The Tragedy Of The Batesville Hotel

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."—Edgar Allan Poe

It was a bitterly cold and rainy day in late September when I found myself driving along a solitary country road leading to the Batesville Hotel, nestled in the Canadian province of Alberta, in the year 1935. The elements—inclement weather, poor visibility, and an impassable road—had hindered my progress and delayed my arrival at my ultimate destination: the city of Edmonton.

The hotel was located on the hillside of a valley, beneath towering mountains and surrounded by deciduous pine and evergreen trees near the thermal springs and cascading waterfalls. I was impressed by the hotel's architecture as I entered its grounds via a long, narrow passageway, scarcely visible from a distance.

At the front gate, an attendant politely assisted me and parked my vehicle at the rear of the building. Eager to escape the biting wind and chill of autumn that had numbed my ears and feet, I hurried inside.

Once within, Mr. Reginald Bates, the proprietor, greeted me warmly and escorted me upstairs to my room, where I had planned to spend the night before continuing to Edmonton the following morning. The hotel’s massive structure was imposing, with at least three hundred rooms and six floors. From my room, I marveled at the scenic view of the surrounding chalets and log cabins.

"I’m glad you decided to stay the night, Mr. Tanner," Mr. Bates said. "The hotel is nearing the completion of its renovation, and you are our first guest since the refurbishments. We’re holding our grand reopening tonight. We expect more guests to arrive soon, but it’s been a while since we’ve hosted an American. Where are you from originally?"

"I’m from a town in the New England region."

"New England, you say. Fascinating! I’m an Englishman by birth, but I’ve lived in this part of the country for decades now."

"I’m very grateful for your hospitality. The weather didn’t allow me to continue on to Edmonton."

"I’m always happy to help. I hope your stay is comfortable," he replied. "Of course, you’re invited to tonight’s festivities in the ballroom. We have an American jazz band playing—straight from New Orleans, I believe."

I hadn’t expected other guests, given the treacherous weather, but I was curious to see who might brave the storm. My room was located on the second floor, and to my surprise, the room number was 222. Years ago, I’d had an unsettling experience at a hotel in Toronto—where I’d discovered a dead body in a room with the very same number. Though not a superstitious man, I felt a strange twinge of unease as I stared at the familiar numbers, etched in dark lettering on the door.

The sensation unnerved me briefly, stirring unpleasant memories. Shaking off my discomfort, I decided to explore the grand interior of the hotel. The elderly concierge, Mr. Lockhart, told me that the hotel was built in the 19th century as one of Canada’s grand railway hotels. Constructed in the Scottish Baronial style, it first opened to the public on June 1, 1890, under the esteemed Bates family.

I admired the sweeping staircase in the lobby, the interior staircases flanking the gallery, the grand reception hall, open hallways, the vast ballroom, ornate candelabras, chandeliers, and oil lamps, as well as the beautifully appointed banquet and reception rooms.

I found the use of oil lamps—rather than electric lights—peculiar, but Mr. Lockhart explained it was a temporary measure until the other guests arrived. I could hardly complain, as I was being treated with the utmost courtesy as a guest.

Despite the cold outside, the crackling fireplaces provided ample warmth, and the daylight filtering in was enough to enjoy my leisure. As I wandered the halls, I noticed little evidence of modernization. If there were any updates, they were imperceptible to my eye.

What did stand out was the lavish Victorian decor and priceless antique furniture in each room. Yet, there was an undercurrent of something peculiar—something I couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was my overactive imagination, fueled by fatigue and the relentless rain. After my impromptu tour, I dined in my room and rested, hoping to renew my energy after the long journey.

I was roused about an hour later by the noise of car engines and the sound of voices outside. Peering out, I saw guests arriving despite the storm. It must have been close to eight o’clock, and the sunset I’d glimpsed earlier had given way to complete darkness.

I had missed the famed twilight that locals often praised in this remote area. Daylight here was brief in autumn, offering only a fleeting comfort before surrendering to night. Still intrigued by the hotel's art gallery, I ventured out once more—and was suddenly confronted by a terrifying apparition.

