The Velvet Room

When Marguerite checked into the Grand Meridian Hotel in the small mountain town of Aspen Creek, she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the altitude. The hotel, a relic of the silver boom, had been meticulously restored, its ornate Victorian facade a testament to a bygone era. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of old wood and lavender, and every surface gleamed with the polish of a century of care. But as she climbed the grand staircase to her room, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the portraits lining the walls were watching her, their painted eyes following her every step.

Her room was on the third floor, a small but cozy space decorated in deep burgundy and gold. The bed was a massive four-poster with velvet drapes that seemed to swallow the light, and the wallpaper, patterned with delicate roses, was original to the 1880s. Marguerite tried to settle in, unpacking her clothes and arranging her toiletries, but the unease persisted. Every time she tried to read, she found herself glancing toward the closet, half-expecting it to creak open on its own.

The first night was the worst. She lay in bed, the velvet curtains drawn tight, but she couldn’t sleep. Every time she drifted off, she would jolt awake, her heart pounding, with the sensation that something had been whispering her name. She told herself it was just the unfamiliarity, the altitude, the rich food she’d had for dinner. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

The next morning, she decided to explore the hotel, hoping that daylight would dispel her fears. She wandered the hallways, admiring the antique furniture and the stained-glass windows, but the feeling of being watched only grew. She struck up a conversation with the concierge, an older man named Mr. Whitfield, who had worked there for decades. She asked if the hotel was haunted.

Mr. Whitfield lowered his voice. ‘Well, miss, there is one room that’s said to be haunted, but it’s not this one. It’s the honeymoon suite on the top floor. A bride went mad there in 1892, they say. She locked herself in and never came out. They found her weeks later, her hair turned white.’ He paused, his eyes darting towards the ceiling. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about that. This room has always been quiet.’

His words did little to comfort her. That night, she tried to sleep again, but the same thing happened. She would wake with a start, gasping for air, as if she had been submerged in water. On the third night, she gave up trying to sleep and sat in the armchair by the window, staring out at the dark mountains. As the clock struck three, she heard a faint sobbing coming from the closet.

She froze, her blood running cold. The sobbing continued, growing louder, and then it turned into a low, guttural laugh that made her skin crawl. She wanted to flee, but her legs wouldn’t move. The closet door slowly creaked open, revealing a dark void. From within, a figure emerged, a woman in a tattered white gown, her face obscured by a veil of tangled black hair. She glided towards the bed, ignoring Marguerite, and began to claw at the sheets, as if searching for something.

Marguerite watched in horror as the ghostly woman turned to her and lifted her head, revealing a face contorted in anguish, her eyes weeping tears of blood. The ghost pointed a trembling finger at Marguerite and whispered, ‘You took my place.’ Then she vanished, leaving the closet door ajar.

Marguerite fled the room, stumbling down the stairs in her nightgown, until she reached the lobby, where the night clerk dozed. She screamed, and the clerk jolted awake. She told him everything, and he listened with a pale face. He led her to a different room on the ground floor, where she spent the rest of the night shivering under the covers, the feeling of being watched never leaving her.

The next day, she checked out, leaving behind the velvet room and its spectral occupant. But as she drove away from Aspen Creek, she caught a glimpse of the hotel in her rearview mirror. On the third floor, in the window of her old room, stood the ghostly woman, pressing her hand against the glass, as if begging to be let out. Marguerite drove on, never looking back, but she knew that the ghost had left a mark on her. For the rest of her life, she would feel the ghost’s eyes on her, and she would never sleep soundly again.