My Airbnb Had One Rule: ‘Never Open the Closet at Night’—I Wish I’d Listened

Let me start by saying I’m not an idiot. At least, I thought I wasn’t.

But when I booked that Airbnb in the Colorado mountains last winter, I ignored the single bolded sentence in the house rules:

“DO NOT OPEN THE CLOSET IN THE MASTER BEDROOM BETWEEN 10 PM AND 6 AM. SERIOUSLY.”

I laughed when I read it. My best friend Jess had dared me to find the “creepiest possible” cabin for our girls’ trip, and this place delivered. The listing showed a rustic log cabin straight out of a horror movie—wood-paneled walls, a stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a forest so thick, sunlight barely touched the ground.

“Probably just some weirdo owner trying to be quirky,” I told Jess over the phone. “Or maybe they’re hiding a sex dungeon in there.”

We howled with laughter. Neither of us noticed the owner never replied to my joke about the closet.

The First Night

By the time we arrived, it was snowing so hard we could barely see the porch. The keypad lock clicked open, and the smell hit us first—like old books and burnt cinnamon. The house was freezing, but the owner had left strict instructions: “Do not adjust the thermostat. It’s set to 55°F for structural reasons.”

Jess elbowed me. “Structural reasons? What does that even mean?”

I shrugged. “Maybe the pipes freeze?”

We cranked the fireplace instead, ordered pizza, and drank cheap wine straight from the bottle. By midnight, Jess passed out on the couch. I stumbled to the master bedroom alone, my phone flashlight guiding me down a hallway that creaked like it hadn’t been walked on in years.

That’s when I saw it—the closet.

It wasn’t even a proper closet. Just a narrow, crooked door with a rusty padlock hanging open. The kind of door that makes you think, Nope, even when you’re sober.

But I wasn’t sober.

The Rule

The wine made me brave. Or stupid. Same difference, really.

I texted Jess: “Bet you $50 I’m opening the closet rn.”

She replied instantly: “DON’T. Not funny.”

That sealed it.

The padlock clattered to the floor. The door groaned like it hadn’t been opened in decades. My phone flashlight flickered—thanks, universe—as I stepped inside.

It wasn’t a sex dungeon.

It wasn’t a closet either.

It was a tunnel.

The Tunnel

The walls were dirt, held up by rotting wooden beams. Cold air rushed up from somewhere deep below, carrying a smell like wet fur and copper. My flashlight died.

“Jess?” I yelled, backing out. “This isn’t funny!”

Silence.

Then, from the tunnel—scraping. Like claws on stone. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer.

I slammed the closet door so hard the mirror above the dresser shattered.

The Thing

Jess found me in the kitchen, chugging tap water like it was holy.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” she said.

“Worse,” I whispered. “I think I heard one.”

We laughed it off. We’re millennials—we don’t believe in ghosts. We believe in bad Wi-Fi and student loans.

But at 2:37 a.m., the scratching started again.

Right under our floor.

The Truth

We left at dawn, no refund demanded. The owner’s five-star review called us “perfect guests.”

It wasn’t until I got home that I Googled the cabin’s address.

The first result was a 1982 newspaper headline:

“Local Family Vanishes from Remote Mountain Home—Police Baffled by ‘Tunnel’ in Bedroom.”

The second was a Reddit thread from 2021:

“DO NOT STAY HERE. The closet isn’t a closet. It’s a doorway. And something uses it at night.”

The Last Message

Jess still won’t talk about it. But last week, I got a text from an unknown number:

“You left the door open.”

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👉 Think you’d survive a night in that cabin? Let me know in the comments—I’ll send you the address. (Kidding. Maybe.)