The Night I Slept in a Haunted Guesthouse — And What Followed Me Home

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Not in that town

Not in that guesthouse.

And certainly not that room.

But road trips are unpredictable, and when you’re chasing sunsets with no real plan, sometimes you end up spending the night in places you’d rather forget.

This guesthouse was in a quiet village off a forgotten highway. The nearest proper hotel was another 40 miles away, and the rain had started coming down in sheets. My car was nearly out of gas. When I saw the flickering “Vacancy” sign on a rusted gate, I turned in without a second thought.

It was old. Too old.

The kind of building that felt like it had memories — not just walls.

🌫️ Check-in: Cold Air and Warmer Warnings

The woman who checked me in said almost nothing.

No smile, no small talk.

Just handed me the keys and said, “Room six. Don’t open the window.”

I thought she meant bugs or maybe security. But there was something about her voice — low, firm, like it wasn’t a suggestion.

Room six was at the far end of a narrow hallway, where the lights buzzed overhead and the floor creaked like it didn’t want company.

Inside, it smelled like mothballs and old newspapers. The bed was firm, the curtains heavy. But what got to me most… was the silence. Not peaceful silence — but the kind that hums. The kind that feels like it’s listening.

🕰️ The Night Things Shifted

I tried to sleep.

I turned off the light, pulled the blanket up to my chin, and stared at the ceiling. Rain tapped the windows. The wind howled once or twice. But around 2:17 a.m., the atmosphere changed.

First, the air grew cold — not like bad insulation, but suddenly and unnaturally cold.

Then the silence broke.

There was a knock.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

Just… slow and deliberate.

Three taps.

I froze.

“Probably someone else,” I whispered to myself.

But no footsteps followed. No doors creaked open or closed. Nothing.

I stayed in bed. Wide awake.

Until I heard it again.

Three taps.

But this time… it was the window.

The one the woman told me not to open.

🪟 The Window and the Figure

Against every instinct I had, I approached the window. The curtains were thick, but there was a faint glow behind them — like someone standing outside with a lantern.

I slowly, carefully, pulled the curtain back just an inch.

And I saw her.

Not a full face.

Just the side of one — pale skin, long black hair, mouth slightly parted, eyes that didn't blink.

She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking through me.

And then… she smiled.

A slow, crooked smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

I stumbled back, dropped the curtain, and didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

🌄 Leaving — But Not Alone

At sunrise, I packed fast.

When I checked out, the woman at the desk didn’t ask how my stay was.

She just stared at me and said:

> “Don’t take anything that isn’t yours.”

I drove off with shaking hands and didn’t stop until I reached the next town. But the weird part? That night, in a completely different motel, I heard the knock again.

Three taps.

On the window.

The window on the second floor.

I didn’t look.

I didn’t sleep.

🧳 What Followed Me Home

In the weeks that followed, I felt… watched.

Mirrors in my apartment caught shadows that shouldn’t be there.

My cat refused to enter my bedroom.

One night, I found dirt under my bed — fresh soil, like someone had walked in from outside.

And always, always, at 2:17 a.m. — I’d hear tapping.

Sometimes at the door.

Sometimes at the window.

Never loud.

Always three times.

💭 Reflection

I didn’t believe in ghosts. Still don’t — not in the traditional sense.

But I believe in energy. In presence.

In places that hold onto pain… and people who don’t leave, even when they should.

That guesthouse — whatever history it had — wasn’t empty.

And when I entered room six, I wasn’t alone.

I took something with me. Or maybe… something took me.