new. I flipped through the pages. The entries were dated from the early 1980s—names, dates, room numbers. But the handwriting was all in black ink, and each entry ended with the phrase ‘No return.’ I thought it was a prank, maybe left by the staff. I put it back and finished the room.

The next room, 606, was locked. I tried the master key, but it wouldn’t turn. I checked the keycard, but it was for 601-610. The lock was jammed. I called housekeeping, but no one answered. I moved on to 607, 608, 609, and 610, all fine. As I was finishing 610, I heard a faint knocking coming from 606. I went to the door and pressed my ear against it. The knocking grew louder, more insistent, then stopped. I tried the key again, and this time it turned with a click. The door swung open on its own. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. I stepped in and saw the bed made, but the sheets were ruffled, as if someone had just gotten up. On the pillow lay a single white carnation, fresh. On the desk, there was an open registry book, same as the one in 605, but this one had an entry that read: ‘Aster Crest Hotel – December 2014 – Guest: Maria Elena – Room 606 – Checked in: Never.’ Underneath was a note scrawled in red ink: ‘They left me behind. You’ll be next.’

My heart raced. I grabbed the book and ran out of the room, down the hallway, and took the stairs instead of the elevator. I burst into the staff lounge, where Ate Liza was having coffee. I showed her the book and stammered about the note. She looked at me with a grave face and said, ‘You found the sixth-floor registry. We’ve been trying to get rid of it for years. That floor is not meant to be occupied. The hotel was built on the site of an old orphanage that burned down in 1981. Many children died. Sometimes, when the renovation crew is working, they hear children laughing. But the one who haunts the registry is a woman named Maria Elena, a former maid who was found dead in Room 606 during the construction. She was locked in by accident—they were sealing off the floor, and she was inside. She couldn’t get out. Ever since, she appears to housekeepers, leaving that book as a warning. You’re not the first. The previous intern quit last month because of it.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. I wanted to quit right then, but I needed the hours. I forced myself to go back, hoping to finish the shift. When I returned to the sixth floor, the plastic sheeting at the end of the hall was gone, revealing a wall that looked brand new. The knocking started again, from Room 606. I walked slowly to the door, which was now ajar. The room was bathed in a dim, yellowish light, and I saw a figure standing by the window—a woman in a maid’s uniform, her back to me. She turned, her face pale and featureless, and she pointed to the registry on the bed. It was open to a new page. My name was written on the first line, followed by ‘Checked in: December 2014.’

I stumbled backward, dropped my keys, and ran. I didn’t stop until I was at the front desk, sobbing. The manager, Mr. Reyes, listened to my story and then said, ‘She chooses one caretaker each year to add to the log. It’s just a warning. As long as you resign, you’ll be fine.’ I resigned that afternoon. I never went back to the Aster Crest Hotel. But sometimes, at night, I still hear that knocking—three slow, deliberate taps against my bedroom wall, and I know she’s found me again, wherever I am. The registry is still there, waiting for the next name. And I pray it’s not yours.