Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Rented A Room In The World's Most HAUNTED Hotel | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 22, 2024

Do you believe in Ghosts? I do.  Story from Max-Voynich Make sure to check out more of their work at u/Max-Voynich  Cover Art from Michael Guimont Original Post: Room 127: Dead Air, Live Wire : r/Max_Voynich        Original YouTube link: I Rented A Room In The World's Most HAUNTED Hotel  Merch: lighthousehorror.shop For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

My daughter Agnes died at the age of 26 in a helicopter crash just south of Siberia. The official report said that they'd known they were going to crash for at least five whole minutes before the vehicle actually hit the ground. They'd all made some form of contact with family and loved ones. Except Agnes. I'd missed her three calls to my number as I'd been verging on blackout drunk and had consciously pressed the big red hang-up button each time. I hadn't wanted to hear the way my voice croaked after I'd found my way to the bottom

of the bottom. When they told me, I was on enough dope to kill a small horse and I spent the next three days spread eagled on my floor without moving a muscle until the withdrawals got so bad I couldn't see. I crawled to the door and out onto the street until an ambulance picked me up. I was numb, broken. If I'd been an addict before, the crash sent me into a nose dive. I began to drink as if it could physically fill the hole I felt within me, and on nights

where I could see the end clearly, I'd find a vein that wasn't shriveled and crusted and shoot it until I saw stars. Even though the grief would make my bones burn under my skin, I felt like a fraud. I hadn't been there for most of her life. Shit, if I'm honest, I'd missed almost all of it. I'd given myself every excuse in the book. I'd embarrass her, I'd damage her in some way, I was toxic. Every ounce of self-pity I'd used up in finding ways, ultimately, not to be her father.

Didn't stop her though. She was tenacious, determined. She'd call every Christmas and every one of my birthdays. Her mother told me she never understood why, even though I hadn't picked up once. She said she spent every day looking forward to our calls. I was slouching my way back home, when I first saw it, the hotel, that is, a huge intimidating building with brass lettering across the front, Hotel non-dormient. I knew it then, as if the thought had been engraved into the folds of my

brain, this was where I'd do it. I was too much of a coward for real suicide, but I had enough in my savings to get their shittiest room for a month or two, and could work on drinking and imbibing myself to death. It was a strange sort of clarity. It was probably the clearest, sharpest thought I'd had in years. I was going to kill myself, and this was where I was going to do it. I wasn't much of a father, I wasn't much of a husband. Or at least hadn't been, for all of the three months I'd given it a shot. I wasn't even a very good drunk. But I could do this.

I staggered in, already half a bottle down. The foyer was carpeted a deep red, and I remember thinking about how vast the whole place was. Would I even be able to get a room? I stumbled a little, and found myself at the chicken desk. No sign of anyone. A small sign read back in eight minutes. I hit the buzzer once, twice, just as my finger was poised for the third there was a click.

A rush of voices slowly muted into static, and a woman's voice emerged. Room 127. I, ah, I hadn't asked yet. Did you want a room or not? I was so relieved at the fact I didn't have to talk for any longer, didn't have to try and mask the way my words were starting to slur into one another, that I just agreed. Sure. There was a noise behind me, and I turned to see a small bellboy in a strange little outfit

that matched the carpet. No bags, sorry. He shrugged. No problem. Cat got your tongue? He opened his mouth. mouth and pointed to the pink stub where his tongue should be. Shit.

