Short Stories of the Supernatural

The Castle Hotel

The year was 1893, and the streets of Chicago pulsed with excitement and smoke. The World's Columbian Exposition had transformed the city into a dazzling spectacle of light, invention, and illusion. Trains brought travelers from every corner of the country, and among them was Evelyn March, a young woman en route to visit her aging aunt in Cincinnati. But a missed connection and a nightfall too swift found her stranded for the evening in the Windy City.

Determined to make the most of her unplanned stop, Evelyn stepped off the trolley at the edge of the fairgrounds, marveling at the sheer scale of it all—the white buildings, the great wheel turning against the dusk, and the electric glow that seemed to defy nature itself. She passed barkers, vendors, and pamphleteers until her eyes caught a flyer, crisply inked and flapping against the brick of a nearby post.

CASTLE HOTEL – Grand Opening Special! Elegant Lodging – Modern Comforts – Discreet Service Just Blocks from the Fairgrounds For Ladies and Gentlemen of Taste

The name intrigued her—“Castle.” It sounded noble, safe, even enchanting. After a long day of dusty travel, her feet ached and her corset pinched. A bath and a warm meal were all she wanted. She tucked the flyer into her reticule and set off in the direction of the black arrows stamped below the text.

Evelyn followed the narrow, brick-paved streets away from the glitter of the fair, into a quieter part of the city where gas lamps burned dimmer and laughter died behind shuttered windows. The sun had slipped beyond the lake, and shadows grew longer with each step. She clutched her traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders as a breeze tugged at the hem of her skirt and the scent of coal smoke thickened in the air.

The Castle Hotel stood on a lonely corner where three streets met but none lingered. It was a towering, misshapen building of dark brick and odd angles, its windows narrow and irregularly placed, like watchful eyes on a sleeping beast. A spired turret rose from one end, giving it the appearance of a small fortress, and a single gaslight flickered weakly above the entrance. The word CASTLE was carved in stone above the door, worn at the edges, as if even the name itself had aged prematurely.

She hesitated before stepping inside.

The interior was strangely warm, the smell of varnished wood and something faintly medicinal clinging to the air. The lobby was dim, lit only by a single chandelier whose flame-shaped bulbs gave off a weak amber light. Wallpaper of a faded burgundy flocked the walls, and an oriental rug muffled her steps on the floor. A small reception desk sat at the far end beneath a portrait of a man she didn’t recognize—his face smeared slightly with time or dust.

She approached the desk and rang the brass bell once, the sharp ding slicing through the silence like a scalpel.

After a moment, a door behind the counter creaked open, and a gentleman stepped out.

He was average in height, perhaps slightly below, but carried himself with a precise, calculated posture that made him appear taller. His hair was neatly parted and oiled, the dark strands pulled flat against his skull. A thick mustache curled above his lip in a perfect arch, and his eyes—too dark to tell their color in the low light—seemed to study Evelyn before she even managed a polite smile.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit with a high collar, starched white shirt, and a black tie knotted so tightly it looked as though he had never untied it. There was something surgical in the sharpness of his appearance, like every thread had been placed deliberately.

When he spoke, his voice had the lilting, formal cadence of a Northern man—New Hampshire, if she had to guess. It was gentle but oddly clipped, as if each word had been dissected before spoken.

“Good evenin’, miss,” he said. “May I be of service?”

Evelyn felt a chill dance across her shoulders despite the warmth inside. She met his gaze and instantly regretted it. There was no malice in his expression, no overt rudeness or impropriety—but something deeper. A stillness in his eyes, a vacancy behind the civility.

“I’d like a room for the night,” she said, managing a polite tone. “Just the one.”

He nodded quickly and opened the register. His fingers moved swiftly—too swiftly—across the pages, and he jotted down her name without asking for it.

“Of course. Just one moment,” he murmured, voice nearly a whisper. “You’ll find our accommodations comfortable, miss. Very... private.”

She didn’t reply.

“Will you be needin’ help with yer baggage?” he asked, reaching for the bell cord to summon a porter.

“No,” she said, quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”

There was a flicker in his expression—disappointment, maybe annoyance—but it passed so quickly she wondered if she imagined it. He gave a curt nod and handed her a key with the number 308 etched into its metal.

“The stairs are just down the hall and to your left,” he said. “I trust you’ll find your room satisfactory.”

As she took the key, their fingers brushed for the briefest moment, and a prickle danced across her skin like ice water. Evelyn forced a smile, dipped her head in thanks, and turned away, her suitcase bumping softly behind her.

