The night that I unleashed hell, I had checked into the Palmer hotel.
After a long day of medical conferences, I decided to tie one on at the lobby bar. Now, I don’t want to mislead you into thinking I’m a doctor. I’m a hospital librarian. That often comes up in conversation, oftentimes awkwardly, so I think it’s something worth mentioning. But at any rate, it’s hard work, and it’s a lot of information, and that night, all I wanted was a drink. I decided to tie one on at the lobby bar. Actually, I tied on about seven before I decided it was time to find my room. 307. “Up the elevator, and then a left,” the guy at the front desk told me.
Not that I needed the directions. As soon as I stumbled out of the bar, a bellhop was ready to take my bags and show me up to my room. At the price I paid for a one night’s stay, I was surprised at the level of service. As we waited for the elevator in silence together, I noticed an old photograph of the building’s exterior on the wall. It read “The Palmer, 1912.” But it didn’t look much like a hotel.
“The Palmer Hotel is quite old,” the kid said to me. I didn’t say anything and he continued, “it used to be a lady’s asylum. A lot of experiments were conducted here.”
“Don’t have any more crazy women running around, do you?” I quipped. He gave me an obligatory chuckle and the elevator opened.
I noticed my reflection on the gold-plated doors. I looked exactly how I felt—awful. As we made our way to my room, the kid did everything short of making sure I had a tall glass of water before tucking me in.
“Will that be all, Mr. Stewart?”
He had the deepest eyes, his pupils were so black. It was like he was on something. But if he was, he had a hell of a way of composing himself. Then again I thought the room was spinning. It was not my time to judge someone else’s lifestyle choices.
When he left, I contemplated collapsing into bed and passing out for the night. But I guess I was sober enough to want the taste of whiskey out of my mouth in the morning. I went to get my toothbrush out of my travel bag when I realized, the kid must’ve left it downstairs. I called the front desk.
“I left a bag near the bar downstairs. Can you tell the kid to bring it up?”
“What kid, sir?”
“The bellhop.”
There was a long pause before the guy at the front desk told me there weren’t any bellhops currently on duty.
“Are you sure, I just—”
“They all went home at 3:00, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I said no as I looked back at the pile of bags on the floor and noticed, there was my travel bag. I must’ve been wasted.
As I got ready for bed, I took a look around the yellow-tinted room. The gaudy crown molding, the patchy red wallpaper. If this place was updated, I’d hate to see what the original looked like. I noticed an old photograph framed on the wall. Black and white. Some generic early twentieth century photo of the building’s interior.
“I get it, your hotel is old,” I thought.
The people in the photo were hanging out at the bar and lobby downstairs. Two men talked to each other while smoking cigars. A woman was sitting with her husband in one of the plush lobby chairs. A little girl noticed the camera while two other women shared a coffee. It was all so staged. And then I noticed something odd in the background. There was a figure, a dark figure. It was bizarre, and somewhat misshapen. It looked almost like an animal, but it was too big to be a dog or a cat. I couldn’t make out any features. Maybe it was a burn mark or something.
The day was over and my body was telling me it was time for bed. I had an early flight. I got under the cold, standard hotel room sheets and closed my eyes.
That’s when I heard something. Something I should’ve ignored.
The noise was so faint and nearly inaudible, that at first, it sounded like nothing at all. I couldn’t make it out. Was it someone next door? I had no idea. But it was grating enough to keep me awake. I turned on the lamp and searched the room for an explanation until I ended up with my ear against the wall next to the bathroom door. Whatever it was, it was definitely coming from this area. Then I realized what was right in front of me: that old photograph.
Slowly, I pulled my ear away from the wall. A looming feeling of despair hit me in my stomach as if I knew what was about to happen. The noise continued. I looked closer into the grain of that old, black and white photograph, and the unmistakable image of a woman appeared. What I saw was horrifying. She was on all fours, disfigured, with her limbs attached to parts of her torso in a way that was a complete contradiction of nature. Her body was bent in a manner than I can only describe as half human, half crab. As I looked, she emerged into the foreground and that faint, light noise disappeared. I only stared into her face for a moment before I yelled, shook the whiskey out of my brain and splashed some water on my face. I was seeing things.
I went back to bed. Eventually, I fell asleep. But somewhere in the night, I heard that sound again.
This time, I could make out words. It asked for help. “Save me,” it whispered. And when I tried my best to put the pillow over my ears and tell myself this wasn’t happening, it said: “Save me, Mark Stewart.”
A lot of my nights have been a blur, but I can tell you with full confidence, that voice was distinctly calling for my help. And I told it to go away.
“Shut up!” I yelled, wondering what the people in the rooms next to me could hear.
And it stopped. For a brief moment, I was relieved and convinced myself I was out of my head. But throughout the night, whether it was real or not, I was haunted by these images of that poor woman, in her lace nightgown, with a look of terror on her face. I’ve never been a man of conviction, but an intense feeling of guilt overcame me and I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I was letting someone die.
This woman—this image of a woman—tapped into a part of me that few people ever have. This newfound guilt I felt weighted so heavy on me that I couldn’t bear it for another second. It led me to do something that convinced me, I was indeed going crazy.
