The place where some guests swear the dead never checked out.
High in the mountains of Colorado, surrounded by pine forests and rising above the small town of Estes Park, stands a grand old hotel.
From a distance it looks, it looks almost peaceful.
White walls. Tall windows. Elegant balconies. Rocky Mountain scenery stretching toward the horizon.
But inside the Stanley Hotel, the atmosphere changes.
The corridors are quiet, the rooms are old, Â And according to generations of guests, something else has been living there for more than a century. Something that doesn’t appear on the hotels guest register.
The story of the Stanley Hotel is one that begins in 1909. One that was built from a dream.
Oscar Stanley was an inventor and a businessman who was best known for developing the Stanley Steamer automobile. He and his wife Flora, opened the hotel with the intentions of it being a luxurious mountain retreat for wealthy visitors escaping the summer heat of the East.
It was beautiful, expensive and sophisticated for its time.
But the hotel would eventually become famous for something else, something Stanley could never have imagined.
Ghost Stories.
Over the decades, guests and employees began reporting strange occurrences inside the building. Footsteps in empty hallways, doors opening by themselves, voices coming from rooms that were supposed to be empty. And perhaps most famously, the sound of a piano plying when nobody was sitting at it.
One of the hotel’s most persistent legends involves Flora Stanley, Freelan Stanley’s wife.
Flora was reportedly an accomplished pianist, and the hotel contained a piano that became associated with her. According to stories told by guests and staff, strange sounds have sometimes been heard around the instrument. The music, the sounds of movement as if someone moving their body on the seat in order to get more comfortable, or simply the impression of someone sitting at the piano.
Some witnesses have claimed to see a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothing near the instrument. Others have reported hearing piano music coming from areas that appeared to be empty.
Was it Flora?
There is no scientific evidence establishing that a ghost was responsible. But the story has survived, and in a building this old, stories have a way of becoming part of the walls.
“The room that never forgot”
At the end of a quiet hallway inside the Stanley Hotel waits room 217, a room surrounded by decades of stories and unexplained encounters.
In 1911, Elizabeth Wilson, a hotel housekeeper, was preparing Room 217 for guests when a gas leak caused an explosion.
Wilson survived, although suffering serious injuries, but returned to work at the hotel soon afterward.
Years later, guests began reporting strange occurrences: belongings seemingly moved, unexplained sensations, and the feeling that someone else is present.
In 1974, Stephan King and his wife, Tabitha, stayed at the Stanley Hotel. They arrived near the end of the hotel’s season, this meant that the hotel was almost empty.
According to King’s accounts, the couple stayed in Room 217.
That night something happened that would eventually help inspire one of the most famous horror novels ever written. King reportedly woke up from a nightmare involving his young son, later describing seeing his son running through the hotel corridors, pursued by a monstrous presence.
The hotel
Is there really something lingering behind that door, or is it all just that some people’s imaginations tend to get the better of them.
On her way she met a copy. The copy and return to its oexistence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents.
But nothing the copy said could convince her and so it didn’t take long until a few insidious Copy Writers ambushed her, made her drunk with Longe and Parole and dragged her into their agency, where they abused her for their projects again and again.
Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts. Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia. It is a paradisematic country, in which roasted parts of sentences fly into your mouth.
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A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.
Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. “How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense”, he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn’t get into that position. However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was.
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. “What’s happened to me? ” he thought. It wasn’t a dream.
His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame.
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It is a paradisematic country, in which roasted parts of sentences fly into your mouth. One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment.
It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad.