Before me stood a ghostly woman, her glassy eyes sorrowful and her expression exquisitely haunting. She wore a black and white Georgette crepe dress and pearl earrings, dressed as if for a grand occasion.

In a chilling whisper, she said, "Beware the evil of the hotel!"

And then, just as swiftly, she vanished into the gallery. I searched the hallways, the reception room, the banquet hall, and the ballroom, but she was nowhere to be found. Was the specter real, or merely a figment of my weary imagination? I couldn’t say for sure, but the encounter left me deeply unsettled.

The more I explored, the more the hotel's hidden mysteries seemed to press upon me. I was determined to learn more about its history. The guests, by now, had gathered in the lobby, reception hall, and ballroom.

After resting briefly, I ventured downstairs, drawn by the lively music emanating from the ballroom. There, I found a crowd of elegantly dressed guests, the jazz band playing spiritedly in the background. To my surprise, everyone was dressed in 1920s attire—flapper dresses, feathered headbands, and sharp tuxedos.

Puzzled, I approached Mr. Reed, the receptionist. He explained, with a smile, that the ball was an annual celebration commemorating the hotel's grand reopening in 1925. It all made sense, yet a lingering unease remained, as if something lay hidden beneath the surface of these polished festivities.

It appeared to be a grand gala, with guests filling every corner of the hotel—from the lobby to the gallery, and from the corridors to the grand ballroom. Yet, despite the festive nature of the evening, I could not shake the eerie premonition that unsettled me. Something was inexplicably strange and out of place—both with the people and the event itself.

Whatever it was, I couldn’t decipher the riddle, like missing pieces in a crossword puzzle that refused to reveal their meaning. As I re-entered the ballroom, Mr. Bates—dressed impeccably in a classic tuxedo—greeted me warmly.

"Mr. Tanner, I’m glad you’ve joined us for tonight’s festivities."

"I’m honored by your invitation, Mr. Bates," I replied, though I couldn’t help but add, "Still, I have this strange sensation that there’s something about this hotel I haven’t quite grasped—something...unique."

He chuckled lightly. "Ah, it’s nothing more than the weariness of your journey weighing on you. What will you have to drink—a martini or perhaps a brandy?"

"A martini would surely help soothe my nerves."

"Then a martini it shall be!"

Placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, he added, "Good, my boy. Let me introduce you to a few of my acquaintances. I’m certain they’ll keep you entertained."

True to his word, Mr. Bates kindly introduced me to the high society elites of Canadian and international circles, his long-time friends and associates. Though I was a foreigner and a stranger, they welcomed me as one of their own, with gracious admiration and polite conversation.

One thing was evident: their fondness for revelry. They indulged in drink and entertainment with unbridled enthusiasm. At first, it seemed like typical party behavior, but as the hours passed, I noticed something peculiar—not a single guest showed any signs of fatigue or boredom.

Was it simply my own exhaustion clouding my judgment? I felt the weight of travel settling into my bones, and decided I needed a moment away from the revelry to clear my head. I stepped outside into the cool night air, lighting a cigarette to calm my nerves, though raindrops quickly began to fall, compelling me back inside as a storm gathered strength on the horizon.

Within hours, I knew the ground would be slick with dew, sleet, and hailstones. Strangely, not a soul was outside. When I returned to the lobby and warned both the receptionist and nearby guests of the approaching storm, they showed no concern whatsoever. Their indifference struck me as unnatural, and I couldn’t help but note their oddly passive reactions. Perhaps, I reasoned, it was merely the alcohol dulling their senses.

Re-entering the ballroom, I found Mr. Bates standing at the center of the room, delivering a rousing commemorative speech to the assembled guests, who listened with rapt attention. His eloquence was remarkable—each word carefully chosen and masterfully delivered. He spoke of the reopening of the hotel, the dedication of its staff, and the lasting impact it would have on the local economy and community.

His speech, though grand, felt strangely rehearsed—too smooth, too perfect. I had seldom heard anyone speak with such polished oratory. Had Mr. Bates not been a hotel proprietor, one could easily mistake him for a seasoned politician, skilled in the art of persuasion.

