Creepy - Instructions For Using the Harborview Motel Mirror

Episode Date: November 23, 2020

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A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain traffic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Instructions for Using the Harbor View Motel Mirror Written by Kyle Harrison and produced by Steve Blizzin. So before we get started, let me get a few questions out of the way.

It probably goes without saying, but I won't. be providing the actual address of where the Harborview motel is located in Texas. So don't I ask. Like most urban legends of this nature, it's impossible to say for certain where it started or how it grew to be popular. So your guess is as good as mine on this. Although I will be providing you some step-by-step instructions on this ritual, please note that my experience is different than others, and therefore, if you do attempt this,

there is no guarantee you will fare the same. The Harbor View is one of those mom and pop-owned motels that survived the test of time thinks its reputation for always having at least one room available. Some say this is because the owners do a terrible job cleaning up after the guests and can never have all the rooms ready in case of a surge of bookings. Others claim that's because their budget's tight, and the owners know that they don't get the usual clientele like other bit stops. That's likely due to the reputation of the mirror.

But let's not get ahead. ourselves. The first thing you should know about the harbor view is that people don't come here for a good time, or even a good night's rest. It's near to the highway, and it's its catty corner from a 24-hour truck stop. Most business is taken over by the same brand hotels a few miles down the road. No, people come here for a purpose. What that is will vary from person to person, of course.

But for me, it related to my wife, Virginia. Six years she's been gone, doing an overdose from drugs. Six years have I had trouble closing my eyes to go to sleep without conjuring up the last vacancy there she gave me when I found her. I've tried to figure out why she took her life, why she left me and the kids. I've blamed her job, blame myself, and even blame God. But it doesn't provide any real comfort.

Her departure left a hole in my heart. a void that needed to be filled. I'm telling you this because of the first rule regarding the Harborview Motel. You need to have a reason for using it. Don't be some idiot that comes here and wants to try something for shits and giggles. It won't end well for you, my friend. Of course, I can't say that with any degree of certainty either, because I don't really know if anyone's experience is better than mine was.

I'm only giving you the same. advice I was told to heed based on word of mouth spread across the internet. That's where I first heard about the mirror. I made a menagerie of other articles about how to come to terms with grief by contacting the spirit of the one you lost. There's a multitude of them out there, but the mirror is the one that stuck out for me. Perhaps it was because it sounded so plausible, so tangible. The way people described it, the way it affected them.

Surely that couldn't be for the sake of make-believe. Six months is how long it took me to get the courage to give it a try. I knew that if I was going to succeed, I'd need to follow the instructions given to the best of my ability. And, well, that's the tricky part, really. There are at least 18 separate steps connecting to the mirror from what I've gathered. But some people put in a 19th or a different 13th step just to throw everyone off. Then another internet troll pops up and joins Bandwagon, distorting the original instructions more and more to the point where it's somewhat difficult to say for certain, which are correct, and which were simply tacked on. I can only tell you what I did.

So please, if your experience includes steps that are different than mine, share that. First, you need to be from out of town. Easy for me since I lived up and I'm a real. nor near where the motel is located. Some say it has to be that you've never been there before or even anywhere near to it. I can check that box easily too, but I suspect many truckers and travelers cannot. Second, you should pack several things with you for the trip, the most important of which being a small pack of matches.

This isn't for you, and you're not supposed to open them until prompted to do so. You can purchase them from anywhere, even from the truck stop. across the road. The other items are a change of clothes, a door wedge, a black ballpoint pen, and a bottle of water. The next part isn't a step, really, but I think it holds some significance on putting it out there for good measure. There's around two in the morning when I arrived. This is important timing for later on in step five, so I would simply advise that you arrive

about an hour or so ahead of time. Just give yourself time to finish your business and maybe grab a quick smoke. or something. I walked into the truck stop to grab some Marlboroughs and beef jerky since I've been on the road for a few hours. Like I said, I don't live nearby. And I was trying to find a good soda pop when bright orange neon sign from the Harborview came to life and the reflection of the Coke dispenser.