As she walked toward the stairs, she could feel his eyes on her back—polite, measured, and watching far too long.

The hallway stretched ahead like the throat of something ancient and sleeping. The wallpaper, though elegant in pattern, peeled at the edges, and the dim sconces cast shadows that shifted as she walked. Evelyn’s footsteps echoed louder than they should have, as if the walls were listening.

As she climbed the staircase—creaky, narrow, enclosed on either side—her fingers brushed the smooth, polished wood of the banister. At the second landing, she passed a door that had no number, slightly ajar. A breeze she couldn’t explain pushed against it from within, and she paused. There was no sound from the room, but a sickly sweet odor, like spoiled fruit or perfume turned rancid, slipped through the gap.

She stared at the door, unease squirming in her chest.

From somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked.

She turned sharply, but no one was there.

Evelyn pressed onward, the key tight in her hand now, her pulse fluttering in her throat. She told herself she was just exhausted, just imagining things. The fair had been overwhelming, and the long day of travel had caught up to her. Still, when she reached Room 308 and stepped inside, she locked the door behind her with shaking fingers.

The room was small, almost cramped, with sloped ceilings and a single, narrow window that looked out onto a brick wall just a few feet away. The bed was iron-framed with a thin mattress, and the washbasin in the corner was chipped porcelain with rust stains curling like vines around the drain.

It felt like a room meant for no one. Not cozy, not welcoming. Functional. Temporary.

She placed her suitcase on the floor, removed her gloves, and rubbed her arms as though the chill in the hallway had followed her in. For a moment, she stood in the center of the room, wondering if she’d made a mistake. She thought of the other hotels she’d passed on her way from the fair—bright places with doormen and music drifting from their parlors.

But she was too tired to turn back. And too hungry.

She descended the stairs, each creak beneath her shoes sounding louder now that the halls had grown quiet. The small restaurant just off the lobby was a quaint room with lace curtains, worn mahogany tables, and a chalkboard listing the night’s fare in spidery handwriting.

She sat in the corner near a gas lamp and ordered roast chicken with potatoes and stewed tomatoes, a glass of blackberry cordial on the side. The waiter was silent and strange, never meeting her eyes.

When the meal arrived, it was unexpectedly delicious—tender, well-seasoned, the kind of food that made her realize how hungry she truly was. Each bite melted on her tongue, and for a brief time, the unease dulled. The cordial was tart and rich, and it warmed her throat in a way that reminded her of her grandmother’s wine. She lingered longer than she meant to, letting her eyes fall half-closed as the comfort of food settled over her like a woolen blanket.

But comfort doesn’t last long in places like this.

When she rose to return to her room, the lobby was empty. Too empty. The man at the front desk was nowhere in sight. The chandelier above her flickered slightly as she passed beneath it.

Halfway up the stairs, she paused—someone was on the landing above her. A shadow moved just out of reach of the light, too tall and stiff to be casual. Evelyn froze, breath catching.

The figure turned. For a flicker of a second, she saw it clearly—an older woman in a nightdress, her hair wild, her face pale and expressionless. Their eyes met.

Then the figure was gone, vanishing down the next hallway like smoke. No sound of steps. No rustle of cloth.

Evelyn’s breath came in short, fast bursts. She hurried to her room, fumbling with the key, nearly dropping it before she finally shoved it into the lock and slammed the door behind her.

She leaned back against the cold wood and closed her eyes.

She needed a bath. Maybe that would help.

Gathering her nightdress, robe, and a small tin of rose soap, she stepped into the hallway once more and made her way down to the shared bathroom, which was at the far end of the corridor. The hall felt longer now, darker. The sconces had dimmed, or maybe her nerves were playing tricks on her.

The bathroom itself was surprisingly clean, the large clawfoot tub gleaming beneath a single gas lamp that buzzed faintly. The door locked with a latch, though it didn’t feel sturdy.

She undressed slowly, easing into the warm water and resting her head against the back of the tub. The warmth was a balm, unwinding the knot in her shoulders. She closed her eyes.

That’s when she heard it.

A faint creak.

Not from within the room—but from beyond the door. Then a whisper of movement, like someone shifting their weight just outside.

She opened her eyes, water sloshing gently around her chest. Her heart pounded.

“Hello?” she called, voice wavering.

No answer.

The silence felt thick now, like fog pressed against the walls.

She glanced toward the door—and that’s when she noticed the keyhole.

Round and dark, an old-fashioned opening in the wood.

It hadn’t bothered her before. Now it did.

She stared at it, breath caught in her throat.

She had the unmistakable sensation of being watched.