Brian Sigley (4:34)
I'm Clive Williamson, husband, father, retired investment banker. A routine man with a routine life for the most part. But what happened to me back in 52 in the mountains of Colorado? Well, there was nothing routine about that in the least. June 1st, I'll never forget. It was when my wife, Eleanor and I first arrived at the Stanley Hotel. Maybe you've heard of the place. A palace in the heart of the mountains, sitting like a grand old monarch overlooking the town of Estes park below. Turns out it had quite the history. And as I soon found out, it also had a fair number of guests who were, well, not of the living persuasion, if you catch my drift. But I didn't go there because I wanted to waltz with ghosts or anything of the sort. No, I went there because my wife was dying. The doctors in Albany had done everything they could for her respiratory condition, but nothing seemed to help. So she'd waste away a little more each day, growing paler, frailer, until I could barely recognize the vibrant woman I'd married. And each night, as the coughing fit settled in, I prayed she'd simply make it through until morning. Then one of her physicians suggested the mountain Air, specifically, that in Estes park might do her some good. The whole concept seemed rather antiquated for my sensibilities, Victorian even. But at that point I was desperate enough to try anything. Money was no object for me, not after decades of careful investments and good fortune. So when I called to make our reservation, I requested their finest accommodation. And the booking agent didn't hesitate. Room 217 was the presidential suite, having previously hosted Franklin Roosevelt himself. It was perfect, she assured me, offering both luxury and breathtaking views. What she failed to mention was what else that room might offer. But don't let me get ahead of myself. We planned to stay for six weeks, perhaps longer if Eleanor showed improvement. And as our driver navigated the winding road up to the hotel, I watched my wife press her pale face against the window, taking in the stately Georgian facade with childlike wonder. Already her cheek seemed to have a hint of color, and I allowed myself a moment of cautious optimism. The entrance to the Stanley was as grand as I'd expected. Wide wooden steps led to a spacious porch lined with rocking chairs, though as we approached the entrance, I noticed something odd. One of the chairs, larger than the other, was gently rocking back and forth. A breeze, I assumed, though the air felt surprisingly still. The lobby was a marvel of dark wood and period furniture. A grand staircase swept up at one end and an antique Otis elevator stood at the other. The original Stanley Steamer automobile sat prominently on display below a portrait of a gentleman with a pointed beard fo Stanley himself, I presumed. The front desk clerk welcomed us warmly, but I noticed how his smile faltered slightly when I mentioned we'd be staying in room 217. But I convinced myself I was overthinking things and followed him as he led us up the stairs. When we finally entered the room, Eleanor gasped with delight. The suite was enormous, elegantly decorated with floral wallpaper and plush furnishings. A massive four poster bed dominated the room, and the bathroom featured a claw footed tub large enough for two. But I was most impressed with the view. Our two large windows offered a panoramic vista of the mountains, and to be perfectly honest, it was stunning. Our first night passed uneventfully. Eleanor slept better than she had in months, while I remained awake somewhat longer, feeling the effects of the altitude. The thin mountain air seemed to play tricks on my senses, as several times I thought I heard footsteps in the hall outside our door. But when I listened more carefully, there was nothing. By the end of our first week, there was more color in Eleanor's cheeks than I'd seen in months and her cough, while still present, had lessened considerably. But while Eleanor got stronger, I felt in an odd decline. I started noticing things, small at first, like items that moved when we were out of the room. My shirts would appear hung up in the wardrobe when I knew for certain they'd been in my suitcase. I'd go down for breakfast, and upon returning, I'd find the shirts packed back neatly into my suitcase. Even though I'd requested no service, I neglected to tell Eleanor about any of this, of course. Her health was improving considerably, and I'd noted her appetite returning with vigor. It was nothing short of a miracle, and soon she had enough energy for us to explore the hotel grounds and the surrounding area. The days were glorious, I must say, but the nights, they were a different animal altogether. About two weeks into our stay, I was reading in bed with Eleanor asleep beside me, and it's the strangest thing. I heard the distinct sound of someone tidying the room. I looked up, expecting to see one of the hotel staff, but the room was empty, save my sleeping wife and me. Yet the sounds continued. The soft clink of Eleanor's hairbrush being set down on the vanity, the rustle of clothes being hung in the wardrobe, the whisper of a cloth wiping dust from surfaces. I called out, asking if someone was there, but received no response. Yet the sounds continued for several more minutes before ultimately fading away. I might have dismissed all of this as altitude induced paranoia if not for what happened. The following night, I was awakened by the sensation of the mattress depressing between Eleanor and me, as if someone or something had climbed into bed with us. I reached out, expecting my hand to pass through empty air, but instead I felt something solid yet intangible, almost like touching extremely cold gelatin. I recoiled instantly and sat up, fumbling for the lamp. But as light flooded the room, I found nothing at all except an odd depression in the mattress that slowly faded away. Eleanor, fortunately, slept through the entire incident, and when I mentioned it to her over breakfast the next morning, she laughed softly and suggested that perhaps I needed some of her medication to help me sleep. The mountain air, she teased, seemed to be affecting me rather than healing me. And perhaps she was right. Certainly there had to be a logical explanation for these odd things I was experiencing, and the altitude seemed the most likely culprit. But for every negative effect it might have had on me, it seemed to have a positive one on Eleanor. She was flourishing, and I was reluctant to disrupt her recovery with my potentially imaginary concerns. But the incidents continued and even intensified. One afternoon, while Eleanor was Taking tea in the music room downstairs, I returned to our suite to retrieve her shawl. But as I entered, I noticed a large pitch black spot on the floor. I approached cautiously, fearing it might be a hole of some kind. But when I reached it, my foot met solid floor, and as I knelt down to touch the spot with my finger, a wave of ice cold swept over me and I felt myself growing dizzy. I left the room quickly, and when I returned later that afternoon, the spa was gone. That night, I was awakened by the sound of children playing in the hallway. It was nearly three in the morning, and their laughter and running footsteps echoed as if they were right next to me. And after 20 minutes of the racket, I finally got up, put on my robe and went to the door, intending to speak to them or to their parents. But when I opened the door, the hallway was empty and silent. I even walked the length of the corridor, looking for any open doors, but there was nothing. The next day, I approached the front desk and discreetly inquired about families staying on our floor. The clerk checked the register and informed me that there were in fact no children staying at the hotel at all. But I knew I'd heard children. It was unmistakable. Rattled, I retreated to the hotel's bar, where I ordered a whiskey despite the early hour. But as I sat nursing my drink, worried that the altitude was causing some kind of mental deterioration, I couldn't shake the feeling I was being watched. And though I scanned the room and realized I was alone, that feeling persisted. Then gradually, I became aware of a figure reflected in the large mirror behind the bar. A distinguished looking gentleman with a pointed beard, wearing a dark suit of a distinctly old fashioned cut. I turned to see who this person was, but there was no one standing where the reflection indicated. Yet when I looked back at the mirror, there he was, watching me with an expression of mild curiosity. As I stared, he nodded slightly, as if acknowledging me, then turned and walked toward the end of the bar before simply vanishing. Shaken, I got up to leave. But as I was stumbling towards the stairwell, I noticed a framed photograph on the wall. A photo of the very man I'd just seen reflected in the mirror. It was F.O. stanley, the builder of this hotel. A man who'd been dead for more than 10 years. And as I stared at the photo, dumbfounded, I realized that all the strange occurrences I'd experienced weren't figments of my imagination or effects of altitude. No, the Stanley Hotel was haunted, and its spirits seemed to have become very aware of me. Foreign.