There was a clink, and when I turned back to the desk, I could see my key dead center. Room 127. I tried to look around, but there was no one. Silence. I thought I'd make a stop at the bar, try whatever they had on offer before holding up in my room. Some sort of strange parting gift, watching the world around me. me, as I settled in to end my life. I must have looked to stay at, unshaven, stinking of booze and cigarettes, eyes red and puffy from crying, flex of vomit caked in the scraggly beard I'd

started to develop. I remember a few patrons giving me strange looks, a tall man relishing a scotch, clearly distracted by a woman in a white sundress, an old couple, a nervous-looking pair on a table on their own. The bartender was odd as well, wearing some sort of baby blue medical mask over his face. I slouched over the bar, trying my best to act sober, determined to at least have one drink here. He appeared in front of me, and as I was about to ask for a drink, he placed a tall glass of water in front of me. I looked at him for a while, trying to see if this was a hint, or an act of kindness he extended. extended to all his customers. I could see the bottle of Jack behind him, half full of amber liquid,

lit from below like a painting. The words began in my throat, a double a jack, please, but died before they made it out of my lips. Something stirred, a memory. Agnes's nativity play. I'd turned up late, had to find a seed at the back, made such a racket that one. one of the three wise men had forgotten his lines. I'd missed almost all of her part, but she still couldn't help but wave in that funny little lamb outfit. I remember thinking how much she looked like her mother, how much she smiled like me, lopsided and toothy. I wasn't even there for ten minutes when I tasted the jack I'd had for breakfast at the back of my throat mixed with hot bile and I felt my mouth start to fill with saliva.

My head spun. I vomited outside the school hall three times, vomited so hard that I popped a blood vessel in my eye. Too embarrassed to stay until the end, I'd walked the whole way home. She'd waited on the step outside for two hours in her sheep outfit, pinching her nose to hide the smell, telling her mom over and over again. that I'd come back. She was sure of it. I'd woken up the next morning without my coat behind a dumpster. I hadn't even thought of going back. The bartender still hadn't said anything. I spoke up

on second thoughts. And with that, I down the whole glass of water and made my way up to my room. I threw my coat on the floor and collapsed into bed. The bottle I'd stashed in my pocket winked at me. Made lewd suggestions whispered to me, but I held fast. I'd taken to counting the cracks in the ceiling when the phone rang. Shit, had I screwed up already. I ran through a thousand reasons why they might want me, and with a sense of dread, picked up the phone.

Call number one. I spoke cautiously. Hello. Who is this? A giggle. A child's giggle. Who's this? You called me.

The tone was light. Whoever they were, they were enjoying this. I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number. I've just checked in and I felt grief tug at my chest. And a flash of self-loathing ran through my mind. My throat constricted. And I thought if I talked any longer, I might cry on the phone.

To a child. I started apologizing. I'm sorry. I have to go. What's your favorite animal? The question was so direct. It took me a second to process it. It was so honest and so innocent that it cut through everything.

else. What was my favorite animal? I hadn't thought about that in years. Do adults even have favorite animals? Hold on, I'm thinking. The child on the other end tutted, but stayed on the line. I thought about when Agnes was two and we'd taken her to the zoo. One of her first words was monkey, although she'd pronounce it, Mungee, Mungee, she'd shout, whenever they came up to, the glass, whooping all limbs and fur with those funny faces and strange half-dances. Monkey. My favorite animal is a monkey. There was a sound on the other end, as if this child approved of my choice. Mine too. And we talked for a little while after that about monkeys and birds and cows and sheep, and I took the time to explain that we talked about, we talked for a little while after that,

that wool was actually made from sheep and that we actually got a lot of products from sheep that they might know. Milk, wool, cheese. I never knew kids were so damn talkative. When eventually it was time to go, I found that I didn't even have the energy to reach over to the bottle. Instead, I passed out in my clothes and with the lights on. Call number two. I awoke in the morning to another call, the noise cut through the half-dreams and drilled its way into my skull. My mouth tasted like a sewer and spots swam in the center of my vision, forming and reforming, like a private Roar Shock test. Stags, skulls, bottles, lambs. Hello? My voice was strangled, rasping. I heard the same laugh I'd heard before.

Who? And then it dawned on me. The child from last night, they dialed the wrong number again. Are you the kid from last night? There was a pause. Last night? Yeah, yeah, you called last night. We talked about a sheep or something. The voice took on a tone of gravity in the manner children use when they want you to know that this is serious and their emulation. every adult conversation they've ever seen. That wasn't last night. You called me a month ago.

