The Underground Tunnels of Woodward: Truth or Tall Tale?

Let me start by saying this: I ain’t proud of what I did, but if it keeps one of you young folks from crawling where you don’t belong, maybe it’s worth putting in ink.

 

This happened in the summer of 1983—back when the States Hotel still stood empty as a drunk’s promises. The brothel had been shut down for years, and folks whispered more about the ghosts inside than the girls who used to work there.

 

I was seventeen. Dumb as a box of rocks and twice as curious.

 

There were rumors, of course—every kid in Woodward knew them. About a secret tunnel under the States, built for… well, no one ever agreed on that part. Some said bootleggers used it.

 

Others swore it was for preachers sneaking in and politicians sneaking out. My buddy Travis said it led to an old dentist’s office across the street where a guy once pulled teeth without Novocain.

 

We never figured out the facts. But one night—we found the door.

 

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The Cellar

 

It was behind a rusted water heater in the hotel’s basement, hidden by what looked like a chunk of busted drywall and a tangle of coat hangers. Travis kicked it in, and we saw the steps. Narrow. Stone. Damp like a well.

 

We brought a flashlight. Just one. Rookie mistake.

 

We started down, laughing at first. The tunnel was maybe five feet wide—brick-lined, musty as old books, but real. Real, like seeing Bigfoot in your backyard holding a Slim Jim.

 

About thirty feet in, the air changed. It got… heavy. Still. Like the kind of quiet that hums in your ears.

 

That’s when we found the chair.

 

It was just sitting there, in the middle of the tunnel—one of those wooden hotel chairs with the red velvet seat. Covered in dust. 

 

Facing the wall.

 

And next to it? A pair of women's shoes. Heels. Tiny. One tipped on its side.

 

I said we should turn back.

 

Travis said, “You scared of a chair?”

 

We should’ve turned back.

 

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What Happened Next

 

We kept going. The tunnel bent to the right, and then… it didn’t feel like we were underground anymore. The walls were different—closer together. The air was wrong. It smelled like perfume and bleach and mildew all at once.

 

Then the flashlight started flickering.

 

Now, this part you can believe or not, but I heard something.

 

High heels.

Clicking.

Slow.

Coming toward us from the far end.

 

I told Travis we had to leave. He laughed—until we saw the shadow. It moved toward us. No footsteps. No sound now. Just movement.

 

We ran like hell. He dropped the flashlight. I didn’t stop for it.

By the time we made it back up to the basement, the door had swung shut. Slammed, actually. No breeze. No explanation.

 

We busted out through the back stairwell, hearts pounding like we’d outrun the devil himself.

 

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The Lesson

 

Two weeks later, Travis stopped talking to people. Said someone was whispering his name at night through the floorboards. He moved to Amarillo and never came back.

 

As for me—I never went near that place again. They turned it into a clinic in ‘85. Fixed it up real nice. Kept that old marble staircase, I heard.

 

But if you ever find yourself down in the basement—for God’s sake, don’t move the drywall.

 

And if you ever hear heels clicking in the dark?

 

Don’t look back.

 

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Moral of the Story?

 

Some tunnels are meant to be left alone.

Some doors were sealed for a reason.

And in Woodward, Oklahoma, just because something’s a legend… doesn’t mean it’s a lie.