The Ghost of Room 205

It was the summer of 1985 when Lisa, a recent college graduate, landed her first job as a receptionist at the historic Crestwood Hotel in Pennsylvania. The hotel, a towering Victorian structure built in the late 1800s, was known for its elegant architecture—and its darker, whispered legends.

Room 205 was infamous among the staff. Guests often reported strange occurrences: whispers in the middle of the night, taps on the bathroom mirror, and even the sound of faint sobbing. Management dismissed the stories, chalking them up to overactive imaginations. But the staff knew better.

Lisa, curious and skeptical, asked her coworker Maria about the rumors. Maria hesitated before sharing the tale.

“In 1932, a young woman named Eleanor stayed in Room 205. She’d fled to the hotel to escape her abusive fiancé. No one knows exactly what happened, but one morning, her body was found hanging from the bathroom ceiling. Some say it wasn’t suicide, but murder. Ever since, guests have reported strange things. They say Eleanor’s spirit never left.”

Lisa laughed it off. Ghosts weren’t real—were they?

A few weeks later, the hotel was unusually quiet. Lisa was assigned the night shift, covering the front desk alone. Around midnight, the phone rang. She picked it up, expecting a routine inquiry, but instead, there was only silence. Then, faintly, she heard a woman’s voice whisper, “Help me.”

The call disconnected.

Lisa felt a chill but tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was a prank. She checked the caller ID: Room 205. Her heart pounded. That room was unoccupied.

Summoning her courage, Lisa grabbed a flashlight and the master key. She climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor, her footsteps echoing in the silent hallway. When she reached Room 205, the air felt colder, heavier. She knocked. No answer.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was immaculate, just as housekeeping had left it. But the atmosphere felt oppressive, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air—Eleanor’s favorite perfume, according to the legend.

Lisa scanned the room with her flashlight. Nothing seemed out of place until the beam landed on the bathroom mirror. Scrawled in condensation, though the room was ice cold, were the words: “He found me.”

The door slammed shut behind her. Lisa screamed and fumbled with the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. The air grew thick, and she felt an invisible hand brush against her arm. A chilling sob echoed through the room.

Finally, the door flew open, and Lisa bolted down the hallway. She never worked another shift at the Crestwood Hotel.

Years later, the hotel was closed and converted into apartments. But the tenants of the unit that had once been Room 205 reported the same eerie occurrences: phantom calls, whispers, and the faint scent of lavender.

To this day, some say Eleanor’s spirit still lingers, forever trapped in the room where her life was stolen.