Haunted hotels. We’ve all stayed in them. Yes even you. It’s true. Don’t shake your head at me. You have. You just didn’t know it. According to my friend, who works in the hotel industry, almost every hotel is haunted. The staff whispers about rumored murders and suicides that happened in their building. They’re aware of the scariest rooms, the times of day to avoid certain steps, and the spaces to stay away from all together. What you and I think is just an old pipe system making noise, the staff knows to be a ghost. They just don’t advertise it. So, yes, you’ve stayed at a haunted hotel.
If you believe in that sort of thing, anyway.
I had my doubts. I didn’t really think that a ghost or spirit would waste its time trying to scare random people. After all, wouldn’t it get boring to keep spooking strangers? What do ghosts really get out of it, anyway? Even if they scare away one guest, another one shows up a few hours later. Granted, they have an eternity and nothing else to do, but really? It just doesn’t seem believable. So, I added it to my list. I wanted someone—or some ghost—to prove to me that it existed. And to prove to myself that if ghosts do exist, I’m tough enough to handle them. Plus, it just sounded fun.
Even though all hotels are supposedly haunted, I wanted to choose one that was famous for it—that actually did advertise its terror. So I started to dig. There were some in San Diego, Los Angeles, New Orleans (darn it! Should of stayed at that one when I was down there), San Francisco, Denver, South Carolina. There were so many that I had no idea how to choose. I decided that I would stay at the scariest one—the one that seemed the most haunted.
And then I stumbled upon The Stanley.
You may have heard of it? Perhaps you remember Stephen King’s The Shining?
Well, the Stanley Hotel is apparently where he stayed while he wrote that book. And although no one actually admits that this is indeed the hotel that the novel is based on, the movie was also filmed there. So, you do the math.
The Stanley it would be. I booked it. The two scariest rooms for the two nights I would be there: room 217 and room 401. I googled them, youtubed them, just about everything-internet-availabled them. And boy, were there stories. The more I read, the more freaked out I got. Luckily, my friend would be coming with me. Even though I wasn’t a believer, I’d have someone there. I may not believe, but I am still human. And there was a lot of scary stuff out there about this hotel. Probably didn’t help that I started reading The Shining either.
Rooms reserved. We were ready to go.
Except the trip got cancelled. My friend couldn’t make it last minute. And frankly, I had read too many scary things about this place to go alone. Yes, I chickened out. Guilty. I was only willing to go there on the condition that someone stayed with me. And apparently, all of my friends are chicken too. So, I have to be honest, I’m not feeling so bad about that choice. At least I was willing to go with someone. They weren’t willing to go at all.
Back to the drawing board.
I had a trip to San Francisco planned already; I decided to make a little detour on my trip and choose one of the haunted hotels in Northern California. And since I still couldn’t convince anyone to come with me, I would have to pick a place with a friendly ghost (yes, like Casper) and save the scary ghost for a time when I wouldn’t be alone.
The chosen locale: The Queen Ann Hotel, a quaint Victorian Bed and Breakfast.
It was built in the late 1800s as an All Girls’ Finishing School. The head mistress, Lady Mary Lake, apparently loved the girls like they were her own daughters, and when she died, she loved the school so much that she couldn’t move on (clear case of separation anxiety, if you ask me). According to the concierge at the hotel, Lady Mary Lake’s ghost has been seen in mirrors and has been heard playing the piano. Her favorite room of all, though, is room 401, which was once her office. She is a seemingly nice hostess who unpacks her guests’ bags and tucks them in at night.
A nice ghost who plays the piano, unpacks for me, and makes sure I’m snug as a bug in a rug while I’m sleeping? Heck, I could handle that. Noooo problem.
When I showed up at the hotel, I was unbelievably pleasantly surprised. What a charming place. It was like I had stepped onto the set of a Jane Austen novel. But I felt sorely underdressed. Where was my bodice? My petticoat? My bustle? My umbrella? No wonder Mary Lake didn’t want to leave this place. I had just gotten there, and I felt the same way.
On my way to my room, the concierge stopped me. “Don’t forget,” he said. “Tea time at 4.” They had tea time? How cute!
“Yes,” I said. “I have time for afternoon tea. How delightful.” (All in my head with a British accent, of course).
I waited for the elevator. Inside, there was a small red velvet bench, and I almost expected there to be an Elevator Conductor too. But it was just me. I pressed the button to the fourth floor and sat on my bench. The elevator clunked up. By level two I was beginning to think I should have taken the stairs. There was a lot of clunking going on. Perhaps it was just Lady Mary saying hello. But considering the age of the hotel, I was more worried about rusted chains and pulleys.
I walked up to my door (it was hard to miss considering the big gold sign that said Lady Mary Lake Suite), snapped a couple pictures, and then entered my room. The windows were open and a breeze blew in, rustling the white lace curtains as shimmers of sun danced across the carpet. I felt like I was stuck in some period piece. I was falling more and more in love with this hotel. Of course as the wind wafted through the room, I asked the obvious question.
“Wait, is that what people think is a ghost? Wind floating in through an open window?”
Some more pictures. And then I waited. Surely, she would make some sort of grand entrance. Make herself visible. She must have known that I had to write about this experience.
I sat. And waited. And waited. I even attempted to call out to her. “Uh, Lady Mary? I’m.Here,” I said, waving.
"Just in case you know, you didn’t see me come in or something. Feel free to make yourself visible. Holla at a sista.”
And I waited. And waited.
“Well then,” I said. “Can’t sit here and wait for you all day. Come out when you feel up to it.” I tapped my fingers on the table. And then I did the next thing anyone in a haunted hotel would do.
I flipped on the television and watched some college football, of course. Hello! College football Saturday! I had to watch my team—ehem, the most winningest team in college football history—the University of Michigan. Go Blue! Sadly, we weren’t able to pull off a win (don’t talk to me about it, I’m still licking my wounds), and of course I blamed the loss on the ghost (which in retrospect was probably a bad idea, considering I was on her turf).
By the end of the game, Lady Mary had still made no appearance, and I felt like exploring. So I left my bag unpacked and made my way to Fisherman’s Wharf. Surely I would return to my clothes folded neatly in the drawers and my shoes placed in order inside of the closet.
It was late by the time I got back. A chill ran down my spine as I walked into the room—it was much scarier in the dark. The lamps only dimly lit up the place, and knowing Lady Mary had not made her way to my room yet (the bag was still packed), I started to feel a little scared. Maybe she wasn’t the nice ghost everyone made her out to be. Maybe she was mean. Afterall, she had caused my favorite football team to lose. What else did she have in store for me?
I got in bed and waited. One eye open, I tried to sleep. It was chilly, but I’d lie there and wait to be covered up and tucked in. That was the deal, right? After about an hour in bed, I was too cold to wait anymore for the ghost to wrap me up. I got out, grabbed a sweatshirt and scurried back under the sheets.
I’m not sure when I finally fell asleep. But I can assure you it was not a restful night. Not because Lady Mary kept me up. Nay! More because she didn’t even try! I got up over and over again to look around the room and check if anything seemed different or if there was some blanket that had magically appeared over me from nowhere. Nothing. Not once. No strange breezes (I’d shut the window, which could be a possible explanation), no snug as a bug in a rug feel. She hadn’t even stopped by to glance in my suitcase, let alone unpack it.
I felt jipped. There was nothing scary about this hotel. Nothing felt haunted, even if it was. I mean it was beautiful with a nice staff and a romantic feel. But no ghost. At least, not one that felt present while I was visiting and that wanted to hang out with me.
Then again, maybe that’s what I get for wanting a ghost like Casper.
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