The Motel Ghost: A Chilling True Story

My mother was awakened by a loud thump. As the owner and manager of a motel, she heard all sorts of peculiar noises at night, but this wasn’t in the parking lot or one of the rooms or the Sonic drive-in next door. It was in her house. She crept to our den, just off the lobby, where she saw a dark, wavering figure, standing unsteadily by the fireplace. Though the door which led outside was usually locked, on this occasion her loving but absentminded young son had forgotten to throw the dead bolt, and the door was open, so light from the motel sign outside streamed in, bathing the shadowy figure in ghostly luminance. “Get out,” my mother commanded the shape. It groaned, but voiced no words. “Go on, get out of here.” The spectral figure seemed uncertain. “You’re drunk," she insisted, "Get out, now.” The entity found his voice, and slurred, “Th-this ain’t my room?” “No, this is my house. You’re in room 107. Now git.” The confused guest belched a clumsy apology, and stumbled out. My mother slammed the door behind him and locked it, silently cursing her scatterbrained son, who, not two rooms away, drifted in ignorant slumber.

Image by antbrierley