The Castle Hotel - Part 2
1305 Words
Evelyn bathed quickly after that, her ears straining for any sign of movement beyond the bathroom door. She refused to look at the keyhole again. The sensation of being watched crawled along her skin like an insect she couldn't shake. As soon as she finished, she toweled off with trembling hands, threw on her nightdress and robe, gathered her soap tin and clothes into her arms, and slipped quietly out into the hallway.
She crept down the corridor, bare feet nearly silent on the wooden floor, her breath held tight in her throat. Her door—blessed, solid, and locked—appeared like salvation at the end of a dark tunnel. She slipped inside, shut the door behind her, and twisted the lock until it clicked firmly in place. Still, she dragged a chair from the corner and wedged it beneath the knob, just in case.
The bed didn’t feel any warmer or more welcoming than before, but she crawled beneath the quilt and pulled it up to her chin. The hotel was quiet now—eerily so. Evelyn closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was anywhere else.
Sleep came reluctantly.
And when it did, it brought darkness.
She dreamed of winding halls that shifted behind her, of doors with no handles and screams muffled by thick walls. She dreamed of gas lamps that flickered and went out one by one. She dreamed of a man with dead eyes leading her into a windowless room, locking the door behind her and smiling. And she dreamed of women—so many women—faces pale with fear, lips parted to scream but no sound escaping. Blood pooled beneath the floorboards, and footsteps echoed above her, slow and steady.
She woke with a gasp, chest heaving, soaked in sweat.
Click.
The sound was unmistakable. The soft rattle of a doorknob.
Her breath caught in her throat. She lay frozen, the blanket pulled tight, her body stiff as a corpse. She could hear it again—someone trying the handle, slow and deliberate.
It didn’t move. The lock held. But someone had tried.
Evelyn sat up, her breathing ragged, ears straining in the stillness.
Why did I dream that? she wondered. How could I have known?
Her heart thundered as she stared at the door. Minutes passed. She heard nothing more.
Until—faintly—a scream.
Distant, muffled, but unmistakable.
Evelyn rose from the bed, her limbs trembling, and tiptoed toward the door. She leaned close and listened.
Silence.
But no… not silence.
There—just beneath the surface—she felt someone. As if a breath passed through the crack in the door.
She bent down and peered through the eyehole.
And an eye stared back at her.
She stumbled backward with a strangled gasp, slamming into the wall beside the bed. Her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, her chest rising and falling in jagged motions.
She didn’t know what to do. Run? Hide? Scream?
She crawled to her suitcase and fumbled with the latches, trying to pack her things with shaking hands. She’d barely begun when she heard it:
A voice. A whisper.
“Get out.”
Evelyn froze.
It wasn’t from the hallway. It was from inside the room. No—not quite. From the walls.
She turned, standing slowly, eyes wide, breath shallow. She climbed onto the bed, pressing her ear to the wall just above the headboard.
Silence.
Then again, closer this time.
“Get out.”
It was a woman’s voice. Urgent. Desperate. Then came a loud bang—like a fist slamming from within the wall itself.
Evelyn shrieked and stumbled back from the bed, one hand over her mouth.
She didn’t need another warning.
She threw her few belongings into her satchel, not bothering to fold or fasten anything. Her bonnet tumbled to the floor. She didn’t stop to pick it up.
She unwedged the chair from the door, flung it open, and bolted into the hallway.
The corridor stretched out ahead, shadows deeper than before, the light from the sconces flickering like candles about to die.
She ran.
She didn’t look back—until she had to.
Something was behind her. Not footsteps. Not breathing.
But a presence. Heavy. Close.
She reached the staircase and half-ran, half-fell down the first flight, gripping the railing to keep herself from tumbling headfirst. Her shoes clapped loudly now, no longer caring about silence or decorum.
Down the next flight. Through the lobby. Past the empty desk.
The front door groaned as she threw it open.
The night air hit her like a slap—cold, real, and full of life. She stumbled onto the street, breathless, panting, the sound of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.
She dared to look back.
The hotel loomed in the darkness like a tombstone, its windows black, its doorway gaping like a mouth that had just exhaled her.
Nothing followed.
But the feeling that something could never left.
One Year and Several Months Later
The soft clink of silver against china echoed through the parlor as Evelyn turned the page of the morning newspaper. The summer light streamed through the lace curtains of her aunt’s sitting room, casting delicate patterns across her lap. Birds chirped outside, the scent of lilacs wafted through the open windows, and somewhere in the distance, a train let out its long, mournful whistle.
She sipped her tea and turned to the third page. And there it was.
HORRORS UNCOVERED IN “CASTLE HOTEL” — CHICAGO MAN ACCUSED OF UNSPEAKABLE CRIMES
The headline spanned nearly half the page. Evelyn blinked, her breath catching in her throat.
The article described the arrest of a quiet, well-dressed man who had owned and operated a now-condemned hotel in the shadows of the World’s Fair. The details were ghastly. Secret passageways. Rooms without windows or doors. Trapdoors, lime pits, and a crematorium. Evidence of life insurance fraud, multiple identities, and women who had vanished without a trace.
Reading it made her stomach turn.
Evelyn set the paper down slowly, her fingers trembling.
“I knew it,” she whispered to herself. “I knew something was wrong.”
She leaned back in the chair and exhaled deeply, her tea now forgotten on the side table.
Thank God I left.
Her dreams were still troubled sometimes—twisting, half-remembered things of eyes in keyholes and whispered warnings. But she had survived. She had left. She had listened to the voice.
The voice that had saved her.
Beneath the Castle Hotel — Three Days Earlier
The walls of Room 308 were stripped bare, the floorboards lifted, the wallpaper peeled back in layers like old skin. Dust choked the air, and every beam groaned as investigators in heavy coats pried deeper into the building’s skeleton.
“Got something,” one of the men called.
He was standing behind the headboard, knocking on brick with a crowbar. A hollow sound echoed back.
Within moments, they had broken through the mortar.
And there she was.
A young woman, curled tightly in death, her limbs contorted in fear. Her eyes had long dried open, her mouth frozen in a silent scream. Her nightdress clung in tatters to her bones, and beside her was a rusted tin of rose-scented soap, still bearing the faint imprint of delicate fingers.
The detective who had led the investigation knelt beside the opening, his face pale. He turned slowly toward the others.
“We’ve found another one.”
They dusted her down. Searched for identification. There was no registration card in the hotel logbook. No one had reported her missing.
But inside her satchel, they found a train ticket—unclaimed, unused.
Destination: Cincinnati.
Her name was Evelyn March.
The walls had kept her secret for over a year.
- Writer