“Hello,” I said into the abyss of my hotel room. I turned the lamp on and looked at the photo. “I’ll help. Please, come back.”
Whatever entity it was, I asked it to return.
And it did. Only this time, it brought friends.
For an unknown amount of time, I fell back asleep. But it was one of those states of half-sleep, where you wake up not sure if you were unconscious or just somewhat relaxed. Either way, at some point, something kicked me out of my stupor.
With my eyes half opened, through my squint, I saw something. I felt something. There was a dark, heavy shadow, hovering right in front of me.
I froze. When my eyes burst open, in front of me was an array of horrors that I’ll never forget. I’ll never forget that first sight and what felt like days before I could overcome my mental paralysis.
There was a woman – a different one – at the foot of my bed. Hovering. I looked at her and my heart stopped. Her entire lower face was missing, down to her neck, as if it’d been cut out. Below her eyes all I could see was a gaping hole and teeth, and it was so horrific I couldn’t look for long, yet the second of what I saw will forever be burned in my memory. Her hair – completely gone – as if it had been pulled out. All that remained were slight patches and crimson splotches.
But all of it was nothing compared to the look of terror in her face. I was scared, more scared than I’ve ever been, yet I knew even then, my fear was nothing compared to hers. I could see her wide, gray eyes twitching, as if she would be yelling, if she could. If she had a mouth. Or lips. Or a voice.
From my right, another figure approached me, and I can only assume it was that of a woman, judging only by the nightgown. Because the figure that approached me was decapitated. It was only a long, emaciated body coming toward me, and I yelled for help until it halted, and then I realized there were voices. I guess I had drowned them out, but something in my own screams woke up my sense of hearing and it all came pouring into my eardrums. This entire time, I realized there were voices, coming from the other rooms. And I listened, hoping my neighbors would wake me out of this nightmare. But the voices called for me. “Save us, Mark Stewart,” they whispered. And then there were mumblings, I could hardly make out anything else they were saying. It was like walking into a convention and hearing a million voices but not being able to distinguish a full sentence. All I could hear was “help” and “Palmer” and “doctor” and suddenly I remembered. That eerie bellhop’s history lesson must have been a warning. I was alone, with these experiments. Why and how these women were experimented on, I didn’t know. I didn't care. I only wanted it to be over.
I had never felt that feeling before, have never felt it since, and god save me if it ever makes its way into me again. At some point during that woman’s transport of despair into my soul, I noticed another woman, coming from the bathroom, making her way toward me. I couldn’t see anything but her tiny, bony frame. Her head appeared to be turned down, or backwards, I don’t know. All I could see was a mass of matted brown hair hanging where a face would be. All over her body were stitches. Across her wrists. Her elbows. At some point of her walking toward me, I’d called the front desk. I don’t remember doing it. I only remember wanting to do it and then hearing a knock. And as soon as I heard that knock, all of them disappeared and the voices stopped. There was an eerie silence.
And for a second, a split second, I realized I had lost it. I realized it was a horribly realistic dream. It made sense that it would be a dream. The voices were gone, the women were gone, just as quickly as I had imagined them. I’d frozen and didn’t remember calling the front desk – so it must have been something I did in my sleep. I must have just now been waking up. I rushed to open the door. It would be embarrassing to tell them I was fine, but it would be nice to see a normal face after that nightmare. I flung the door open. No one was there. Had I imagined the phone call, too? The knock? But I sensed something. That deep, sinking fear slowly crept over me again. There was something at my feet. And I looked down, and before me stood a toddler in a medical gown. The child was pallid, with diamond shapes crusted all over its face. I remembered seeing that a long time ago. They were called Harlequin Babies. At the hospital library, there were certain files that you always looked through a little bit longer than others because of the morbid curiosity. And maybe even with all of that thick, dark terror filling the room, that curiosity stayed in me. Because I looked down at the child, and it looked up at me – it’s eyes were completely black. No pupils, no whites, just two black holes in its pale, swollen head, staring back up at me, as if it were curious how my presence should be there with it. I can only imagine it was a product of one of these women who were experimented on. I didn’t bother to ponder the idea much longer.
I ran. Fast, down the stairs, past the front desk and all around me, I sensed the presence of the hotel’s patrons – all too calm, all too normal, and though I didn’t look them in the eyes, I could feel the black holes staring at me, as I yelled for my life and ran out of there.
I don’t know what became of that room. And I never again encountered any of what I saw that night. Whatever they were, they stayed there. While I dare not find out for myself, I have friends who tell me legends of the Palmer Hotel – that the woman in the nightgown still crawls through the rooms of the third floor, making her way into photographs to plead for guidance; that a medically defunct child wanders the halls and periodically knocks on guests’ doors, lost and confused; that my own screams of horror can sometimes be heard in the lobby when entering the hotel. Whether these legends have any truth to them, I don’t know. I haven’t dared to find out.
And I’ll never find out because I’ll never, ever return to the Palmer Hotel.
* * * * *
Kristin Wong writes for Hollyscoop, a national entertainment/lifestyle television show,
as well as Madatoms, a comedy blog from Fox Digital. She has also co-written a branded
entertainment web series for Fox Digital.
The Palmer Hotel. All Rights Reserved.