I waited patiently, eager to inform him of the storm and the urgent precautions needed. Surely, I thought, I couldn’t be the only one troubled by the severity of the weather. After he concluded his toast in celebration of the Batesville Hotel’s reopening, I finally seized my chance to speak with him.

"Mr. Bates," I began carefully, "I don’t wish to be a bother, but there’s an urgent matter that needs addressing."

Sensing my unease, he replied, "Calm yourself, Mr. Tanner. What’s troubling you?"

"There’s a fierce storm heading our way—hailstones as large as I’ve ever seen. You must alert the guests immediately!"

He smiled, almost dismissively. "A storm, you say? You must be mistaken. It’s nothing more than a fleeting autumn breeze passing over the hillside."

"A fleeting breeze?" I said, my voice tightening. "What about the hailstones?"

"Relax, Mr. Tanner," he said firmly. "Enjoy the night. Trust me, we’re well-prepared here at the hotel to handle whatever Mother Nature throws our way. Besides, the guests are safe and secure inside. Perhaps you should take a walk through the gallery, or retire for the evening."

Reluctantly, I nodded. "Yes, perhaps I’ll take a stroll to clear my thoughts."

The wind howled outside with growing fury, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the storm struck in full force. Sleep seemed impossible. Though I couldn’t control the impending chaos, I reminded myself there was little more I could do.

Peering through one of the lobby windows, I watched as the rain intensified and hail began to cover the landscape, blanketing the hillsides. The roads leading to and from the hotel were quickly becoming impassable.

It seemed certain the guests would be stranded until the storm passed. Leaving the lobby, I wandered back to the gallery—and there, I stumbled upon a chilling revelation.

As I walked slowly, observing the colorful portraits lining the walls, something caught my eye: an old photograph, black and white, depicting guests inside the very same ballroom. My heart skipped. The guests in the photograph were identical—down to the smallest detail—to those presently at the hotel.

More shocking still was the unmistakable image of Mr. Bates himself, along with his daughter, Amelia Bates, and Mr. Reed, the receptionist. Beneath the photo, the caption read: "Batesville Hotel Reopening Gala, 1925."

I turned to another framed photograph beside it—and felt a jolt of dread. It was nearly identical: the same grand festivity in the ballroom, the same guests... the only difference was the year.

This peculiar photograph was dated 1890, taken during the original inauguration of the hotel by an Englishman named Mr. Reginald Bates. In the second photograph, he appeared with the identical receptionist and his young infant daughter, Amelia Bates—the very ghost I had witnessed earlier.

I stared closely at the photograph to test my instincts, wondering if I had misjudged. In the end, I knew I had not. The evidence was irrefutable. But how was all of this connected to the hotel? One of the male servers spotted me in the lobby and approached, offering a drink. I reluctantly accepted, seeking a temporary distraction to soothe my rising discomfort and disbelief. The heightened emotions I was experiencing clouded my thoughts, pushing them into a fog of confusion.

It made no complete sense. I had always prided myself on being a logical thinker, but this scenario was cloaked in an insoluble mystery I could not yet unravel. My instincts whispered that I had stumbled upon a paranormal force and circumstance.

Even so, my mind insisted that there had to be a logical explanation for all these seemingly coincidental clues—though I had yet to untangle their irregular complexity. Within minutes, the storm outside abated, but it left inches of residual hail on the ground, making any exit or entrance from the hotel impossible. Yet, no one seemed to care about the storm or the fact that nobody would be able to leave anytime soon.

Their apathetic behavior and vacant expressions continued to perplex me. I knew I had to solve the mystery of the photographs, particularly the undeniable connection between Mr. Bates and the female ghost, and how it related to the unspeakable tragedies that had befallen the hotel.

Determined, I began searching the corridors and checking the rooms on every floor, using the still-functioning elevator. I remembered one specific area where renovations had yet to be completed. There, I hoped, I would find the irrevocable truth behind the mystery of the Batesville Hotel.

