 There's a historic establishment in upstate New York, known as Hotel Grossing. Built more than a century ago, it's listed troubling times that have given it some macabre distinction. The hotel served as an infirmary during the 1919 pandemic. It suffered a deadly fire that claimed multiple lives. There have also been over a dozen suicides, murders, accidental deaths, and disappearances on the grounds. So needless to say, the place has a haunting reputation that's largely flown under the radar. Information on the actual paranormal phenomena was scarce but what little I collected were accounts ranging from moving objects and disembodied voices to full bodied apparitions and physical attacks. I was always fascinated by the unknown. I've read dozens of books, explored several mysterious places, and am even part of a research team. This infatuation even influences my travel plans. I always looked up haunted spots to visit or stay when on trips, which is how I learned about Hotel Grossing. It happened to be right outside the town of a conference I was attending. So I booked a one night stay. The building was a towering pale yellow structure valiantly withstanding the test of time while preserving its old world charm. The front desk workers clearly weren't used to much foot traffic this time of year. They were two goofy 20-somethings with squinty bloodshot eyes who giggled and bantered back and forth for a full minute before being aware of my presence. Ah, it's okay. I said with a smirk while they scrambled to try and play off their obliviousness. Really can't say I blame you guys. When they eased up after my lax remarks, I asked them what they knew about the hotel's haunts and if either had any experiences. The taller, messier looking one whose name tag red Joe said he's been here for a few years and claimed to have only had minor occurrences like strange voices or moving shadows, but nothing too extraordinary. It seems everyone's experiences are different, Mike, the more well-kept and presentable looking of the pair said. If you talk to 10 different people who had something happen here, you'll get 10 different stories. When I told them about my involvement with paranormal research and asked if I could explore the hotel, they said the current owner was vehemently against acknowledging its haunted side and actively concealed any stories or accounts from the public eye. Now it made sense why information about this place's ghostly aura was so scarce. Isn't she related to someone who died here or something? Joe asked about the owner, to which Mike shrugged, saying it was a rumor. Maybe I'll ask her about it on my last day if I ever leave, Mike said, as he handed me my room key. But for now, I sorta like having a job. She wasn't there that night. They said I could check the place out if I was discreet and considerate of other guests. They even put me in an especially haunted room, 902, claiming previous guests have experienced strong smoky odors, spells of sweltering heat, along with hearing scratches, bangs, and muffled screams coming from the floor. Before sending me off, Mike and Joe told me some stories they heard from other coworkers, including a few about guests getting so spooked, they departed in the middle of the night. One person literally left all their bags and shit here, Mike said, causing him and Joe to break out in hiss-like chuckles. Never came back for any of it. While their stories were compelling, I initially wasn't sure how much I bought into everything they told me about hotel-grossing. Them being inebriated made it hard to gauge their sincerity, leaving me to wonder if their anecdotes were genuine or just ramblings of two board-stoners who found amusement at the expense of their guests' gullibility. To my disappointment, nothing unusual occurred over the three hours I spent snooping around hotel-grossing. Despite being armed with a digital recorder, Spirit Box, EMF Meter, and GoPro, my equipment didn't catch the slightest whiff of anything paranormal. I even spent a full hour in the stairwell outside the eighth floor, supposedly the hotel's most haunted, which has been closed off to the public for a few years and only heard the sounds of my own breathing. Mike and Joe weren't surprised. I said my night was uneventful when I saw them while heading back to my room. They did offer some encouraging words, saying the hotel's permanent occupants didn't come out every night and it gave me reason to return in the future. Again, it was hard to read these two giggly, clumsy oafs, but their comments and jesting attitudes further dissuaded me from believing there was anything mysterious about this place. I put most of my equipment away and got ready for bed. Immediately after an investigation, I usually run any recordings taken through a few different programs and apps on my laptop in case I missed something initially. Despite beginning that process, I was so demotivated it drained my desire to do anything more paranormal related that night. I set my recorder and laptop next to the nightstand's clock radio, whose glowing red number showed a time of 1.38 a.m. and drifted off without much issue. Waking from this particular slumber felt like exiting the deepest, longest sleep