As I noticed, the sign come to life. A few other patrons in the store did too. So I figured I should chat up to locals and see what they had to say about the motel. I'm surprised they have the money to keep that sign on. I remarked to the cashiers I passed for my cigarettes and snacks. The young twenty-something didn't make her reply at first as she rung me up. But for the life of me, I swear there was something in her eyes that told me she had something to say. Isn't it run by just two people?

Don't they ever sleep? I said, hoping to go at her into a conversation. They come on when they're supposed to come on, she replied curtly. What does that mean? was my next inquiry. Owners know when they have someone coming by. Don't ask me how they just do. Must be a traveler out tonight

and you know a place to rest their head. She said if she passed me the change and then asked me, What brings you here, a stranger? Now, according to some blogs, this question is important to the ritual. Honestly, I don't see how. The cashier likely changes nightly,

and there's simply no way they could always ask the same question. But it did unnerve me that she asked, and I felt compelled to reply truthfully. My wife. I'm hoping to see her tonight. I told the young girl, as I stared at the lights at the Harperview Motel. It was like they were meant for me. Good luck, she told me.

I went back to my car and checked the time. 2.24. Time to begin, step three. You must leave your car parked at the truck stop and go by foot. Parking at the motel is bad luck and getting a cab to take you there is worse. No worse, so people say. There's an overhead walkway that links the truck stop to the motel. And the next step says you can use it to go to the harbor view or to return,

but never both ways. It's up to you to decide. Even at this time of night, I didn't want to risk walking the six-lane traffic, so I made for the overhead. Once you're in front of the harbor view, it's time to wait. You should be there no later than 245 and no earlier than 240. See, I told you timing was important. And since every version of the ritual mentions this, I'm doing it too.

I arrived mere seconds before 2.45 hit, and I sat down in the second row of parking tape and looked towards the manager's office. The place seemed abandoned. No one ever comes here except people like me, searching for purpose in their life. This step is important, but then I guess all of them really are, and it's going to require you to remain undistracted by the noise. The sign will say closed when you arrive, and you're to keep your attention on the sign

until an unseen hand turns it over to open. This isn't easy, mind you. There's a lot going on. There are cars zooming by, some even getting into wrecks while you wait. Police sirens going off, helicopters flying over half, head, the occasional prostitute trying to get your attention. No, yeah, about that. This is a step I thought was fake, but since it happened to me, I'm including it.

Some versions of the ritual say there's a particular prostitute that can appear while you wait, and while descriptions vary from account to account, one thing that's consistent is that she's supposed to be asking for a smoke. It happened to me about 309 as the minutes crawl by. I didn't hear her approach, and when she stood beside me I didn't smell any perfume. I was focused on the door, but in my peripheral vision I gathered she was wearing stiletto heels and fishnet stockings, with a short turquoise skirt and a skimpy top to match. The rules say she'll be insistent on getting a smoke, and you must refuse her.

You must also keep your eye on the manager's window. I did both, despite the fact that you're not. that she was right in my ear, whining to grab a hold of my cigarettes. After writing this, it's occurred to me that this is likely due to me buying them in the first place and hence her presence. So if you want to avoid this distraction, just stay clean. I felt her tugging my arm. She was very stubborn.

It wouldn't take no or my ignoring her lately. Finally, I came up with an alternative solution and offered her my food instead. Mighty nice of you, she said, snatching the jerky fire. from my hand. At that exact moment, the sign in front of me moved, and I felt my heart raise. I wonder still if it was kindness that allowed me to move on to the next step. All I know for sure is that I left her there, and moved with haste toward the door. The instructions say you can't take longer than a minute to get inside. If you do, you might end up meeting someone besides the owner. I don't rightly know if I met that time, since I didn't look

in my watch. But I can't. tell you the manager's office was not at all like what I expected. People say it appears at them in different ways. It's led me to think that maybe it's not simply the mirror that holds the power but the entire location. For me, it looked like a mash-up between a Chinese restaurant and a video rental. Blame greens and bright yellows mixed. Old wallpaper peeling from the ceiling.

Jazzy, scratching music played in the background. Incense filled the air. I couldn't really see the evening. owner in the dim light behind the counter as he was busy grabbing something from under the desk. But he appeared to be short and stocky and of Asian descent. He took out a guest book, slid it across to me, and said in broken English for me to sign in. Room. Yeah, it's pointing to the list.