Upon reaching the staircase on the second floor, I noticed the entire floor was covered in mildew and specks of dirt, a testament to its decades of neglect and obvious decay. It was startling to see that such a prestigious hotel still relied on antiquated oil lamps rather than electricity. Something was decidedly wrong with the events of the night.

I continued down the corridor, the oppressive darkness broken only by the pale moonlight and the beam of a flashlight I’d found in a storage room. I came upon one particular room, sealed off with a pair of ribbons. Why was it sealed? I wondered. The only way to answer that question was to open the door.

The door was locked, but I struck the knob with my flashlight, and to my surprise, it clicked open. Slowly, I turned the knob and pushed the door open. The room inside was abandoned, likely untouched for decades, judging by the rust and thick layer of dust. What I discovered there was indisputable evidence of an ineffable nature: old newspaper articles dating from 1890 and 1925.

The articles recounted a terrible tragedy that occurred on the night of October 25, 1890, during the hotel's grand opening, when a fire broke out, killing all the guests gathered in the ballroom. Then, in 1925, during the hotel's reopening, another horrific fire consumed the building, once again claiming the lives of everyone in the ballroom—including Amelia Bates.

I also recalled the bricked-up section of the hallway wall, cleverly disguised to blend in. Judging from the photograph, it must have been the site of the original ballroom.

Since these tragedies, there had been numerous unconfirmed reports of ghostly apparitions around the hotel, with one particularly chilling tale: the ghost of the Burning Bride. According to the story, she tragically died after her dress caught fire from a candle as she stumbled drunkenly down the staircase to her room. Unable to extinguish the flames, she panicked, tripped, and fell down the stairs, breaking her neck instantly. Thus began the unnamable curse of the Batesville Hotel.

Guests over the years have claimed to see her ghost dancing elegantly in the ballroom, sometimes with flames trailing from her dress. Others have seen her on the staircase, where she met her tragic end.

These revelations, if true, pointed to a fathomless phenomenon that had been unfolding since my arrival. Chills ran down my spine, and I wondered whether I was losing my mind—or at least control of my fragile thoughts. The idea of a delusion deceiving me gnawed at my nerves, pushing me into a state of mounting dread.

Lost in the gravity of these realizations, I struggled to rationalize the horror tied to the Batesville Hotel. Its past was inextricably linked to the Bates family and the calamities that had caused the deaths of countless guests. I took the newspaper articles and, before leaving the room, noticed a singular ring on the dressing table—a ruby set in gold—and several old photographs of Amelia Bates.

There was no doubt now: she was the horrific ghost I had seen earlier in the gallery. As for the ring, it was likely a family heirloom, left behind for reasons unknown.

I departed the room stealthily, returning to the ballroom where Mr. Bates and the other guests were gathered. As I made my way through the corridor, the female specter reappeared. I saw the familiar expression in her glassy eyes—a wordless warning of imminent peril. My senses told me that I had finally uncovered the irreversible truth.

One irrepressible mystery remained: Was everyone in the hotel a ghost? Had I stumbled into an encounter with an evil of undeniable origin? I fought to maintain my composure, trying not to betray my panic amid these irreducible circumstances. But the abnormality was growing with each passing moment, and I dreaded its gruesome finality.

When I reentered the ballroom, Mr. Bates was engaged in a pleasant conversation with an unidentified gentleman I did not recognize. The jazz band played on, and the guests were still absorbed in their endless revelry and entertainment. I had lost track of time, but it had to be close to midnight.

For some inexplicable reason, all the clocks had stopped precisely at twelve o'clock. I reached into my front pocket and pulled out one of the newspaper articles recounting the vivid tragedies of the Batesville Hotel. It mentioned that the blazing fires had both occurred at exactly midnight. What was the meaning of this coincidence? Was I destined to become part of the hotel’s horrendous history? I couldn’t stop fidgeting when I turned around—and there stood Mr. Bates, smiling at me with a casual smirk I would never forget.

"Mr. Tanner, where have you been? Don’t stiffen your lip. You look as if you’ve seen a bloody ghost!"

"I was taking the stroll you suggested, Mr. Bates."

