stairwell.mp4 (Transcript)

[Archivists note: The following has not been edited from its original transcript. Any potential typos and/or improper uses of grammar have been left untouched. Author(s) unknown. Originally published on 01/07/2025. Posted here: 21/07/2026]

The footage begins in a fire escape stairwell.

An off-kilter angle of a concrete wall, captured by a shoulder-mounted GoPro at 30 frames per second. The camera turns to face a weighted door, then raises slightly to give us a view through a chicken wire window. There’s a plain looking hotel hallway on the other side. Greenish-brown carpets and beige walls.

“Okay,” says the cameraman. “Rolling on the Fairview Hotel stairwell.”

The camera lowers as he steps back from the door and turns to the stairs leading upward. It’s a typical fire escape stairwell. Buzzing fluorescent lights, gray concrete walls, green EXIT signs, a red handrail.

“You idiots said I couldn’t do this without a Guide,” the man continues. “Well here I am.” The voice belongs to Steven, surname unknown. A male in his mid-twenties. The camera is mounted to his left shoulder, so we can estimate his height to be somewhere between 6’0” to 6’2”.

Steven ascends the staircase. When he reaches the next floor, he leans over the rail, giving us a view of the way down, ten floors. He straightens up, and turns to show us the floor number, a spray painted red stencil next to another weighted door.

10

He kneels down, hoisting a hiking pack off his back. He unzips the bag and begins rifling through. The footage is blurry here, shaky, but if you pause at select frames, you can see: a dozen or so portable cellphone batteries. A box of protein bars. A space blanket. And at least three tin mint containers, each one a different brand.

He digs a notebook out, cracks it open, and starts flipping through. We can only see the top half of its pages, but it’s filled to the margins with bizarre instructions. One of the standouts:

Do your best to avoid the mother who is searching for her lost child. If she calls out to you for help, do not run. You are now obligated to calm her down (you can lie to her, but make sure you’re very good at lying if you go this route). Once she is calm, she will give you permission to leave. If you fail to calm her and she begins screaming and/or weeping—then you will have no choice but to run. You may encounter several different variants of this lesser anchor, and—

(the remainder of the note is out of frame)

“Okay...” Steven flips through a few more pages, then reads aloud to the viewer: “go up to floor 14, take the fire escape on the opposite side, don’t let staff see you, go back down to floor 10. Every floor will now be floor 10. Easy.”

Steven treks his way up to floor 14, but he’s barely three steps into the hallway when the footage cuts ahead. He’s back in a stairwell, camera angled toward a stenciled “11” on the wall. We aren’t sure how much time has passed, but Steven seems out of breath now. “Okay, I’ve tried seven times and no luck. Maybe I’m not—”

Again, the footage jumps ahead. It hasn’t been determined if these cuts are glitches or intentional edits. Regardless, we now see a stenciled “10” on the concrete wall. Steven wanders down one flight of stairs, down to floor 9 and... he freezes. Where there should be a stenciled 9, is now another “10”. He is unmoving and silent for 7 seconds.

People often experience shock when they encounter something truly unexplainable. It’s one thing to spend countless hours on internet forums discussing conspiracies, watching “paranormal” videos etc. But to actually go through it firsthand —it’s an experience that can’t be shared through words alone.

“Okay...” Steven half whispers. He hurries back up the stairs he just walked down, and sure enough:

10

“Okay.” Steven repeats.

He turns, looking down the flight of stairs, angling his body to ensure that we can see there’s still a 10 down there as well. He pivots back.

10

Both floors are floor 10. “Ten...” his voice cracks. The footage jumps forward once more (I should note another leading theory for these cuts is the idea that the deeper into Old House one goes, the less reliable digital based recording becomes, hence the push to analog media).

Steven passes yet another 10, “and...” he says, “This should be the lob-”

He only gets partway through the word “lobby” before hurling a breakfast of half-digested protein bars onto the concrete. The initial wave of stunned shock has finally given way to the realization that he is actually standing in a so-called Old House “Foyer”. He hurls again, this time covering the camera with his hand, perhaps to spare us the view.

The footage cuts ahead.

