A Traveler's Tale

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
I've never believed in haunted hotels. Until I stayed in one, that is.

Submitted: October 10, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 10, 2016



I travel a lot for work. This isn’t as glamorous as it sounds – it’s actually rather tiring. After the first few months of excitement, the novelty fades and the reality of my situation set in. This means that my back and limbs are almost constantly sore, the back of my head and underside of my thighs molded into the grooves of my plane or vehicle seat.

The other downsides to constant travel include occasional bouts of upset stomach from foreign food, body pain, headaches, and pest infestations. I can thankfully say that my worst experience travelling was when we booked into a hotel that was unfortunately crawling with bedbugs – but that’s another story for another time.

One of my traveling companions is an elderly lady who is rather religious. I personally love travelling with her because she’s a seasoned traveler – I never have to worry about missing a flight or getting lost as long as I tag along. Another reason is because, due to her extensive experience, she has a treasure trove of stories that she dishes out like treats, during dull waiting times in the airport or while on the road.

Her stories range from humorous to poignant to downright creepy – although if I had to be honest, I would rate her scary tales as my favorites. She was a gifted storyteller, and had a way of spinning out the tale in a way that made me hang on to every word she said.

I’ve had this job for close to three years now, and over time I’ve built up my own arsenal of creepy stories to tell. This is one of them.

We often travel to certain places that are reportedly haunted. This ranges from old hotels to ancient manors. My very first work-related supernatural experience happened during my first work trip. I was a 19-year-old girl fresh out of university, literally bouncing with excitement over my job. We had settled into an old hotel for the night. Since we didn’t book in advance, we were forced to share rooms – not that I minded, I am a very social person and I love having company.

My designated roommate was the elderly lady. She and I shared a king-sized bed and fell asleep pretty quickly. However, my sleep was short-lived, since I felt somebody tugging on the sheets.

I admit that I got annoyed. We had been on the road for close to 10 hours, and all I wanted was a good night’s rest. I kicked off the sheets and moved as far as I could to the edge of the bed, shut my eyes, and attempted to go back to sleep.

I was finally dozing off again when I felt fingers stroking my foot. I was enraged. I snatched my foot away and exhaled in annoyance, hoping to convey my displeasure. I was about to say something when I noticed that my bed-mate seemed to be fast asleep, her hands clasped on top of her stomach.

Huh. My anger died down somewhat and I sat there in confusion. After a few seconds of watching her steady breathing, I convinced myself that I must have been dreaming. I settled down and lay on my side, and after a few minutes I was dead to the world.

This time, when I woke up, the situation was undeniable. I could feel strong hands clutching my ankles and pulling – and boy, was I pissed. I kicked once, hard, then sat up with a snarl – and that’s when I noticed that the other side of the bed was empty.

I screamed. Not my finest moment, I admit, but I was so tired and frustrated that I thought I could get away with being a brat for once. At the sound of my screech, the bathroom door opened and light flooded the room. My companion stepped out in alarm, her eyes darting around the room for intruders.

“What happened?” She asked, sitting beside me. I was fuming, rubbing my ankles. They seemed itchy all of a sudden, the sensation akin to having brushed against poison ivy.

“I swear I thought somebody was trying to pull me out of bed,” I complained petulantly. “I felt hands on my legs. I’m not making this up, I promise!”

She shushed me, then furtively drew the blinds to peek out. The window was slightly open and a breeze snaked in, making us both shiver.

“Are you all right now?” She asked, getting me a glass of water. I thanked her and then gulped down the water, nodding that I was fine. For some reason, she seemed disturbed. After a few minutes of idle conversation, she persuaded me to go back to bed. She kept the lamp on her nightstand on, claiming that she was already awake and was going to do some light reading while I caught up on sleep.

The rest of the night passed without incident. During breakfast the following morning, I enthusiastically told my other companions about what happened the night before. My roommate was oddly silent. She finished her breakfast quickly, then said she was going to take a quick walk in the garden before we left.

I downed the rest of my breakfast and followed her. While we walked briskly around the garden, I brought up the incident the previous night. At first she didn’t say anything, then she turned to me and told me something that made me shiver.

“I didn’t want to bring this up until we left,” she began. “But last night, there was a reason I didn’t go back to sleep and kept the lights on. You see, when I stepped out of the bathroom, I saw a pair of arms with very long fingers slither back under the bed.”


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