Haunted Hotels: The Queen Anne

I took the elevator up to my room on the third floor. Wait, did I say elevator? I meant the Tower of Terror. Standing in the enclosed space of the vintage elevator, listing to the bone-chilling grind of the hidden pulleys, gripping the handle of my suitcase, I begin to get really nervous. And not the fun kind of nervous I experience while I'm waiting in the basement queue area of the Tower of Terror, preparing to load into the "elevator" ride, when the lights are buzzing in and out and the grind of machinery makes you second-guess the decision to ride. I am far from the safety of Mickey Mouse's world, where noises aren't recorded sound effects.

I take these stairs the rest of my stay.