We are facing Steven now, the camera detached from its shoulder mount, resting on a spotless concrete floor. A low angle. Steven sits in the stairwell corner, forearms resting on his knees, the soles of his hiking boots framing either side of the foreground. He wears a waterproof camo jacket and navy blue cargo pants.

As stated before, he’s a twenty something male. A demographic well known for being stupid and reckless. He has an olive complexion, dark brown curly hair, and faint stubble on a well- defined jaw. He looks nothing like the conspiracy lunatic one might expect. He lets out an exhausted sigh, frightened, but doing his best to hide it.

“So I’ve gone...” he checks his notebook, “down 325 floors.” He leans forward and lifts the camera. Here we catch a glimpse of his left palm, there’s a blotchy red birthmark visible. He points the camera at a stenciled marker. Of course, it’s another:

10

He turns the camera back to himself, an uncomfortable close up in the harsh fluorescent light. “Tens...” he says. “All the way down.” He sets the camera down once more, angling it up towards him. We can only see the bottom half of his face now. He forces a smile, still trying to put on a brave exterior for whatever website he had planned to upload this footage to. “Three more to go and we are in.” His voice falters. “We are IN.” He pushes off his knees to stand, trudges over and reattaches the camera to its shoulder mount, and—

The footage cuts ahead.

It’s another closeup of a chicken-wire window on a fire escape door. The image is blurry, focused on the wire grid, but warm light and dark brown walls can be seen on the other side of the glass.

“This is it,” says Steven. “Floor negative 328.” (I must note here that this does NOT mean he has reached the so called “Deepest Cellars”. The Old House archivists’ communities would be all over me if I didn’t emphasize this.)

Steven pushes through the weighted door and steps into a rather unremarkable hallway. Think of any 2.5 star highway hotel and you’d be close enough. Brownish walls. Tan carpets with abstract patterns from the 90’s era of design. Warm spotlights alongside every door. Ordinary, in every sense of the word. Look a little closer though, and you might notice the lack of room numbers.

Steven, with his feet still firmly planted in the stairwell, leans forward and peers left. In this direction the hallway ends about four rooms down. He looks his right. The hall goes for ten rooms then hooks to the right.

He steps back and lingers, still standing in the stairwell. Looking up and down at the doorway ahead of him. This doorway is what the OHA community refers to as a “One-Way Physical Hatch”—once you step through it, there is no going back (unless you wish to free fall into the Deepest Cellars). You must push your way forward until you reach a so-called “Exit Hatch” or, at the very least a House of Refuge.

One minute and thirty seven seconds go by until Steven finally

whispers, “Fuck it,” and steps into the hallway. “Jesus Christ . . .” He sounds like an astronaut who’s just taken the first step onto Mars. He looks back over his shoulder. The stairwell behind him appears exactly as it always did. But if he were to step back through that door he would soon find himself in a place far worse than the darkest imaginings of hell (or so the stories say). He takes a moment to collect himself, then pushes rightward down the hall.

“Okay... we’re okay... this is okay... ”

He slows at the corner and dares a look around. More hotel hallway. It stretches for another eight rooms, ending with a fire exit (Note: this is NOT an Exit Hatch). Six doors down, a pot light flickers faintly.

“Okay. Flickering light,” he murmurs, likely recalling more instructions from his notebook.

He takes another deep breath, reaches into his backpack and produces a mint container. He pops it open. It’s not filled with mints, it’s filled with pills. Pale orange, with center indents for splitting. On the underside of the lid, in Sharpied scrawl: 

propranolol

A beta blocker designed to lower blood pressure and reduce heart rate. He pops two of them, tucks the container away, and continues forward. At the flickering light he slows to a stop in front of a door. It’s the only room with a number: 1047. And it’s open, just a crack. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door fully open with a clenched fist.

He flicks on a light to reveal just about exactly what you’d expect to find on the opposite side of a hotel room door: a 300 square foot hotel room. Walls and carpet that more or less match the hallway outside. Two queen-sized beds, each one perfectly made.

The window blinds are drawn shut.

He steps forward and looks to his left, into the bathroom. Cold light, plain white walls, linoleum tile and a shower/tub combo. “Okay, shower curtain is open,” he observes aloud. “And it’s a baby blue plastic curtain on metal rings. Which means I go to the phone.” He turns from the bathroom, and drifts deeper into the room. “Don’t look out the windows... call the front desk.” Yes, he is narrating for the viewers, but it also seems that talking to the camera is keeping him sane, or at the very least distracted.

