Most people are intrigued by a good ghost story. Especially the ones that leave you wondering where the truth ends and the lies begin—and that's assuming there was ever any truth to them at all. But I'm here to tell you about a very real, true, and unexpected night I spent in a haunted hotel—well two actually.
As most spooky stories start, everything was happy, beautiful, and exciting in our world. My husband and I were on our way to the Masters Tournament in Augusta, Georgia, and to avoid dealing with overcrowding and overpriced hotels in the area, we had booked a stay at the cutest old-fashioned, bed-and-breakfast-style hotel in Abbeville, South Carolina. Located in a historic district, the hotel was adorable with string lights draped over an outdoor courtyard and a local, small-town style about it.
Upon arriving, I felt a shift in the energy. It was cute—on the outside—but looks can often be deceiving, can't they? We parked in the old lot on the backside of the hotel and made our way into the main lobby to check in for our stay. Known as the Belmont Inn, the quirky red-brink building was eccentric and certainly felt every bit as dated as a 1903 historic structure would.
Of course, we were exhausted from having traveled all day by plane and then car to arrive at our hotel and were ready to call it a night. The halls of the hotel were odd. Old carpet lined the floors. Despite its age, everything was well-kept and clean, though. We quickly turned in for the evening, locking the door, closing the curtains, and barely taking in our surroundings before falling fast asleep—GASP—the air felt like it was being sucked out of my lungs and out of our room. The panic I felt, startled awake by a tall man lying in between my husband and me in bed and then suddenly standing in front of the window looking outward. His stare was fixated on something beyond the glass, and I was baffled because the blinds had been drawn aside even though I knew for certain we had closed them before going to bed. I shrieked unable to form words.
Who was this man? What did he want? Why was he in our hotel room? How did he get in here? Why was he looking out the window? I had so. many. questions.
My husband jolted awake, him too horrified, but not because he could see someone in our room. "There-there-there was a man—" I stuttered. Confused, my husband fumbled to find a light to examine the room, which was small with nowhere to hide save the attached bathroom. No humans were anywhere to be found. Realizing who I'd seen was more than likely a departed spirit, I breathed a sigh of relief. We weren't about to be murdered in our sleep by a crazed killer—just casually haunted by a mysterious ghost that enjoyed spookily climbing into people's beds and staring out their windows.
My sleep the rest of the evening was restless. I felt disturbed, heavy, and sad more than anything. The next morning my husband was off to the tournament we'd traveled in for, leaving me alone at this strange little hotel to work on client projects from my laptop. I sat on the bed giving it my best effort to focus on my to-do list only to be abruptly interrupted by the television turning itself on to a grey static screen. Puzzled, I reached for the remote on the nightstand and clicked the power button to shut it back off.
Resuming the tasks at hand, I continued with emails, writing, and other pending projects, not making much progress as I was interrupted multiple times over by chilling shifts in the temperature, my laptop making an eerie crackling sound, and the faucet in the bathroom running by itself. I gave up on working and began rummaging through the room curious about the hotel we had booked our stay in.
The middle drawer of the dresser had an oversized binder with all kinds of helpful insights about the town: where to shop, where to eat, and most importantly—the history of the most haunted hotel in South Carolina. My jaw dropped. Had we really booked a stay in the most haunted hotel in the area unknowingly? I continued reading about dear old Abraham, one of the bellhops who helped build the original hotel, The Eureka, in 1903, and one of many ghosts whom people now claimed to see throughout the building.
After passing away, Abraham the bellhop continued to care for the hotel's guests as best he could from the other side. He was notorious for jingling the door handles to make sure guests were sleeping safely in their rooms as he would when he was alive. Described as a "friendly" ghost, I'd have to say that he was too friendly. The binder described Abraham as being known to appear in guests’ rooms, and sometimes even getting into bed with the guests. My mouth gaped at what I was reading of haunted legends of prior hotel guests experiencing exactly what I had the night before.
Disturbed, despite the claims of friendliness, I made my way out of the hotel for the day, finding other spots to hang out until my husband returned for our second night in the hotel. While I don't doubt that he believed what I claimed to have seen and heard—with no prior knowledge of the hotel's haunted status I might add—he still remained someone skeptical.
That evening, we enjoyed a dinner on the lower floor of the hotel before making our way up the stairs to our room on the third floor. Tonight, while there were no sudden visits from Abraham the bellhop, we still found ourselves awake all night listening to the clattering of dishes and the hustling and bustling noises of a busy kitchen that we assumed was fulfilling room service requests above our room. Groaning in exhaustion and frustration, my husband muttered his irritation for being booked in the one room directly under the noisiest kitchen one could imagine.
Trying to dismiss my own agitation, my mind wandered wondering how newer building construction navigated insulation, noise-proofing, and the like to mitigate such problems for their guests who nine times out of ten would be weary from their travels and simply looking for a peaceful night's sleep. This old, fragile, thin-walled building would soon be behind us if only I could manage to get some shut-eye.
The next morning, we got ready, packed up our things, and loaded into the car. Sitting in the sunken old parking lot and looking up at the strange little hotel, my husband tilted his head in confusion. "How many floors do you count?" He asked me. "One, two, three rows of windows...so three floors...and?" He stared at me, waiting for me to put the pieces together for what this meant.
Our room was on the third floor.
There was no floor above our room.
No kitchen or possible explanation for the stomping.
No explanation for the sounds of a busy kitchen, clattering dishes, or any of the other things we heard all night long.
We looked at each other and smiled.
The Belmont Inn really was haunted after all—and we had booked our stay there entirely by mistake.
Looking back, I wish I could offer help and hope to the departed spirits to help them transition onto whatever is next for them instead of continuing to worry about the hotel and its ghosts—but that'll have to be a project for another time.
Would you ever stay in a haunted hotel on purpose?