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I worked as a maintenance worker at a hotel in Christiansburg for about two years. It’s a busy spot, but hotels have a way of feeling crowded even when the rooms are empty. Most of the time, I brushed off the rumors of hauntings as just bored housekeepers looking for a thrill. They used to tell me that the hotel right next door had a dark history—a man had taken his own life there just months before I started. They claimed they could communicate with him, asking him to flick lights on and off in vacant rooms. I’m not a non-believer, but I’ve always been the type to look for a logical explanation first.
Still, the building had a certain atmosphere. If you’ve ever worked the night shift in a place where people are constantly coming and going, you know the feeling. There are various oddities, like the way certain hallways always feel a few degrees colder or how the silence in an empty suite can feel strangely heavy. Now, anyway, the hotel had that eerie, “shared” feeling. I didn’t have any lights flickering during my inspections, but I did have a few experiences that I couldn’t explain away with a faulty circuit or a draft.
One night, the girl at the front desk asked me to grab some extra pillows from a room on an upper floor. The room was marked in the system as clean and vacant. I made my way up the quiet hallway and reached for my keycard. Just as I was about to swipe, I heard voices—at least three or four of them—coming from inside. It sounded exactly like a regular social event, that low hum of a group of people gathered for a conversation.
I paused, thinking I had the wrong door. I even leaned toward the room next to it, but the voices were definitely coming from the “vacant” room. I knocked, and abruptly, the conversation stopped. Total silence. I called out, “Maintenance, I’m entering, is anyone in here?” No response. When I opened the door, the room was pitch black. I flipped the switch to find an empty room: no TV, no suitcases, not even an overhead fan spinning. Just a chill that went straight down my spine. I got the pillows and left, but the silence followed me out. If those were real people in a different room, why wouldn’t the conversation have picked back up once they realized I wasn’t coming in?
Now, fast forward a few weeks. My second experience happened in broad daylight, and it actually spooked me more than the voices in the dark. It was around three o’clock, and I was doing my usual rounds, taking trash bags out to the dumpster. The dumpster isn’t secluded; it’s out in the front parking lot where you have a wide, clear view of everything. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide.
As I was walking back toward the hotel entrance, I heard footsteps quickly approaching me from behind—fast, heavy footfalls on the asphalt. My supervisor and I used to play pranks on each other all the time, so my brain immediately went to him. I spun around with a “Gotcha!” expression ready on my face, but there was no one there. The parking lot was empty. No cars, no trees, no open doors. I stood there speechless, knowing for a fact I had heard someone quickening their pace to catch up to me.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t turned around. Would I have felt a shove? A gust of wind? Now, whenever I walk those halls or empty the trash, I find myself looking over my shoulder. I don’t know how many spirits are staying at that hotel, but I truly believe a few of them never checked out. They don’t mind letting you know that even in a “vacant” room, you might just be sharing the space with a wanderer.
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