"And how was your stroll? Did you enjoy it? By the way, the storm has ended. I told you not to worry!"

"Yes, it seems you were right. The storm has subsided. But we’re trapped here until the roads are clear."

"How intellectual you are, Mr. Tanner—an admirable trait I share with you, ironically. Indeed, you are correct in your assumption, but there is something you must know."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You mortals fascinate me with your inquisitive minds. Yet at the same time, your ignorant susceptibility condemns you to your inevitable mortality. You see, you are trapped forever in this hotel, just as we all are—the immortal undead."

"Are you saying you are all dead?"

"This is a nightmare without end, Mr. Tanner! Accept your fate. There’s a saying: ‘An apprentice has an indenture with the master, from whom he learns his trade.’"

"You’re completely mad!"

"Perhaps. But it makes no difference—your fate is sealed. You shall perish, as we all have."

I ran from the ballroom instantly, hearing his voice echo behind me: "You can run all you like, Mr. Tanner, but there is no escape!"

No matter where I tried to go, I failed to escape the anonymity of that madhouse of Hell and the haunting echoes of his macabre laughter. I couldn’t dismiss the terrifying truth: I was trapped in a repetitive cycle with no surcease. Evil, in its most indefinite nature, sought to claim my soul, to make me a servant of its vileness and complicity—whether I willed it or not. But where could I run, if the road outside was impassable?

If I stayed, I would condemn my soul to instant death. I couldn’t fully describe what Mr. Bates was, except to say that whatever he had become, he was no longer human. My mind raced wildly, grasping for understanding as I made one desperate effort after another to comprehend what was truly happening.

There was no time for a logical explanation, yet it was the only tool I had left. I never considered myself a religious man, and while some might say my experience was a divine miracle, I—who lived it—think otherwise.

I do not dispute the general idea of good and bad souls. But I felt that I was caught in a dimension beyond human grasp—a portal of the afterworld that far exceeded the conventional notions of Hell. Alone in my thoughts, I realized something that set me apart from the other victims of the Batesville Hotel. It was something greater than instinctive fear: the natural resolve that maintains the lucidity of our minds.

Right there in the lobby, I came to a sudden realization. Everything around me was an elaborate illusion, misunderstood by my mind and mistaken as reality. Simply put, none of it was real, at least not in the way I had perceived it.

My fragile state of mind had led me to believe that what I was experiencing was real when in truth, it was a surreal form of malice, manifesting through my deepest fears and anxieties. But human determination is a powerful force—one that often outlasts evil.

Mr. Bates, Amelia Bates, and the others had existed, yes—but only in the realm of my apprehension and in the long-forgotten past. I concluded that if I accepted this, the hellish phantasmagoria would finally dissolve and trouble me no more. It seemed mad to put my trust in an unclear assumption that lacked proof, but time was running out. If I wanted to survive this madness, I had to act fast.

Mr. Bates, of course, had other plans. He sought to confuse and terrify me with his illusions of fear and deceit. That devilish grin and his insidious eyes were difficult to erase from my mind. But I could not allow him to maintain his dominion over me—his influence would destroy my sanity and soul if I let it.

His voice rang out, more intense than before: "Mr. Tanner, you are a persistent man, and I admire your resolve. But your foolish denial blinds you to your fate!"

"No, Mr. Bates! You are wrong! Your time is up. I see now what I didn’t see before. You are nothing more than an illusion—an invention of my mind. You are a wandering ghost who hasn’t realized he is dead!"

At that moment, everything around me began to fade. Mr. Reginald Bates’s memorable guise shifted dramatically—his face peeling away, his body disintegrating into nothingness in the quiet hours before dawn.

I believe even he didn’t fully understand what was truly happening in that hotel. A ghost can only haunt you if your mind is susceptible to its inimical presence. In the end, I regained control of my faculties—just in time.

I stumbled back from the archives, clutching the notebook with trembling hands, my breath shallow as I moved through the labyrinthine corridors of the hotel. The darkness around me seemed to press in from all sides, as if the walls themselves were closing in, suffocating the last remnants of hope I had clung to. I had to escape—had to rid myself of this nightmare. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was still watching, lingering in the shadows.