It's supposed to be a question, but for me it felt like a statement. The next few steps were supposed to be the easiest in the process that I figure it's impossible to get them wrong. Use the pen you brought with you. You sign in under an assumed name. You choose room eight. I think for most people, the ease of these is likely what throws them off. Everything up to this part feels like you easily get it wrong and ruin the whole ritual.

But how could you possibly fuck up these three? I didn't understand it until I was signing in. And you probably won't either. It was this overwhelming sense of disturbance. urbans in the air around me, a compulsion to write something, anything, anything, besides what the rules told me to put down. I had to practically force myself to forge a signature. When I was done, the Asian man smiled in a queer sort of way and put the book away.

For the life of me, I wish I'd seen how many other people had come here before, but in the heat of the moment I must have panicked. my name been the only one? The owner told me to wait while he got the room key. I couldn't help and notice the scratchy music had stopped. In fact, the office was dead quiet. He returned a minute later with a large gold key tied to an even larger rusty copper plate that had an eight etched down in with permanent marker.

It actually looked a little like an infinity symbol, although I don't know why that correlation came into my mind. The next step's supposed to be optional. Like I said, some instructions don't include it, but others say you can tip them. Now, the rules do say that you aren't supposed to bring any more than $44 to pay for the room, that you must insist on paying that amount. But the rest is up to you. I brought along about $100 for gas food and possibly HBO if it turned out the whole ritual was a dud,

and that this was a stunt to boost their business. So I gave him a $10 tip. Per the script, the owner refused and I insisted. Then I grabbed my key and made toward room 8. It should be after 3.30 by the time you get there. Some people call this the witching hour, and as I walked toward the room it certainly felt like it. Where once there was noise and distraction from the highway, now everything seemed quiet. Now it would have been as good a time as any to say, fuck it, and go home.

My purpose for coming told me I couldn't, though. So I used the key on the door and heard the lock grind as it unlatched from the hinges. A roommate looks like someone's threw up in it everywhere. You don't come for the scenery. It has gray carpet with dark stains on it that some people claim her blood, and two twin-sized beds, both of which are made with a peppermint on the pillow. The instructions say you're to choose the bed on the left, so that's what I did. I sat down and looked at the bed opposite of me.

My hair ponies, I realized I was actually going to go through with this. The door was still open. The rules don't specify whether you need to close it, just that you use the door wedge. But something about staring out into the world felt wrong. This place is separate from where I came, and I shouldn't let it interfere, I thought. So I closed it, placed the door wedge down, and went over to the bed again, taking a few short breaths. I told myself I was ready. People always do.

I don't think anyone ever is. Then I went to the bathroom and turned on the light. The mirror was waiting. Now, from an outsider's perspective, the mirror inside room A looks no different than any other grimy, dingy motel would have. It takes up the whole wall. It's got a few fingerprints and dust on it and even a crack along the top, like one sharp hit could shatter the whole thing.

I wonder how many people might actually come here for just a normal visit. Stare into this mirror and go on about their business without a care. It seems unlikely, because despite the fact that the mirror itself was ordinary, I felt an unease about it. Something felt off. Don't ask me what. Maybe it was because I envisioned that these fingerprints were likely from the last person who came to perform the ritual. And after all, the next step did say you were to sit in the chair in front of the glass and place your right poem against it.

According to the instructions, you must do so within two minutes of the first time you're entering the bathroom. So don't go into potty or whatever. Going to get this whole thing started. I sat and pressed my poem on the surface, feeling it's cold resonate on my skin. You're to hold your hand there for another minute, and while doing it, so, you should look toward the right-hand side of the reflection. Wait until you see the flicker of a candle, I must admit. I don't recall if there was a candle when I entered the bathroom.

I was too focused on the mirror. I'm sure most people say the same. It's all-encompassing, unyielding, demanding of your attention. But after a few short breathless minutes, I finally saw the candle ignited, and I abruptly seized my hand away from the mirror. The gentle flame from the wick lingered as I stared at it. My throat dry as I reached into my pocket and took out the matches. Getting the next part right was essential.

