I was the only one working the night shift… so who checked in Room 409?

I’ve been working night shifts at a small roadside hotel for about two years now. It’s one of those places off the interstate that looks like it’s been “under renovation” since the ‘90s — faded carpets, buzzing neon vacancy sign, vending machines that still take quarters. It’s quiet most nights, which is exactly how I like it.

Last Thursday was normal. Maybe five guests total, all truckers and one family passing through. My manager left around 10:45 p.m., and by 11, it was just me, the front desk computer, and a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt dirt.

Around 1:30 a.m., I was halfway through balancing the register when I heard the ding from behind me — the sound the keycard dispenser makes when it issues a card.

That’s weird, because I didn’t process any new check-ins.

I turned around. The lobby was completely empty.

I checked the system, thinking maybe someone booked online, but there it was: Room 409 – ACTIVE. Guest name: Walter D. Price. Check-in time: 1:13 a.m.

Except I never entered that reservation. And there’s only one person on shift overnight — me.

The weirdest part? Room 409 hasn’t been in use since before I started here.

The previous manager told me it was “under maintenance,” but the truth is, a man died in there about six years ago. Heart attack in his sleep. He was a regular — stayed once a month, always polite, always alone. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I remembered the name when I saw it pop up on the screen.

I decided to check it out, thinking it was just a glitch. Took the master keycard, went up to the fourth floor.

The hallway felt colder than usual. The motion lights flickered on one by one as I walked down, and when I got to 409, the door lock light was already green — like it had been unlocked. I pushed the door open.

The room was… perfectly set up. Bed made. Suitcase by the wall. Shoes lined neatly next to the nightstand. There was even a half-empty bottle of water on the desk, still cold. The air smelled faintly of aftershave.

I checked the ID tag on the luggage.

WALTER D. PRICE.

There was a toothbrush in the bathroom, toiletries lined up just so — like someone had been staying there for a few days. Everything looked brand new but slightly outdated, like items from another decade.

I backed out, heart pounding, and called the manager. He didn’t answer.

So I went downstairs and pulled up the security feed.

At 1:13 a.m., the system shows the door behind the front desk opening on its own.

The keycard machine ejects a card. The air ripples slightly — like heat distortion — then nothing.

No person. No movement.

I printed the log and stapled it to a note for my manager. When he came in that morning, I told him everything. He looked exhausted, like I’d just told him something he already knew.

He went upstairs, checked the room himself, and came back pale. Said it was empty. No luggage. No nothing.

He deleted the guest entry from the system without a word and told me to “forget about it.”

That was three nights ago.

Tonight, when I clocked in, I noticed something new on the guest list.

Room 409 – RESERVED.

Arrival: 1:13 a.m.

Guest: Walter D. Price.