Something keeps calling the front desk asking for Room 112

I work night shifts at a mid-tier hotel — you know, the kind that sits right off the interstate and smells like coffee, carpet cleaner, and lost hope. My shifts are 11 p.m. to 7 a.m., which basically means I babysit an empty lobby and listen to the building breathe.

Nothing much ever happens. Until recently.

For the past three weeks, I’ve been getting calls from rooms that don’t exist.

The first call

It was around 2:40 a.m. — that strange dead zone of the night when time stops meaning anything.

The phone rang.

When you work the desk long enough, you can tell what kind of call it’s going to be just by the tone. Guest complaint? Internal call? Telemarketer somehow getting through the PBX? This one was different.

It wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from inside the hotel — extension 305.

When I answered, there was only static for a second, and then a voice. Low. Muffled.

It said,

“Connect me to Room 112.”

I told them we don’t have a Room 112. Our rooms start at 201 — lobby level, then floors above that.

They just repeated it, a little clearer this time:

“Please connect me… to one twelve.”

Then the line went dead.

Checking Room 305

The next morning, I checked our log.

Room 305 hadn’t been occupied in over a week. The cleaning staff had signed off on it days earlier.

Still, I went up to look. The bed was made, lights off, door locked. No signs of anyone being there.

But the phone — the one by the nightstand — had the receiver slightly off the hook, just enough to break the connection.

I hung it up and left.

It kept happening.

After that, the calls started coming more often.

Always around the same time: between 2 and 3 a.m.

Always from different extensions.

And always the same voice:

“Front desk… connect me to Room 112.”

Once it came from 218 — a room I knew was empty because I’d checked the guest list myself.

When I called back, it rang twice before someone picked up.

I could hear faint breathing. Then static.

When I said, “Who is this?”

the voice whispered,

“Are you still there?”

and hung up.

The system check

Our phone software lets you trace every active extension. When I searched for “112,” nothing came up.

It didn’t even exist in the system.

But when I tried to dial it manually, the line connected.

Static. Muffled hum. Faint rustling, like sheets moving.

Then a click.

And a whisper — low and close, like someone leaning right into the receiver:

“Don’t let them call again.”

I dropped the phone.

Maintenance

I told my manager the next morning, but he brushed it off as “crossed lines” or “old wiring.” The hotel’s been here since the late 70s, so that’s not impossible.

But I found out something from one of the older housekeepers today.

She’s been here for 30 years — longer than anyone. When I mentioned “Room 112,” she went pale.

She told me the original building did have a 112. It was on the first floor, back before the renovation in ‘94.

That wing got sealed off after a fire.

One guest — a man traveling alone — was found in 112, burned beyond recognition. They never identified him. The room was destroyed and rebuilt into the staff laundry.

There hasn’t been a “Room 112” in almost thirty years.

Last night

I tried not to think about it. But when the phone rang at 2:13 a.m., my stomach dropped.

The caller ID just said: “112.”

I let it ring.

It kept going — fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty times — before stopping.

A few seconds later, every phone in the building started ringing at once.

The office. The housekeeping line. Even the lobby courtesy phone.

All flashing the same extension.

112.

When I finally picked one up, the line was completely silent.

Then, slowly, faint static built up again, forming words:

“Front desk…”

“You never transferred the call.”

The phones haven’t worked right since. The tech says the wiring’s fine, but the lines keep resetting around 2 a.m. every night.

I stopped answering after last night.

But sometimes, when I’m sitting here alone and the lobby’s quiet…

I swear I can still hear one phone ringing.

Just one.

From somewhere in the walls.

Hey everyone,

Didn’t think I’d be posting again. I figured my first story was enough weirdness for one job. But after what happened last night, I can’t stop thinking about it.

The phones are worse.

The building feels wrong.

And Room 112 shouldn’t exist — but somehow, it does.

The calls got louder.

Since my last post, the phones have been ringing every night between 2:00 and 2:30 a.m. It used to be one or two rings from a single line. Now it’s all of them.

Every. Single. Line.

Housekeeping. Kitchen. Guest rooms. Even the fax machine.

Every screen flashes 112 as the source.

I started muting the front desk phone, but it doesn’t matter.

Even muted, I can hear it vibrating against the counter, shaking so hard it moves.

Maintenance checked again.

I had our maintenance guy, Eddie, come in after hours to check the wiring. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t scare easy — used to be military, works night shifts like nothing phases him.

He crawled down into the maintenance tunnel behind the front desk where the phone lines run. Said it smelled weird — “like burnt dust and cold air.”

Five minutes later, he came back up, pale and sweating.

He said there’s a phone line still active behind one of the sealed concrete walls.

The same wall that used to lead into the old first-floor wing — the one with Room 112.

I checked the system.

Around 3:00 a.m., I logged into our reservation software. I don’t even know why. Maybe I wanted to see if there was any trace of that number, or maybe I just wanted to prove it wasn’t there.

But it was.

Room 112.

Right between 111 and 113.

Status: OCCUPIED.

Guest Name: [DATA CORRUPTED]

Check-in Time: 2:09 a.m.

Check-out: Pending.

No rate. No payment info. Just an old file icon where the details should be.

When I tried to click it, the system froze for a few seconds and then showed a message I’ve never seen before:

“Call in progress.”

The sealed hallway

I probably should’ve called my manager, but instead I grabbed my flashlight and went to the old service wing. There’s a “Maintenance Only” door behind the ice machine on the first floor. I’ve walked past it a thousand times, never gave it a thought.

The padlock was already broken.

Inside was a narrow corridor, stripped bare, the air thick with dust and the smell of old smoke. Wallpaper peeled in long strips. You could still see faint numbers painted on the doors — 108, 109, 110…

And at the end of the hall — a blackened door with a tarnished brass plate.

112.

The door handle was melted, fused into a warped clump of metal. But there was a phone cord — newer than everything else — running under the door and disappearing inside.

Then my walkie crackled to life. Eddie’s voice, panicked:

“Get out of there. Right now. The phones are lighting up again — all of them.”

And sure enough, I could hear it.

Through the door.

A shrill, muffled ringing, coming from inside Room 112.

When I got back

By the time I reached the lobby, the phones had stopped.

The display on the front desk phone just said:

CALL ENDED — DURATION: 00:04:12

I never answered it.

But somehow, I’d been on the line.

I checked the reservation system again this morning. Room 112 is gone. Like it was never there.

But when I printed the night audit report, there was one line of corrupted text at the bottom of the page.

ROOM 112 — OUTGOING CALL — FRONT DESK — 2:09 A.M.

Thing is, that’s the same time the guest in 112 died back in the fire.

Exactly to the minute.

I think I’m going to quit.

But before I go, I want to see what happens if I answer the next call.

If I do, and something picks up on the other end —

I’ll post one last update.

If I don’t…

well, maybe check the reservation list.

See if there’s a new name in Room 112.