My head pounded. I felt as if my scalp was pulled tight over a drum. I'm pretty sure it was last night, kid. I tasted the blood from the nosebleed I'd had at midday the day before. In fact, I'm certain. Are monkeys still your favorite animal? Hasn't changed. changed from last night.

Last month. I didn't know how old this child was, whether they even knew the difference between days and months. I thought I'd give them the benefit of the doubt. Yeah, sure. Monkeys are still my favorite. I've got a new favorite. Oh yeah? Yeah.

It's, uh... I could tell they were reading something mumbling the words to themselves a couple of times, before Finally saying it out loud. The fly chap. I couldn't help but smile. Venus flytrap. Yeah, that. It's not an animal, kid.

A noise of confusion, and then... Hold on. Let me get a pen. And like that, an hour disappeared that morning. I took the time to explain the difference, as far as I knew, between plants and animals. And I'll admit, the gray area can be a little dicey. I was so invested, in fact, that it wasn't until I hung up the phone that I remembered why I was there. It came back like an open wound.

The walls of my room seemed to grow, and the space in front of me grew emptier and emptier, filling itself with nothing until the emptiness had nowhere else to go, but me. That evening, the phone rang. This time I knew, at least partially, what to expect. Call number three. Hey. Hi. You haven't called for a while.

I checked my watch. Sure, for, I'd say, eight hours. Three months for me. There was a strange sort of acceptance in the statement. three months from me, excepted as only a child could, as if this strange out-of-sync time was just another fact to be learned, another quark of the world they were still discovering, and that sentiment was infectious. I found myself in this strange and vast hotel, accepting it too.

Three months. Sure. What's new? Not much. Mom's got a new boyfriend. I think she keeps putting on new perfume and I have to stay with Jenny. I could tell now that it was a girl's voice. Must be hard. Nah, really. Jenny's six. And she has a pool.

My days began to pass like that, with a call in the morning and a call in the evening. Sometimes months would pass for her, sometimes only days. But time stayed regular for me. I began to curb my drinking a little, trying not to slur my words when we spoke in the evening, and hoping to be at least a little alert in the morning. She was curious, funny, determined, smart. She didn't take no for an answer, and more than once she'd have me in stitches with the way she stood up to her teachers. I told her what little I could about my life, avoiding all the grim details, settling

with I live in a hotel. That seemed to be enough for her. I could picture the connection in her head. Man on the phone lives in hotel. I didn't know if she was a ghost, or a phantom of my imagination, some horrid trick conjured by marinating my brain for years in hard liquor. But I pushed the thoughts from my mind. There was something about the way she saw the world that helped me, I think.

Some wonder and amazement and things I'd taken for granted. I'd forgotten what it was like to go to the beach without half a week's worth of booze, forgotten what it was like to listen to an album for the first time, without the aid of dope or hash. I'd forgotten what it was like to talk to a friend, without either of you wanting something from the other. Call 18. Do you believe in God?

A bit. Me too. I began to think that this was the universe's way of offering me a lifeline, a chance for me to make up for being an absent father, by helping this girl, whoever she was, wherever she was, whenever she was. Call 22. I'm 12 today, voice. She called me voice because her mom told her never to give her name to strangers. I called her voice back, a little joke. Twelve.

That's right. Shit. Time flies. Did you just swear? Uh, no? Sure you did. It's fine, though. Mom swears all the time.

Swear as a people, too. Sounds like she has a lot on her plate. I think so. There was a pause. Hey, can I ask you a question? Shoot. How do you, you know, cheer a grown-up up when they're sad? She gets these moods, goes into her room for a few days at a time, won't talk.

It was a big question, and I took my time answering. I wanted to get the answer just right. I wanted, I realized, to help. Be there for her when she needs you, I guess. How do I do that? Tell her, you love her. Check up on her from time to time. I gave a bit more advice, and it was strange.

