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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CreepyStoriesJR on 2024-09-06 19:25:36+00:00.

It was well past midnight when I finally arrived at the Elmwood Hotel. The journey had been long, the roads winding through dark, unfamiliar territory. By the time I reached the hotel, I was utterly exhausted, my eyelids heavy and my body aching from the hours spent behind the wheel. The Elmwood was the only place I could find in this remote area, a grand old building that seemed to have been plucked straight from a different era. Its faded brick facade and dimly lit sign were barely visible in the fog that clung to the night.

I stepped inside, grateful for the warmth of the lobby, which contrasted sharply with the chill outside. The place was quiet, eerily so. The front desk was manned by a single clerk, an elderly man with thinning hair and a weary expression. He looked up as I approached, offering a tired but polite smile.

“Welcome to the Elmwood Hotel,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like a room for the night,” I replied, my voice sounding just as tired as I felt.

The clerk nodded and reached for a large, dusty register on the desk. He flipped through the pages, his fingers moving slowly, almost methodically. After a moment, he looked up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Not many guests this time of year,” he remarked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “But we do have a room available, room 714.”

He handed me an old-fashioned key, the kind with an ornate metal tag attached. The number 714 was engraved on it, worn but still legible.

“Your room is on the seventh floor,” the clerk said, pointing toward the elevator at the far end of the lobby. “Enjoy your stay.”

I thanked him and made my way to the elevator, my footsteps echoing in the empty lobby. As I rode up to the seventh floor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The hotel had a strange, musty smell, and the decor was outdated, faded wallpaper, dim lighting, and threadbare carpeting that seemed to belong to a different time.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a dimly lit hallway that stretched out before me. The walls were lined with old paintings, their colors muted and their frames tarnished with age. The carpet underfoot was thick, but the pattern was faded and worn in places. I glanced at the numbers on the doors as I walked, each one labeled with a brass plate, 710, 711, 712, but there was no sign of room 714.

The hallway seemed to go on forever, the lights growing dimmer the further I walked. Just as I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake, I spotted it, a door at the very end of the hallway, almost hidden in the shadows. The brass plate on the door read “714,” though the numbers were slightly askew, as if the plate had been hastily attached.

I hesitated for a moment, a strange feeling of unease settling over me. But I was too tired to care. All I wanted was to collapse into bed and get some rest. I inserted the key into the lock and turned it, the mechanism clicking softly as the door swung open.

The first thing that struck me about room 714 was how old-fashioned it was. The furnishings were all impeccably clean, but they looked like they hadn’t been updated in decades. The bed was a massive four-poster with heavy drapes that hung down on all sides. The wallpaper was a deep burgundy with an intricate floral pattern, and the carpet was a rich, dark green. A large wooden wardrobe stood against one wall, and an ornate vanity with a round mirror occupied the opposite corner.

The room was illuminated by a single, dim lamp on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the floor. There was a television, but it was one of those old boxy models from the 1980s, sitting on a wooden stand near the foot of the bed. The air was cool, almost cold, and there was a faint smell of mothballs and something else, something I couldn’t quite place.

Despite its age, the room was spotless. The bed was neatly made, the linens crisp and white. The wooden furniture gleamed in the soft light, free of dust or grime. It was as if the room had been preserved in time, untouched by the years that had passed outside its walls.

I set my bag down on the bed and let out a deep sigh of relief. My exhaustion had overtaken any feelings of unease I might have had, and all I could think about was getting some sleep. I quickly changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, the mattress firm but surprisingly comfortable.

As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the room. It was too quiet, too still, as if the air itself was holding its breath. But fatigue won out, and before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep.

I don’t know how long I slept, but I was jolted awake by the sound of a phone ringing. The noise was sharp and piercing, echoing through the silence of the room. I sat up, disoriented, and looked around, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.

It was an old rotary phone, sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. I hadn’t noticed it before, it blended in with the rest of the room’s outdated decor. The phone continued to ring, insistent and demanding. My first instinct was to ignore it, but something compelled me to pick it up.

I lifted the receiver to my ear, expecting to hear a voice on the other end. But there was nothing, just silence. I waited for a moment, my heart pounding, but still, no one spoke. Just as I was about to hang up, I heard it, a faint whisper, barely audible over the crackling static.

“Please… help me…”

The voice was distant, distorted, as if it were coming from a great distance. I felt a chill run down my spine as I strained to hear more, but the line went dead. I quickly hung up the phone, my hands trembling.

The room felt colder now, the shadows longer and darker. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand, it was just after 3 AM. The unease I had felt earlier had returned, stronger than before. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone in the room, that something was watching me from the darkness.

I tried to brush it off, telling myself it was just a prank call, a glitch in the phone system. But as I lay back down, I couldn’t shake the image of the voice on the other end, pleading for help.

The television flickered on by itself, the screen filled with static. I bolted upright, staring at the old boxy TV in disbelief. The remote was on the nightstand, untouched. I grabbed it and tried to turn off the TV, but the screen remained lit, the static hissing softly.

And then, through the static, I saw something, a figure, faint and shadowy, standing in the center of the screen. The image flickered and jumped, but the figure remained, unmoving. I couldn’t make out any details, but it was clear that the figure was a person, watching me through the screen.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the screen, unable to look away. The figure began to move, slowly at first, and then more quickly, as if approaching the camera. I fumbled with the remote, my hands shaking, and finally managed to turn the TV off.

The room was plunged into darkness, the silence deafening. I sat there in the dark, my heart racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had I imagined it? Was it some kind of glitch, a trick of the light?

But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the case. There was something wrong with this room, something deeply, terribly wrong.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep after that. My nerves were shot, my mind racing with fear and confusion. I needed to know more about this room, about what was happening here. I got out of bed and began to search the room, hoping to find something, anything, that would explain the strange occurrences.

I checked the wardrobe first, half-expecting to find something hidden inside. But it was empty, save for a few wooden hangers that clattered together as I opened the door. The vanity was equally bare, its drawers containing nothing but dust.

Finally, I turned my attention to the bed. I lifted the mattress, expecting to find nothing, but my heart skipped a beat when I saw it, a small, leather-bound book, wedged between the mattress and the box spring.

I pulled it out, my hands trembling, and opened it to the first page. The handwriting was neat and precise, the ink slightly faded with age. The first entry was dated nearly fifty years ago.

“July 3rd, 1972. I’ve checked into room 714 at the Elmwood Hotel. The journey was long, and I’m exhausted, but there’s something about this room that doesn’t feel right. The air is heavy, and the shadows seem to move on their own. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as I read the entry. It mirrored my own experience so closely that it was uncanny. I flipped through the pages, skimming the entries, and found that they all told a similar story, guests who had stayed in room 714, all reporting strange occurrences, all feeling a sense of unease that grew stronger with each passing day.

As I continued reading, I noticed that the entries grew increasingly frantic, the handwriting becoming more erratic. The guests reported hearing voices, seeing figures in the shadows, and feeling an overwhelming sense of dread. Some entries even mentioned the phone ringing in the middle of the night, just as it had for me.

But it was the final entry that sent a wave of cold fear through me.

“August 15th, 1983. I can’t take it anymore. The voices won’t stop, and the figure in the T…

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