There's something about traveling through the European countryside in autumn that fills you with a sense of charm - and, as it turns out, dread. Rolling fog, leafless trees reaching up to an ominously gray sky, and, of course, The Crimson Hound: an ancient manor turned hotel with "character," or so its one brochure promised. You could almost hear Vincent Price chuckling in the distance as we pulled up to the wrought-iron gates.
Our group consisted of four cynics masquerading as amateur paranormal investigators. We'd planned to debunk the infamous Crimson Hound hauntings, a daring mission inspired by overconfidence, a lack of common sense, and the sweet siren call of free accommodations for guests willing to document their "paranormal experiences." After all, nothing screams adventure like potentially sharing a hotel room with the undead.
From the moment we entered the hotel, it was clear that quaint was not exactly the right word for it. Creaky floors? Check. Dim lighting? Check. Portraits of stern ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow you as you walked? Check. There wasn't even a receptionist, just a little bell on the front desk with a sign that read, "Ring if you dare." It was like the hotel itself had gone into business just to haunt us.
"What a delightfully creepy ambiance," said Gary, our unofficial leader, with a bit too much confidence. As the only one who had previously claimed to have felt a "ghostly presence" (his aunt's Yorkie, during a thunderstorm), Gary had appointed himself our guide to the supernatural. He claimed he was "immune to fear," which, to his credit, lasted right up until the elevator made a loud clank as it took us up to the second floor.
Our rooms were right next to each other. They were each meticulously themed around various unsettling eras of the past. Mine, for example, was the Medieval Chamber, complete with dark wood beams, faded tapestries, and a large, dust-covered canopy bed that looked like it had last been aired out when Richard the Lionheart was king. Our friend Lydia got the Victorian Room, which came with porcelain dolls arranged in an unsettling tableau on the dresser, each of them staring directly at the bed.
By midnight, we were all assembled in my room for our first official "investigation." We had our notepads, a tape recorder, and exactly zero paranormal expertise. Gary, undeterred, was waving around his EMF meter - a dubious little gadget he'd bought online. It beeped sporadically, which we assumed meant we were either surrounded by ghosts or by faulty wiring.
"I think I'm picking up some activity here," he said, holding the meter near the old, cracked mirror. It beeped again.
Lydia leaned in. "Are we sure this isn't just the hotel's medieval wiring?"
Gary ignored her. "Spirit of The Crimson Hound, we summon you," he intoned, doing his best imitation of a spooky voice.
And just as the words left his lips, the lights flickered. For a moment, we all stared at each other in shock. Then, the temperature in the room dropped, a low, echoing whisper reverberated around us. "Leave.. while.. you still can.."
Now, rationally, I knew it was probably just the pipes, or maybe a draft. But as the whisper grew louder, the floorboards creaking ominously, I began to feel something I hadn't expected: genuine terror.
"Did you guys.. hear that?" Gary asked, his "immune to fear" mantra fading quickly as he backed into the corner.
The whisper repeated, louder this time. "GO.. AWAY.."
As if to punctuate its point, the chandelier trembled, and we heard the unmistakable sound of heavy, plodding footsteps. Lydia shrieked, and Henry, who had been video-recording everything for "posterity," decided he'd had enough, dropping his phone and diving under the bed.
Just then, the door to our room burst open, and in floated.. a medieval knight. Well, a ghostly knight, to be precise - transparent, shimmering slightly, and dressed in old-fashioned armor with a plume that had definitely seen better centuries. The ghost looked down at us, unimpressed. He introduced himself in a grandiose voice: "I am Sir Edmond of Wetherton, nobleman, innkeeper, and.. your host."
Gary, suddenly emboldened by some weird sense of duty, stammered, "Uh, Sir Edmond.. why are you here?"
Sir Edmond sighed, the kind of sigh you imagine a ghostly innkeeper would make after a few hundred years of disappointment. "I am cursed to wander these halls, you see. A horrible curse indeed." He drew himself up, proud and tragic. "I am doomed to remain in this manor until.. I receive a five-star review."
There was silence as we processed this revelation. Sir Edmond nodded, clearly reveling in our awe, and went on, "For centuries, I have suffered the horror of mediocre ratings, subjected to two-star reviews and complaints of 'cold drafts' and 'inhospitable decor.' Guests leave in the night without so much as a comment card. But one day, I shall be freed.. if someone would only rate me five stars."
It took everything we had not to laugh. The mighty curse he wanted lifted was, apparently, the bane of Yelp reviews.
"You're telling me," Lydia began, trying and failing to stifle a snicker, "that you're haunting this place because of.. bad feedback?"
Sir Edmond looked wounded. "It is not 'bad feedback.' It is a profound injustice!" His face grew somber. "I was once the finest innkeeper in the land. The finest! But alas, travelers are fickle, and ghosts, it seems, do not inspire.. customer loyalty."
Gary, who seemed to have found his courage, gestured to the faded guestbook sitting on the nightstand. "Wait, is this the legendary guestbook?" he asked, flipping through pages filled with angry scrawls like, "Woke up with a ghost in my room! Terrible service!" and "Left in the night, would not return."
Sir Edmond nodded sadly. "Just one perfect review. That is all I need. But it must be genuine, from the heart." He held up a ghostly hand, fingers trembling. "You would not.. trick a poor ghost, would you?"
We assured him we wouldn't dream of it.
The next morning, we sat around the lobby with Sir Edmond, who was already dressed in his best spectral doublet, eagerly awaiting his glowing review. We decided to help him achieve his dream, though not without some serious negotiation. We made a deal: he'd spare us any more ghostly antics, and in exchange, we'd pen the most radiant review his manor had ever seen.
So, in meticulous detail, we wrote: "The Crimson Hound is a hidden gem of historical ambiance, where the hospitality is truly.. out of this world. The decor is 'vintage,' and the service is 'unforgettable,' thanks to Sir Edmond, who ensures a hauntingly good time."
Sir Edmond beamed as we wrote the final sentence. He clutched the guestbook to his chest, murmuring words of thanks, and then, with a sudden glow, he began to fade.
"I am free?" he whispered. "No more lingering. No more whispers in the night. I am promoted.. to the Great Castle Beyond, where the drafts are few, and the stars.. are always five."
And with a final puff of ancient dust, he disappeared, leaving only a faintly warm glow in the room.
We gathered our things, feeling strangely proud, like we'd just orchestrated the world's first ghostly exit interview. As we walked out the front doors, the fog lifted, and the sun shone brightly for the first time since we'd arrived. And as we left, we spotted a new sign above the hotel's doors: The Crimson Hound - Five-Star Experience.