The Grand Veranda’s Last Guest

The Grand Veranda had once been the crown jewel of the seaside town of Salthaven-on-Sea. Its sweeping terraces overlooked the slate-grey waves, and its name was uttered with reverence by the town’s elders. Now, its stucco was cracked and its wrought-iron balconies rusted, but the building still held an air of bygone grandeur. Our paranormal team, the Spectral Seekers, had gained permission to spend a night within its echoing halls. As we gathered in the lobby, the volunteer caretaker, a stooped man named Gerald, handed us keys with a trembling hand.

‘Mind the sea mist,’ he warned, his eyes darting to the windows. ‘It does things to the old place.’ He shuffled away before we could ask questions, leaving his daughter, Elsie, to show us around. She spoke little, but her gaze lingered on the grand staircase as if expecting someone to descend.

We set up our equipment in the Winter Garden, where a glass ceiling had once filtered silver light onto rare tropical plants. Now, the panes were cloudy and the plants long dead, but the ironwork still twisted in elaborate patterns. Our lead investigator, Tom, clapped his hands. ‘Let’s start with a baseline sweep, then split into pairs.’ I was paired with Jess, a skeptic with a scientific mind. We chose the eastern corridor, away from the main group. As we walked, the floorboards moaned beneath our feet, and the salt-crusted windows rattled in the wind. Jess set up a voice recorder and a thermal camera. ‘This place is ripe for drafts,’ she said, but I noticed she kept glancing over her shoulder.

Back in the Winter Garden, the atmosphere thickened. The medium, a theatrical woman named Ivy, was calling out to spirits, her voice echoing from the high ceiling. ‘We come in peace. We seek your stories.’ Suddenly, a chair slid across the floor, scraping against the marble. It stopped abruptly at the edge of the stage. A girl named Chloe shrieked, dropping her camera. The group froze, but Ivy smiled. ‘We have a participant.’ A low hum resonated from the walls, as if the building itself were breathing.

Later, we decided to hold a solo vigils in the most active areas. I chose the old library, a room with walls lined with empty bookshelves, their surfaces dusted with silverfish. As I sat in a worn leather armchair, I noticed a portrait on the far wall—a woman in Victorian dress, her face blurred. I blinked, and the portrait seemed to move, her eyes now fixed on me. I whispered, ‘Who are you?’ The air grew cold, and my breath misted. I heard a rustle, like silk, and a faint perfume—lavender and salt. A voice, barely more than a sigh, whispered in my ear: ‘I am still waiting for the tide.’

I jumped up and called out, but no one came. I checked my watch: it was 2:33 AM. I radioed the base, but only static answered. I tried to open the door, but it stuck, as if something pressed against it from the other side. I slammed my shoulder against it, and it burst open, revealing the corridor. I ran, my footsteps echoing too loud, and collided with Tom, who was ashen. ‘We lost contact with Jess,’ he said. ‘She was in the ballroom.’

We gathered at the ballroom door. The door was ajar, and inside, the chandeliers swung gently, though no breeze penetrated the boarded-up windows. The floor was covered with the faint imprints of dancers’ shoes, as if a ghostly ball had just ended. In the center lay Jess, unconscious, her recorder still running. We revived her, and she gasped, ‘I saw the woman from the portrait. She was dancing alone, and when she tried to leave, the doors locked.’

We decided to end the investigation early. As we packed our gear, a storm rolled in, and the sea mist crept through the broken windows, curling around our ankles. Outside, the lighthouse beam swept across the empty promenade, illuminating the silhouette of a woman in Victorian dress standing at the edge of the sea wall, her gaze fixed on the hotel. Then she vanished, leaving only a piece of paper fluttering on the ground. Gerald’s daughter Elsie retrieved it. It was an old dance card from 1887, with the name ‘Mariana’ written in faded ink. On the reverse, in pencil, were the words: ‘He never came.’

As we drove away, I looked back at the Grand Veranda, its windows glowing with faint, shifting light. I realized that the hotel had not been abandoned; it was inhabited by memory. The woman, Mariana, had waited for a lover who was lost at sea, and now she haunted the promenade, reliving every dance as the tide forever rose and fell. I clutched the dance card Gerald had let me keep, and I knew I would never return. But in my dreams, I still hear her whisper: ‘He never came.’ And the floor of the Grand Veranda continues to creak, waiting for a guest who will never arrive.