The antique vacuum cleaner groaned like a tired beast as Michelle pushed it down the long hallway of the Americus Windsor. Dust motes danced in the sliver of moonlight filtering through the boarded-up windows. Her partner, Ben, trailed behind, his flashlight beam bouncing off the faded floral wallpaper.
"Room 401 again, huh?" Ben muttered, his voice echoing in the stillness.
"Yeah," Michelle replied, her voice barely a whisper. Ever since the incident last October, a cold dread clung to this particular corridor. It was the day she heard the voice – a child's voice, clear as day, calling out, "Mommy?"
Reaching 401, Michelle shut off the vacuum. The sudden silence pressed down on them, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the old hotel settling. Ben nudged the door open with his foot, revealing a room bathed in an eerie, greenish moonlight.
"Sarah said they haven't touched this room since the last investigation," Ben said, stepping cautiously inside.
Cobwebs draped from the dusty chandelier like tattered mourning veils. A rocking chair sat abandoned in the corner, swaying ever so slightly, despite the lack of a breeze. Michelle shivered, a prickling sensation crawling up her spine.
"Okay, Shadow Chasers comin' at ya," Ben said, his voice shaking a little. He switched on the EMF reader, the digital display flickering to life with a faint green glow.
Michelle pulled out the spirit box, a small device which scanned radio frequencies, allowing for supposed spirit communication. Taking a deep breath, she spoke into the static-filled speaker.
"Emily, are you here?"
Silence. The air grew thick, the temperature dropping several degrees. Ben bumped the EMF reader against the doorframe, and the green glow intensified. Michelle's heart hammered in her chest.
Then, a whisper. Barely audible, a child's voice drifted from the corner, carried on a wave of icy air.
"Mommy..."
The rocking chair creaked violently, rocking back and forth with an unnatural rhythm. Michelle and Ben exchanged a glance, a look of raw terror dawning on their faces. The spirit box erupted in a cacophony of white noise, punctuated by another chilling whisper.
"Lost..."
Michelle stumbled back, tripping over the vacuum cord. The spirit box clattered to the floor, the disembodied voice cutting out like a dying radio station. Adrenaline surged through her, drowning out the cold.
"We gotta get out of here," she rasped, scrambling to her feet.
Ben nodded, his eyes wide with fear. They didn't need any more evidence. They knew what haunted room 401 – and it wasn't friendly.
Bursting out of the room, Michelle slammed the door shut with a resounding thud. They didn't dare linger. The hallway echoed with their pounding footsteps, the rhythmic thump-thump of Michelle's heart a counterpoint.
Reaching the end of the corridor, they rounded the corner and nearly collided with Sarah, the co-owner of Shadow Chasers. Relief flooded Michelle, momentarily eclipsing the terror of the encounter.
"What's wrong?" Sarah asked, her brow furrowing with concern as she took in their pale faces and frantic gasps.
Michelle took a shuddering breath, managing to croak out, "Room 401… Emily… it's not good, Sarah. Not good at all."
Ben, usually the more composed of the two, simply pointed back down the hall, a tremor in his hand. Sarah, a seasoned investigator, understood the unspoken message. Her own eyes widened.
"Did you get anything on the recorders?" she asked, her voice losing its usual confident edge.
Michelle shook her head, unable to meet Sarah's gaze. The image of the rocking chair, its empty seat swaying back and forth, burned into her mind.
All of a sudden, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence. It came from further down the hall, the direction of the lobby. Michelle's blood ran cold.
"That's… That's not us," Ben stammered, his voice tight with fear.
Without another word, Sarah lunged forward, leading the way down the hallway. Michelle and Ben followed close behind, a knot of dread tightening in their stomachs. The playful ghost-hunting banter was gone, replaced by a terrifying reality. Whatever haunted the Americus Windsor Hotel, it wasn't interested in polite conversation. It craved something far more sinister.
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