The Paper-Knife Room

I suppose I should begin by saying that I stumbled upon this forum a few weeks ago, and after reading through countless tales of the strange and unexplained, I finally felt compelled to share my own. It’s not the most terrifying story, but it has haunted me for over twenty years, and I still can’t fully explain it. I was just a kid then, maybe nine or ten, and my family ran a small hotel in a sleepy coastal town. It wasn’t our main business; my father was a schoolteacher, but my great-aunt had left the place to my mother, and we spent every summer there, helping out and enjoying the sea air.

The hotel was called The Gull’s Rest, a rambling Victorian building that had seen better days. It had creaky floorboards, drafty windows, and a musty smell that no amount of airing could dispel. But to me and my cousins, it was a paradise. We’d spend our days exploring the winding corridors, the dusty attic, and the overgrown garden, inventing games and pretending the place was a castle or a pirate ship. My cousin, a girl named Clara, was my usual partner in crime. She was a year older than me, with a wild imagination and a love of ghost stories. She’d often try to scare me with tales of the hotel’s past, but I never believed them. Not until that summer.

One afternoon, while the adults were busy with a wedding reception in the main hall, Clara and I were playing hide-and-seek. I decided to hide in the linen closet at the end of the second-floor hallway. It was a cramped, dark space, but I squeezed behind a stack of folded sheets and held my breath. After a few minutes, I heard footsteps, but they weren’t Clara’s light and quick steps. These were heavy, slow, as if someone was deliberately dragging their feet. I peeked through a gap in the door and saw a woman in a long, dark dress walking down the hall. She was old, with grey hair pulled back in a bun, and she carried a small, sharp letter opener in her hand. She stopped right in front of the closet, and I could see her face through the gap – it was stern, with deep-set eyes that seemed to look right through me. She then turned and walked toward a door at the end of the hall, a room I knew was always locked. I heard a key turn, the door creaked open, and she disappeared inside. The door clicked shut.

I stayed in the closet for what felt like an eternity, my heart pounding. When I finally came out, Clara was nowhere to be found. I ran downstairs and found her in the kitchen, helping the cook. I told her what I’d seen, but she laughed and said I’d fallen asleep and dreamed it. ‘That’s old Mrs. Grisham, the previous owner’s wife,’ she said, ‘She died years ago. You’re letting my stories get to you.’ I didn’t press the issue, but I couldn’t shake the image of that woman and the letter opener. The next day, I decided to investigate the locked room. I waited until the corridor was empty, then I tried the handle. It was locked, as expected, but I was small and nimble, and I’d seen the maid use a skeleton key to open doors before. I snuck into the maid’s supply room and found a ring of old keys hanging on a hook. I took the one labeled ‘2B’ – that was the room – and crept back.

When I turned the key, the lock gave way with a satisfying click. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, but I could make out a large four-poster bed, a vanity table with a tarnished mirror, and a writing desk. On the desk lay a stack of yellowed papers and, resting on them, a letter opener exactly like the one the woman had carried. It had an ornate brass handle shaped like a serpent. I picked it up, and as I did, I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck. I spun around, but the room was empty. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

I put the letter opener back and noticed an old photograph frame on the desk. The glass was cracked, but I could see a picture of a couple – the same stern-faced woman and a man with a serious expression, standing in front of the hotel. On the back of the frame, written in faded pencil, were the words: ‘For our beloved guests, the Gordons.’ I later learned from my mother that the room had been reserved for the Gordon family, who stayed at the hotel every autumn for years. They were a wealthy couple from the city, and they always requested that specific room. But one year, they didn’t come back. My great-aunt said they’d moved abroad, but there were rumors of a scandal, something involving a letter and a duel. No one knew the exact truth.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the woman and the letter opener. Around midnight, I heard a soft scraping sound coming from the room above mine – which was directly above the locked room. I crept up the service stairs and found myself in the corridor facing the door. It was slightly ajar, and a faint light flickered from within. I peeked through the gap and saw the woman again, sitting at the desk, writing a letter. She seemed to write for a long time, then she folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it with wax. She held the envelope up, and I could see the address: ‘To Mr. and Mrs. Gordon.’ Then she turned, and her eyes met mine. I stumbled back, falling against the wall, but when I looked again, the room was dark and the door was closed.

The next morning, I told my mother everything. She sighed and said, ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t see her. That room has a history. You see, the hotel was once owned by a man named Mr. Ashworth. He was a harsh man, and he had a wife, Elsie. They took in boarders, and one autumn, a young couple, the Gordons, came to stay. Mr. Ashworth was an amateur magician, and the story goes that he became obsessed with Mrs. Gordon. He wrote her love letters, but she rejected him. One night, there was a terrible argument. Mr. Ashworth claimed that Mrs. Gordon had stolen a valuable heirloom, and he threatened to expose her. The next morning, the Gordons were gone, and Mr. Ashworth and his wife were found dead in that room, the letter opener in his hand. It was ruled a murder-suicide. Since then, people have reported seeing Elsie’s ghost, always holding that letter opener, always pacing the halls. She’s said to be searching for the letters, trying to destroy them before they ruin her husband’s reputation.’

I was terrified, but also fascinated. That summer, I began to piece together more of the story. I found in the hotel’s archives a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon, hidden in a false bottom of a drawer in the lobby. They were love letters from Mr. Ashworth to Mrs. Gordon, and they were passionate, but also full of threats. The last one read: ‘If you refuse me, I will ruin your husband’s business, and I will ensure you never see your dear children again. You have until the full moon.’ The full moon fell on the night of their disappearance. I never found out what happened to the Gordons, but I like to think they escaped.

I still have that letter opener. I took it from the desk before we sold the hotel years later. It sits on my mantelpiece now, and sometimes, when the house is quiet, I feel a cold draft, and I swear I catch a whiff of lavender – Elsie’s perfume. But I don’t feel fear anymore. I feel a strange empathy. Perhaps she was trying to protect her husband, or perhaps she was trying to warn me. I’ve never been able to bring myself to touch the blade, though. It’s always cold, even in the heat of summer, and I know that if I ever read what’s written on those papers, I’d be holding a letter that was never meant to be sent. So I leave it as it is, a relic of a story that has become a part of me. And every now and then, I wonder if the Gordons ever received their letters, and if they ever read the truth.