of my life. Expecting it to be morning, it was surprisingly only 4.08 a.m. There's no way. I muttered, checking my phone to confirm the time was in fact correct. Still very groggy, I fluffed my pillow while turning on my side. I was about to put my head down, but noticed another glowing red light on the nightstand that wasn't part of the alarm clock. It was my digital recorder. Was it recording? I grabbed the device, confirming that that was the case. The peculiar part was it hadn't been taping since I went to bed like I feared, but only for the last two minutes. Stopping the recorder, I stared at it in mystification while rewinding the audio. After finding no additional recordings, I replayed those two minutes it captured prior to my awakening. I heard nothing unordinary. Until the very end, a sibilant whisper that was uttered in under a second, squinting in confusion, I turned on the lamp, got out of bed, and retrieved a pair of headphones from my bag. Putting them on, I played back the recording and listened for that same sound which sent a sharp chill down my spine after hearing it more clearly. It was faint, but a voice distinctly murmured, a number, trembling. I replayed the recording another handful of times to make sure this was actually what I heard and not what I wanted to hear. The phonetics in my opinion were pretty apparent, and it sounded like a young woman's voice. I was reinvigorated by a wave of giddiness before regaining my composure and ponder what that number meant, deciding it must be a room here since it was pronounced 412. Breathing deeply, I began recording, alright, I'll bite. I said softly after a few seconds, am I supposed to go there? If there's something here, and that's what you want me to do, go to room 412, make a thump. When nothing happened after a few minutes, I stopped and rewound the recorder. Putting my headphones back on, I started listening. I didn't anticipate receiving a response that required the recorder to hear, which appeared to be the case until the audio's final three seconds. Thump. A deep, gravely voice, distantly hissed in a menacing tone. Gasping, I jumbled the recorder in my hands after what I just heard, reacting like someone physically whispered it in my ear. This EVP not only sounded different than the first one, but was much closer to the mic. I tried reminding myself this is what I came here for, but the giddiness and excitement was getting replaced with a looming sense of edginess and apprehension. I struggled to process the reality of what I just heard, leaning heavily towards staying in my room or even leaving this place. While contemplating my next move, as I gazed at the recorder's LED screen, however, the decision was made for me. Looking up from the device, I froze, immediately noticing something was amiss. I wasn't in my room anymore, but in the outside hallway? What the hell? Was all I could say was trying to rationalize how I wound up outside my room in the seeming blink of an eye. Trying to suppress an uncoming surge of panic, I slowly pivoted to face the doorway I stood in front of, confirming it was room 902. I tried opening the door, which to my dismay was locked, and found myself beginning to whimper while frantically sifting through my pockets. While doing this, a cold, heavy hand fell on my shoulder, causing me to shriek and spin 180 degrees. Pinning my backside against the door, I paned excitedly and wildly scanned the empty hallway. I must have stayed in that spot for 10 minutes, waiting for my limbs to stop ferociously trembling before making any attempts at moving. I dropped my recorder, which didn't appear to sustain any damage other than the headphone wires getting tangled. While unnotting them, I looked at the floor again and was initially filled with relief upon spotting one of those card-sized folders that held room keys. Thinking it must have slipped out of my pocket, I snatched a little folder which did contain a key card. It was when I read the room number written inside, 412, my elation instantly vanished. Alright, I said softly, taking a pair of steps away from my room door. I'm just gonna go along with it since I need to get a new key from the lobby anyway. Before stepping away from my room door, I finished untangling the headphone wires and took a 30 second recording. Despite not hearing anything, I shakily proceeded forward, keeping the recorder running until I reached the elevators, one of which was already open. After hearing nothing when I replayed the audio, I reluctantly stepped into the open carriage whose doors closed as soon as I entered. Without pressing any buttons, the elevator began to descend. Unsure where was going, a twisting queasiness formed in my stomach as I considered my current situation, confined inside the moving elevator of an allegedly haunted hotel that seemed to be operating independently. The elevator didn't move for too long and came to an abrupt halt that slightly jolted the carriage. I backed against the wall, dreading the possibility of actually being stuck. A few moments passed before the doors cracked open two or three inches, just enough to peer out into the hall. Before moving, I noticed something glowing alongside the elevator doors. Among the