The hallway stretched before me, each step an echo in the hollow silence. The flickering gas lamps grew dimmer the further I walked, casting only faint glows that seemed to dance like fading memories. I reached the ballroom.

At the ballroom, its doors loomed before me, wide open and inviting. I froze for a moment. What if I had imagined it all? Perhaps it was just a dream—just a delusion brought on by exhaustion, fear, and the weight of the unknown. But deep down, I knew better. The truth was undeniable, the terror still raw in my chest.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the ballroom, but what I found was not the scene I had left behind. The music was gone. The laughter, the dance, the warmth—everything was gone. The space before me was unnervingly empty, the vastness of the room swallowing every trace of life.

The floor, once a polished expanse of gleaming marble, was now covered in dust, its surface dull and untouched. The chandeliers that had once cast a golden glow now hung low, their crystals dulled, devoid of the vibrant light they once carried. A few chairs, overturned and scattered across the floor, looked as if they had been abandoned mid-motion.

Despite the absence of people, a deep, unsettling presence lingered in the air. It was as if the very room itself had become a tomb, the echoes of laughter and music still trapped in its walls, reverberating softly in the silence. I could almost feel the weight of the invisible dancers, their phantom footsteps brushing against the floor in time with an unseen waltz.

I took a cautious step forward, my heart racing. There was something here—something I couldn’t see, but I could feel it, as if the very air around me thickened with the ghosts of the past.

I approached the center of the room, my footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust that covered the floor. A cold draft brushed past me, and I shivered involuntarily, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. The absence of sound was almost deafening. Even the distant hum of the hotel seemed to have faded, leaving only the oppressive silence that enveloped the ballroom.

As I moved further into the room, my gaze caught the empty space where the band had once played. The stage was now bare, the instruments gone, yet the faintest hint of music seemed to hang in the air. It was subtle, like the echo of a forgotten tune, a wisp of sound just out of reach. My skin crawled as I realized that the music, though silent to the ear, was still alive in this place, lingering like the last breath of the deceased.

I went to the balcony. It was empty, save for the shadows that clung to the walls, stretching and swaying with a life of their own. The ballrooom, once filled with guests, was now deserted, the railings of the balcony were worn and neglected.

But then, just as I was about to turn back, I saw it.

A figure—faint, almost translucent—stood at the far end of the room, just beneath the balcony. It was a woman, her face obscured by the shadows, but her silhouette unmistakable. Her dress shimmered faintly in the dim light, and her head tilted as if listening to some distant, unheard tune.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. "Amelia?" I whispered, though I knew she could not hear me.

But the figure didn’t move. She remained frozen, her eyes fixed in my direction, yet I could not tell whether she saw me or was simply staring through me. The presence of her—of all of them—was like a weight pressing down on the room, as if their spirits were not gone but merely hidden, trapped in a space between life and death.

I stepped forward cautiously, drawn to her despite every instinct telling me to flee. The ballroom seemed to stretch and distort around me, the walls pulsating with the same suffocating energy that had pervaded the hotel all night. The room, once so full of life and laughter, was now nothing more than a mausoleum, each corner filled with the ghosts of those who had danced and died here.

The woman slowly turned her head, and for a brief moment, I saw her eyes—empty, hollow, like dark voids that seemed to reach deep into my soul. I staggered back, breath caught in my throat. And just as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished, leaving only the chilling remnants of her presence in the air.

I was alone again. Alone in a room that had once been teeming with life but was now an eerie shell, a hollow imitation of what had once been. I was surrounded by the invisible remnants of those who had danced here, whose souls had never left, trapped in the same endless waltz.

I swallowed hard, my mind reeling. The hotel was not merely haunted by the memories of the past—it was cursed, bound to repeat itself, to trap those who entered within its walls forever.

And as I turned toward the exit, I knew that escaping the hotel would not be as simple as walking out the door. It had already claimed me, just as it had claimed them.

In the end, there was no eventual escape from the terror.

To be candid with you, dear reader: everything you have read was nothing more than endless episodes born from the disturbing effects of the hotel.