You were to stand up, burn a match, and walk backward into the room. Keep your eyes on the flame and not in the mirror. My hands were sweaty when I struck the match against the box. It only took one try. I got up from the chair and immediately started walking backwards. I didn't want to get anything wrong, so I was slow with my gate. I could see my reflection doing the same out of the corner of my eye. But again, that dreadful, peculiar feeling lurched into my body.

Why did it seem like the reflection was moving faster than I wasn't? I stopped right in front of the bad opposite of my eye. Then the match went out. At the same time, the candle did too. I stood there looking toward the dark bathroom where my reflection had disappeared from sight and tried my best not to shake. Everything had gone exactly according to plan so far.

I knew I was to strip from my clothes and to change into ones I brought with me. Some spectators say this is so the spirit you meet is fooled and doesn't haunt you from beyond the room. Others claim it's because you're trying to appear differently than the way you came. So as this symbolized some sort of transformation you're trying to make. Personally, though, I wanted to get out of my regular clothes because I was soaked in sweat. Never had I been so nervous in all my life.

It took me less than three minutes to get into the robe I'd brought. I figured something simple would be easier, but for some reason putting it on felt like I was slowly drowning. All the while, I got to be a little bit more than. the sense that the bathroom seemed darker than before. I was close to finishing all the steps. Once dressed, I tossed my used clothes in haste over to my bed and reach for the matches. There wasn't a moment to waste. You're to start walking forward, toward the darkness, with the match ready.

You are not delighted until you are face to face with a mirror. I took a tentative step forward. Then another. Then another. Finally, I was there. The bathroom was colder than before. I was certain. And despite the fact that the mirror was only a few feet in front of me, I saw nothing.

My hands trembled. I struck the match near to my chest and closed my eyes, saying the phrase I was told will provide me closure. Show me why. I whispered. I held my breath for it seemed like an eternity. Then I opened my eyes and saw it. brought the match up to my face. It was still me.

My mind panicked, thinking I'd done one of the steps wrong. The ritual was meant to answer my fears, explain the loss I couldn't let go of. Was it all a hoax? Was this all a waste of my time? Then, a smile creased across the features of my reflection's face. Silently, its free hand gesture toward the counter, where somehow there's a bottle of water.

water on its side of the mirror. It was one I brought with me, but I swear to you the steps did not say to bring it into the bathroom. Somehow it was there anyway, across the void. Then it took the cap off the water and gently poured it over the match that was illuminating us both. Mine was the only flame that went out in those few seconds of darkness as I stared across in my illuminated reflection. I can rightly say that I forgot what it looked like. It was like staring at a stranger. The reflection did not move or waver.

It just stared back and held my gaze for another few seconds. It raised its mouth toward the glass and breathed gently, just enough to fog it up. Then it used its fingers to write me a message. Slowly I watched as the letters unfolded before me, my brain trying to comprehend what each of them was, is though I'd never seen them before. It didn't seem to make sense until the word was spelled out in its entirety

because was all it said. Then the darkness returned. I sat there numb for a few long, lingering minutes. I thought back to Virginia, and all the times we'd argued. The last thing I'd said to her was cutting and hard. That was why I blamed myself. So what did this message mean?

This simple puzzle kept me awake the rest of the night as I laid in the bed. The rules say you don't have to stay until morning. But I have no idea where else to go. I think I know what the mirror was telling me. And I think I understand now why the ritual is not recommended. Why my answer may not be so unique after all. The morning light is creeping and, I think I understand now why the ritual is not recommended. light is creeping into my door, but it isn't welcoming.

The roar of traffic is all the buzzes into my mind. I can leave whenever I want to. The ritual is over. This here for anyone else who's listening to these stories and searching for answers of their own to whatever is keeping them up in night. I'm telling you, if you're searching, you should stop doing so. because sometimes bad things happen. There's nothing you can do about it.

And that's a hard pill to swallow. Maybe even impossible if you realize the deeper implications. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe your experience will be different when you come to the Harborview Motel. All I know is that I have to cross the highway, and I can't go back the way I came. For more information, including pictures and videos, of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com.

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