buttons indicating each floor, the number 8 was illuminated. I gasped while staring at the glowing 8 button before returning my gaze to the slightly parted elevator doors. I could barely make out anything from what I saw of the darkened corridor through the narrow opening. When I felt a draft coming from the hall that filled my nostrils with a dry musky aroma, it prompted me to start a new recording. Coming back up, I was about to ask aloud for some kind of sign, but screamed and jumped away from the doors after seeing what stood on the other side. A bald, blotchy skinned man, with a few drooping strands of white hair hanging from his skeletal misshapen head, had his face pressed against the small opening and stared at me maniacally with unnaturally large, bulging eyes. He had a pointy chin and beak-like nose, along with a wide deranged smile that flashed his stained jagged teeth. It looked like he hadn't been in sunlight for months, and the tattered, grimy rags he wore made me think this might be a squatter or junkie. I stayed against the wall, using the handrail to support my weak-shaking legs when the man's lips began moving. He made no sound, but continually moused something for about ten seconds before pulling his face away and disappearing into the pitch darkness. Before I could even react, the elevator doors shut and the carriage resumed moving, after which I noticed the panel's Circular 4 button was now lit. When the elevator arrived at the fourth floor, I remained inside, rewinding the newly captured audio. Putting my headphones on, I replayed the recording, noting the sounds of my screams indicated when my encounter with that crazed man begins. At first, all I heard were my frenetic breaths, until another voice began repeating the same phrase, you're the key, you're the key, you're the key, you're the key. The voice spoke abnormally fast in a raspy high pitch tone, sounding desperate and intent. It took a few replays to pin down exactly what the EVP said, and I was further unnerved after acknowledging how precisely the audio coincided with that crazed man's lip movements. How couldn't I hear him with my own ears, but the recorder did without issue? The elevator lights started flickering, which was enough to get me out of the carriage, a sign showing how the floor's room numbers were directionally divided, indicated I had to go towards rooms 400 to 439. The fourth floor's elevators led to a hallway lined with windows on my left and rooms on my right. I started a new recording as I counted the number on each door and zeroed in on 412. I approached a turn in the hall, where a pair of vending machines were tucked in a corner formed by two intersecting corridors. A noticeably tall woman stood in front of the vending machines, looking like she was deciding what to purchase. Although she had her back to me, I noticed something was off about this person. She looked very ratty, with dark, knotty, frazzled hair, soggy-looking skin, and wore baggy clothes, cargo pants, a hooded sweatshirt, long overcoat that were different shades of brown, black, and gray. The most peculiar detail about this woman was the sickly yellowish tint that seemed to coat her skin, hair, and even clothes. She probably wasn't even staying at the hotel I thought and must have managed to slip in unnoticed. Given the apparent ineptitude of those two front desk workers, this wouldn't come as a surprise. I glanced at my recorder, but paused when I saw it wasn't taping. Although I remember pressing the record button moments ago, it stopped after just five seconds. Persing my lips in frustration, I rewound and replayed the recording while rounding the hall's turn. Two words were spoken by a gargled, muffled voice that made my stomach sink. Turn around. I wish I hadn't, but I did out of instinct. The woman now faced me, but was bent backwards in a disturbingly unnatural posture. Her arched body resembling an upside-down you. Her mouth hung open like she was frozen mid-screen, and although I only saw her for a split second, it was her eyes that paralyzed me with terror. She didn't have actual eyes, but two small mouths that looked to have been stitched over her sockets. The hallway lights went out for a brief moment, temporarily shrouding my surroundings in darkness. I scurried back from the vending machines in response to the eerie sight as the lights came back on, revealing the woman had vanished. I nervously mumbled to myself while backing away, reiterating this is what I came here for, not pivoting, until I put a good distance between myself and that corner. Despite constantly looking over my shoulder, I focused on trying to find room 412, going up and down the intersecting hallway before returning to the vending machines. I wondered if I was missing something or even counting properly. The rooms in this stretch of hallway were 413 to 439. From the elevators to the corner, they went from 400 to 411. I rechecked about a dozen more times, but a room 412 was nowhere to be seen. Holding my head, I walked up and peered out the window alongside the vending machines that overlook the hotel parking lot, holding the supposed key for room 412 in one hand and my digital recorder in the other. I shrugged and started a