I never believed in ghosts. That was until I spent a night at the old Hillridge Motel.
I was on a road trip, exhausted from driving all day, and the motel was the only place available. The receptionist, an elderly woman with hollow eyes, hesitated before handing me the key to Room 306. Her voice was low when she said, "Don't open the closet."
I laughed it off, thinking it was some old superstition. The room was musty, the wallpaper peeling, and the air felt strangely heavy. Ignoring the unease creeping up my spine, I locked the door and collapsed onto the bed.
At exactly 3:06 AM, I woke up to the sound of slow, deliberate knocking. It came from inside the closet.
My breath hitched. Maybe it was the pipes or the wind. But then, I saw it.
The closet door wasn’t fully closed. A sliver of darkness peeked through, and in that sliver, something moved. A shadow, tall and thin, shifting unnaturally. My body froze as I saw fingers—long, twisted fingers—curling around the doorframe.
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
Then, the whispering started. A low, raspy voice that echoed in the room: "You shouldn't be here."
The door creaked open just an inch more. My heart pounded as the shadow slithered forward, stretching toward the bed.
I bolted. I didn’t grab my bags, didn’t look back—I just ran. As I yanked the door open and stumbled into the hallway, I heard the closet slam shut behind me.
The receptionist was waiting at the front desk, her expression unreadable.
"I told you not to open it," she murmured.
I never went back for my things.
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