Reentering the lobby the manager pointed to the staircase. He informed us that, in the old days, the stairs had been much wider and open all the way to the third floor. There had been stories that a bartender had died either throwing himself off or accidently falling from the third floor hallway all the way down to the lobby.
With that he led us up the stairway. The old, wooden steps groaned and creaked under our feet and echoed off the walls as we made our way past the second floor to the third. There had never been reports of paranormal activity on the second floor. It all seemed to center on the third.
The long, third floor hallway seemed to stretch on forever. Gouged and crumbling walls and ceilings exposed the building’s skeleton beneath. Our feet crunched over paint chips and other scattered debris as we made our way to the floor’s single bathroom. It was a long, narrow room with layers of dirt and rust staining the claw-foot tub. The small sink wasn’t any better. Obviously, the bathroom along with the other rooms hadn’t been used in decades.