new recording. Room 412, I said softly, trying to be mindful of any sleeping guest. Where the hell is it? While standing adjacent to the vending machine as I silently held the recorder, something about the section of wall they were in front of caught my eye. I started making out what looked like a vague, vertical, rectangular impression through the striped reddish-pink wallpaper. The longer I observed this irregularity, what I was staring at became clear. Is that a door? Yes, it was definitely a door I thought, shaking my head affirmingly. The wallpaper was laid over this doorway, with the two vending machines placed in front clearly intended to keep it concealed. I stopped and rewound the recorder, ready to replay and listen for any EVPs, when a noise coming from behind me caught my ear, giggling, turning. I spotted a pale, crouching shape peeking out from one of the doorways, roughly twenty paces from where I stood. The figure made deep, heaving chuckles and snickers that it swayed in conjunction to, barely sounding like it could have been made by a human. After seeing I noticed it, the figure slowly crept into view, whose appearance made my blood run cold. It was that crazed man from the eighth floor. Seeing him entirely, I guessed he must have been around my height. He had frail, lanky limbs and mottled skin containing a slight reddish-green tint. The tattered clothes he wore were covered in dark stains and littered with holes, looking like they hadn't been washed in months. He stood at an awkward angle and continued rocking erratically, before charging in my direction. I instinctively put my arms out in a vain attempt to shield myself from the oncoming maniac. Stumbling backwards, I quickly lost my footing and fell in between the two vending machines, widening the slim space amidst them as I landed in a seated upright posture. I crawled back another couple of inches until my back hit the wall, feeling certain I was about to face a gruesome demise at the hands of this deranged fiend. Some seconds passed and I realized the only sounds I heard were my own terrified cries. Lowering my arms, I was astonished to see an empty hallway before me that, after my screams finally ceased, was yet again deathly quiet. My heart pounded rapidly and I waited until I regained some control of my fiercely shaking limbs before trying to stand. A thunderous bang then came from my backside, the single knocks vibrations going right through me as I sprung up and leapt out from between the two vending machines. I quickly noted the deafening boom came from that door the vending machines were positioned in front of, which is when a thought occurred while sprinting down the hall that made me stop dead in my tracks. How could that door, I thought, have something behind it? It was on the side of the building that overlooked the parking lot. I dared not look back and I raced to my room, blinded by my fear-induced panic to realize the door was now cracked open. I hastily packed my belongings in under two minutes, taking the elevator again wasn't happening so I lugged my bags down the stairwell. While speed walking through the lobby, I heard the two front desk workers chuckling. So, did you find what you were looking for? Joe called out sarcastically, who I ignored, remaining intent on getting out of this building. Everyone's experiences are different. I heard Mike say right before bursting through the front doors. A few months passed over which the trauma from my horrifying experience still felt fresh. I had since distanced myself from anything paranormal, having come to terms that I definitely got more than I bargained for at hotel grossing. I thought about that night frequently and for some reason wasn't overly surprised when I received a package from the hotel. This reminded me, I still had the key that supposedly went to room 412, which I held on to by accident and never got around to discarding. Perhaps I was too afraid. The package contained a handwritten note in my digital recorder. Through everything that happened, I actually forgot about losing my recorder which I remember dropping during my encounter with that crazed man on the fourth floor. The letter read, Mr. Mora, along with this note, please find your digital recorder. It was discovered under a vending machine on the eighth floor and identified as being yours by two of our employees. It appears to still be in working condition and did not suffer any damage. On behalf of the team here, I would like to offer our sincerest apologies for your abrupt departure and hope you will give us another chance in the future. Everyone's experiences are different at hotel grossing and we want your next visit at our establishment to be one you'll never forget. We hope to see you soon. Signed, Julie B. Ashoff, general manager. As the letter promised, my recorder was fully functional. A creeping uneasiness began to enshroud me when I saw it contained a single three second recording. Despite everything telling me to delete it and move on, I found myself rewinding and playing back the audio. It was a crackly, creaky clip through which I heard three words whispered in a weak, plaintive voice that truly makes me wonder what's behind that hidden door. Let us out.