He picks up the phone, dials “1” and brings it to his ear.

The voice of a young woman immediately answers, “Front desk,” she says, “can I put you on hold?”

Click.

Music plays through the phone speaker. A meandering saxophone supported by Roland keyboard chords, and an uninspired swing beat on MIDI drums. (Though the waiting music sounds rather plain at face

value, many who hear it, myself included, find it eerily familiar. Like it was a song they had heard in their childhood, and long forgot. The source has never been found.) The music continues playing, a maddening loop. Ten seconds go by, twenty, thirty. And with each passing moment, Steven grows increasingly nervous, shifting his weight, scratching at his neck until—

“Thank you for waiting,” the woman’s chipper voice replaces the music. “How can I help you?”

“Oh thank God... ” Steven exhales, almost like he’d been holding his breath that entire time. “I would like to check out.”

“On the phone... ? You’ll need to come to the front desk for that.”

A response that Steven clearly did not expect. He hesitates before speaking again. “Uhhh... I would like to check out?” He repeats, likely reciting the line from his notebook.

“I can’t do that over the phone. We’ll need your card to reimburse incidentals and... what room are you?”

Again, he says the line, like a one-trick pull string doll: “I would like to check out...”

“I understand that, but I need to know what room you are.”

A long silence. Steven finally answers, “ . . . T-ten forty seven.”

On the other end, we can hear the click-clack of typing, the young woman humming. It clocks by for five, six, seven seconds until she finally says, “Hm... that’s odd...”

Another moment of silence and then, with her voice barely above a whisper, the young woman says: “You’re in the wrong house, Steven.”

“W-what? No... I’m, I...” The fear in his voice is unbridled now. “I would like to check out,” he repeats. “I would like to CHECK OUT. I WOULD LIKE TO—”

The phone cuts out, a single continuous beeping tone on the other end.

“Fuck... FUCK...”

Steven barely has time to panic before a short scraping sound echoes from the bathroom. Quick and high-pitched, metal scraping against metal. The sound of a shower curtain being pulled shut.

He spins around. Camera locked onto the bathroom doorway. Now we can see in the mirror, the shower curtain has been pulled shut. Even watching the footage, you can almost sense a malevolent presence standing on the other side. “F-fuck this...” Steven drops the phone and reaches for the window blinds but stops halfway. Don’t look outside.

He swivels back to the room, the shower curtain still pulled shut. He’s damn near hyperventilating now. He slaps himself across the face three times, slows his breathing. He stands there for a good while, steadying his breath, likely building up his courage. All the while the camera is still focused on that bathroom mirror, the baby blue shower curtain. “Okay... ” He takes three more deep breaths, like he’s about to jump off a cliff, and then in a quick blur, he barrels out of the room and yanks the door shut in his wake. He speedwalks down the hallway, towards the fire escape, constantly checking over his shoulder and—

Yet again, the footage cuts ahead.

He moves briskly down that same familiar hallway. It is un- known if this is a different floor. We also have no idea how big this time jump is. Some say hours, some say days.

Regardless, he is clearly searching for a so-called “Exit Hatch”. Trying every door handle as he goes. They’re all locked. Cursing under his breath, he rounds the corner and—

“Hello?” A voice calls out from behind. Steven stops in his tracks, then slowly turns around. A woman stands about three rooms down. She is middle aged, with round glasses and curly black hair. She wears blue jeans, and an untucked plaid shirt. She looks concerned, in a mildly irritated kind of way. “Have you seen a kid run past?” she asks. “About ye tall.” She holds out her hand a little above waist height.

“I... uh...”

Steven almost sounds starstruck in a dark sort of way. This is the infamous (redacted) Lesser Anchor. An entity that appears in various forms throughout Old House. Usually it’s simply a mother searching for her lost child. To deal with her, you must keep her calm until she gives you permission to leave. Do not run from her. Do whatever you can to keep her from high levels of stress. And, as the comment in Steven’s notebook warned: if she starts weeping or screaming, run.