I was nervous. I wanted to get this right so bad, and I was conscious that this would be put into practice, that this wasn't just theory. I rambled for a while, and then she cut me off. Hey, I have to go. Thanks, though. It helped having a grown-up to talk to. Time passed so fast for her. Before I knew it, she was crying about her first boyfriend at 14, caught stealing gum at 15, and moaning about how her mom wouldn't let her drink at 16. Call 67.

You're sounding like my mom. I bit my lip. Look, voice. I was, am an alcoholic. I know what I'm talking about. It ruined my life. Just be careful, okay? You're an alcoholic? My chest grew tighter. Shit.

I was, sure, but for a second I thought she'd suddenly grown disgusted with me, grown angry at me, for being such a failure, such a screw-up. And yeah, I am. That's cool. Shit, no, not cool, but it's, uh, it's cool that you were honest. Gotta go. Call 72. I don't think drinking's for me.

Really? Yeah, I forgot half the night. Threw up on mom's new boyfriend's coat, twice. We laughed. It made me sad as well. like really sad. Like there was something rotten inside me and I couldn't get it out. I let this statement breathe for a while, thought about what to say next.

It does that. It does? Yeah. Until before long, there is something rotten. She fought for a moment. You're not rotten? This was my second chance. I was sure of it.

Although I could never make it up to my daughter, I could help her. Call 95. I got the job. Well shit. Look at you, a biologist. And it only took, what, five years at university? Hey, at least I've got a job. She had a point.

Call 127. Her voice was shaky, but calm. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Before she even spoke, I could hear something in the background shouting, a grinding electrical sound. I could tell she was holding back tears. I felt sick.

I felt sicker than I ever had drinking, and I hadn't touched a drop for weeks. A small tremor started in my hands. When she spoke again, her voice was shaking slightly. I tried calling you. You didn't pick up. This was the first call I got. I know. Don't worry.

What's wrong? The trip, the heli, malfunction, nothing we can do about a minute before impact. I'm not. I'm not going to make it. I saw it then. To you, it must seem so obvious. You must have known this whole time. Perhaps part of me knew, but didn't want to admit it, as if admitting it to myself, admitting

the fact that this voice was my daughter would ruin it, that I'd fuck it up like I'd fucked up so many times when I was actually with her when she was real, tangible, and not just a voice on the phone. Maybe I was scared that if I admitted it and she found out, somehow detected it in my voice, she'd tell me she hated me and leave me, tell me that she wished I'd have done what I came to do that first night in the hotel. It was Agnes. It had always been Agnes. I'd been drunk all her life the first time round, and I'd miss it. missed all the clues that might have tipped me off. Her mom, when she moved, the fact she never spoke about her dad.

She spoke up. I knew, Dad. And hearing her voice made my heartache and makes my heartache still when I think about it. Hearing her call me that, Dad, a word I wasn't sure I'd ever actually heard her say. This whole time, I knew. I tried to fit a lifetime of apologies in one sentence, in one mouth, and they came tumbling out as half words, sobs. I'm so sorry, Agnes. I'm so sorry I should have.

I wasn't. It's okay, Dad. We were both crying, and the noise in the background of her called. was getting louder, more frantic. 30 seconds. I love you. I've always loved you. You know that.

I'm so sorry. I haven't been. I'm not. I was never there for you. You were there. And it hit me then. I'd been a sort of father figure, sure. But I'd never actually thought I was doing it for real.

There was a scream in the back of. around. How did you know? What kind of daughter doesn't know the sound of their dad's voice? I love you. And then nothing but static. I left the hotel shortly after. I wasn't surprised in the slightest when they waived the fee of the room entirely.

And the knowing look of the staff made me think my suspicions had been correct. made known. I thanked them and made my way out the door. I passed liquor store after liquor store on my way to town, and despite wavering once or twice, I didn't enter a single one. I might never be the man she thought I was, but I can at least try. And I hope that wherever she is now, she can see me. And I hope that just before I join her, she taps the other spirits and whispers with pride. That's my dad. And he loves me.