I travel a lot for work, always alone. I’m a creature of habit, and that includes my hotel routine: check in, unpack just enough, and never order room service. It’s overpriced, usually mediocre, and I prefer to grab something quick downstairs or from a local spot. This particular trip landed me in the “Historic Grand Hotel” in a mid-sized city known more for its business parks than its charm. It was an old place, all dark wood and hushed carpets, with a faint, musty scent that spoke of forgotten eras.
On my first night, I was deep into emails when a soft knock sounded at my door. Confused, I opened it to find a young bellhop standing there, a silver cloche-covered tray balanced expertly on his arm.
“Room service for 312?” he asked, his voice low.
“I didn’t order anything,” I replied, frowning.
He checked his slip. “Three scrambled eggs, well done, with a side of white toast, dry? For a Mr. Abernathy?”
“Definitely not me,” I said, shaking my head. “My name’s Smith, and I didn’t order breakfast at 10 PM.”
He looked flustered. “My apologies, sir. Must be a mix-up. Happens sometimes in these older hotels with the system.” He offered a small, apologetic bow and wheeled the cart away. I shrugged it off. A minor inconvenience, easily forgotten.
The next night, I was already in bed, half-asleep, when another knock jolted me awake. This time, it was closer to 1 AM. I groaned, throwing on my robe.
“Room service for 312?” It was a different bellhop, older, with tired eyes. This time, the scent of something sweet and cloying wafted from the tray.
“Again?” I sighed. “I didn’t order anything.”
He consulted his slip. “One slice of lemon meringue pie, extra whipped cream, for a Miss Eleanor?”
My brow furrowed. “Miss Eleanor? No, you’ve got the wrong room. My name is Smith, and this is Room 312.”
The bellhop blinked slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Room 312, yes. The order came through for 312. And the name… Miss Eleanor.” He paused. “Are you sure, sir? Sometimes guests use… aliases.”
“I assure you, I am not ‘Miss Eleanor’ and I didn’t order pie at one in the morning.” My voice was sharper than I intended. He looked at me for another second, a strange, hesitant look, before nodding and retreating. This wasn’t just a mix-up anymore. It was getting weird.
The third night, I was on edge. I kept my phone by my side, ready to call the front desk. I even placed a chair against the door as a ridiculous, psychological barrier. Around 3 AM, the knock came again. This time, I didn’t open the door immediately. I crept to the peephole.
It was the first bellhop, the young one. He looked directly at the peephole, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. He seemed to know I was there. He held a tray, and from beneath the cloche, I could smell something metallic, coppery. My stomach churned.
“Room service for 312,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of the previous night’s apology. “One glass of warm milk, and a freshly sharpened letter opener. For Mr. Abernathy.”
My breath hitched. A letter opener? And the same “Mr. Abernathy” from the first night, but with a new, unsettling request. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. I just stared through the tiny lens, my heart hammering. The bellhop remained perfectly still, tray held steady, his gaze fixed on the peephole, as if he could see my terrified eye through the tiny aperture.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The air in my room grew cold, prickling my skin. I suddenly felt utterly, horribly alone in that old hotel. This wasn’t just a mistake in the system. Someone, or something, was using my room number to order these bizarre items for non-existent guests. And the items themselves were getting more specific, more unsettling. A letter opener?
After what felt like an eternity, the bellhop finally sighed, a sound of almost profound weariness. He turned slowly, the tray still perfectly balanced, and began to walk away down the silent hallway. I watched until his form vanished around the corner.
I didn’t sleep at all. I sat in the armchair, lights on, staring at the door, listening to every creak and groan of the old building. The moment dawn broke, I was at the front desk.
“I need to check out,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Immediately.”
The desk clerk, a polite, older woman, looked at me with a mild surprise. “Oh? So soon, Mr. Smith? Was everything to your liking?”
“No,” I stated firmly. “No, it wasn’t. There have been repeated, strange room service deliveries to my room for people who don’t exist, requesting… unsettling things.”
The woman’s smile faltered. She typed something into her computer, then looked up, her expression changing to one of faint concern. “Room 312, you said?”
I nodded.
She leaned in, lowering her voice slightly. “Mr. Smith… Room 312 hasn’t been booked in over a year. It’s currently undergoing long-term renovations. No one should be staying there.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. The blood drained from my face. “What?”
“Yes, sir. It’s been closed off for quite some time. We use the third floor for storage mostly. There’s no one in Room 312, and certainly no record of a ‘Mr. Smith’ checked in there.”
My mind reeled. If I wasn’t in Room 312, where was I? And who had been bringing those orders? I remembered the bellhops’ expressions, the second one’s strange gaze, the young one’s direct stare at the peephole. They weren’t confused. They knew.
I didn’t wait for her to finish. I grabbed my bag, which I hadn’t even unpacked fully, and practically ran out of the hotel, leaving the “Historic Grand” behind. I never looked back. To this day, I can’t stay in old hotels. And the thought of Mr. Abernathy’s eggs, Miss Eleanor’s pie, and that freshly sharpened letter opener, still makes my skin crawl. What exactly was being ordered, and for whom, in that empty, silent room? And more terrifyingly, who was I to them?