“You good?” the woman says.

“Yeah, uh... I saw your kid.” Steven lies. “She went that way...” He motions around the corner.

She studies him, skeptical. Her eyes land on his oversized backpack, then flick back to him. “You going hiking somewhere?”

“Hiking? No... I’m—”

“Mind helping me search for my kid then?” She starts to walk closer. Steven takes a step back. “Uhhh sure,” he says.

“You said she ran that way?” She motions at the corner. “Yeah...”

“After you...”

Steven turns away and starts down the hall, the woman in tow. They round the corner and halt. From about 6 rooms down, a man approaches. The OHA community has taken to calling this man the “Hotel Manager,” likely because he is dressed and acts like a hotel manager. Clean shaven head, khaki pants, and a baby-blue button up with a brass name tag (a name tag that has nothing written on it).

Steven looks over his shoulder as the “Hotel Manager” draws near. He clearly has no idea what to do. The Manager stops about ten feet away and smiles grimly. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

We can’t see the woman’s reaction, but we can hear her voice from camera left. “Sorry about what?” The Manager’s gaze shifts to Steven, then back to the woman, “Oh, did Steven not inform you?”

“Inform me?”

Again, the manager looks at Steven. He prods, “Could you please tell her what you saw?”

“What I...? I don’t, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Manager lets out a regretful sigh and looks down at the floor, his eyes flitting back and forth across the abstract patterns. He looks up, clears his throat and, with point-blank bluntness, says, “I’m sorry to inform you ma’am, but your child is no longer with us.”

Pin drop silence follows. The moment borders on darkly humorous in its abruptness. Like something straight out of an absurdist nightmare.

“Excuse me?” the woman finally responds. “No longer with us? What—what does that even mean?”

“We tried what we could,” The Manager shrugs. “But we could not save her.”

“W-what? Where is my...” she stumbles forward into the frame, catching the wall for balance. The Manager hurries over to help her up, but she shoves him away, “This... this is a joke, this is, where is... what is this?”

“I’m so sorry ma’am, but if you’ll come with me.” He tries to grab her arm, but again she shoves him away, breath quickening. “Where the FUCK is my daughter?!”

Steven finally stammers out a pathetic attempt to de-escalate, “He’s lying. Your daughter is... she’s s-safe?”

The Manager glances at Steven, a neutral expression on his face. (Some claim there is a faint smirk at the corners of the Manager’s mouth here, but in all three of my viewings I could not see it.)

The mother tries to stand but crumples to the wall again, sliding to her knees. Her world collapsing in on itself, “No... no... no... no—”

Steven turns to leave and—

The footage cuts forward. Steven is running for his life. Hauling up the fire escape stairs three at a time, breath heaving in and out. Behind him a bizarre sound is in close pursuit. A single rising tone, the pitch getting higher and higher without resolve. There’s a debate as to whether or not this sound is organic or digital. In my recollection it sounded vaguely guttural as if being made by a human throat. Regardless, Steven continues his frantic ascent, the strange sound getting louder until—

The footage cuts ahead for the last time.

It’s another blurry shot, this time looking straight up at the hallway ceiling. Completely motionless. Nothing happens until 2 minutes and 58 seconds in—at which point, somewhere off to camera left, the sound of a fire escape door opening. Uneven footsteps follow, staggered breaths drawing closer and closer. “Steven” stumbles into frame (there’s a fierce debate as to the precise identity of this person, many refer to him as Steven 2, but I prefer “Steven”). He rests a hand on the wall, looming over the camera, tired breath fogging in the air.

“Steven” is almost unrecognizable. Twenty pounds lighter at least. The shape of his skull is clearly visible in his emaciated face. And he’s wearing different clothes, khaki pants and a baby-blue button up with a blank nameplate. The shirt is spattered with dots of blood.

He looks down at the camera, eyes filled with a resigned, but deep-seated horror at what he sees. He crouches down, and the camera lurches leftward in a slow, heaving movement. “Steven” has pushed whatever body the camera is attached to onto its side. A limp hand falls into frame, resting against the frayed carpet. There’s a blotchy red birth mark on the palm.

Then, just like the Andrew Melvin interrogation, the footage infuriatingly cuts to black.