Afterward, everything was as it had been when I first arrived. I took a deep breath, reflecting on the ordeal, then left my room and walked down the staircase, realizing it was morning. The storm had ended. The roads were still impassable, but I could leave by train.

As I attempted to depart the hotel for the last time, I felt something peculiar in my pocket and pulled it out to read.

It was the original article about the tragic incidents and historical fires at the Batesville Hotel—the same article I had read before. But now, I noticed something I hadn’t before: my own name, listed among the victims.

What did this mean? Whatever I had experienced was of inscrutable origin, defying any logical explanation. I, Dick Tanner—was I alive, or dead? And if dead, did I even know the inescapable truth?

I gripped the crumpled newspaper article, my hands shaking as my eyes darted across the yellowed print. The headline screamed of tragedy: “Historical Blaze Destroys Batesville Hotel: Dozens Perish in Midnight Inferno.” My eyes traced each faded line, piecing together the horror I thought I’d only heard about…until I saw it.

There, embedded in the body of the article, my name—Richard Tanner.

The words hit me like a hammer:

"Among the guests tragically lost was Mr. Richard Tanner, a visiting writer who had checked in on the night of the fire. Witnesses described his final moments as he desperately tried to help others escape the engulfing flames, but he was never seen again."

My breath caught in my throat. My eyes blurred, but the words didn’t disappear. I read them over and over, numb and disbelieving. Mr. Richard Tanner. Lost in the fire. My name. My fate.

“No...this...this must be a mistake,” I muttered, my voice cracking in the empty room. I looked around, half-expecting someone—anyone—to step forward and explain this cruel joke. But there was no one. Only silence and the oppressive weight of the hotel’s ancient walls closing in.

A sudden wave of nausea swept over me. I stumbled to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass, staring out at the gray dawn. The storm had passed, but the landscape beyond still looked eerily lifeless, as though caught in a frozen moment of time.

My fingers clutched the paper tighter, crushing it in my fist.

How could my name be in an article about a fire that happened years ago? I had just arrived here, hadn't I? I had spoken to Mr. Bates, wandered the halls, heard the music. I was alive. Wasn’t I?

My mind reeled as fragments of memory collided—too vivid to be dreams, too disjointed to be real. Faces, voices, the storm, the ballroom. Mr. Bates’s chilling grin. Amelia’s cold touch. The way time had seemed to freeze. The clocks… all stopped at midnight.

And then...the thought crept in, slow and dreadful:

What if I had died that night?

A flash of something—an image of flames roaring around me, suffocating heat, screams—I gasped, clutching my head. The memory came out of nowhere, searing through my mind like a bolt of lightning. I remembered the fire. The smoke. The collapse of the ceiling. My own voice shouting for help...and then, nothing but blackness.

I staggered back, nearly tripping over my own feet, and stared at the article again. The ink seemed to shimmer, almost mocking me. My pulse hammered—except...I reached to my wrist and froze.

There was no pulse.

I stood frozen, my breath shallow and ragged, though my chest no longer rose and fell the way it should have. I pressed my hand to my heart.

Nothing.

No beat. No warmth.

The crushing realization hit me with full force—I was dead.

All this time...I’ve been a ghost. Trapped in this cursed hotel, reliving the final night of my life, over and over.

I dropped the article, watching it drift to the floor like a dead leaf. My legs gave out beneath me, and I sank to my knees, staring blankly at the empty room. The walls seemed to pulse, the shadows deepening, as if the hotel itself was acknowledging me now—welcoming me fully into its eternal fold.

In that moment, I understood what Mr. Bates had meant. His cryptic warnings, his knowing smile. I had never really escaped. This place had been my grave from the very beginning.

And now...it was my eternity.

The distant echo of the jazz band started up again—soft at first, then swelling to fill the room with ghostly, hollow notes. The chandeliers flickered to life one by one, casting eerie light across the deserted ballroom. I rose slowly, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings, and returned to the hotel's ballroom.

The music was calling me.

I was no longer an ordinary guest.

I was part of the hotel now.

Forever.

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