Rooms haunting nightmares Rooms haunting nightmaRes J u l i a a . g i R a R d A wail of misery that rattled the windows of the Aberdare Hotel. Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book Rooms haunting nightmares Rooms haunting nightmares Julia A. Girard Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Rooms haunting nightmares T he wind howled through the Scottish High- lands, a wail of misery that rattled the win- dows of the Aberdare Hotel. It was as if the storm itself resented the hotel’s existence. Inside, the faint scent of mildew clung to the air, mingling with the dampness of the stone walls. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, its glow casting long shadows that seemed to dance and shiver at the edge of the room. Thomas Carver stood just outside the hotel’s weath- ered entrance, his gaze drifting across the cobbled path that led up to the door. His coat flapped against his legs, as though the wind itself was trying to pull him away, back into the storm. A man of logic, Carv- er wasn’t one to entertain superstitions or wild ideas, but something about the letter he had received weeks ago clawed at the back of his mind. Julia A. Girard He pulled the envelope from his coat pocket again, his fingers trembling slightly as they traced the ele- gant script: Dear Mr. Carver, You are invited to stay at The Aberdare Hotel, where dreams take on a life of their own. For one night only, come experience our legendary hospital- ity. We promise you’ll never forget it. Best regards, The Aberdare Management The paper was thick, heavy, the kind that felt old, even though it had been freshly printed. The ink was smudged in places, as if hastily written, and the lack of a return address sent an unsettling shiver down his spine. What troubled him most, however, was the emblem on the corner of the letter, a strange, twist- ing pattern he couldn’t place. It wasn’t a symbol he had ever seen, and yet... it seemed to haunt him, as though it were somehow familiar. The voice on the phone had only deepened his un- ease. “Mr. Carver,” the woman had said, her voice soft but clipped, the static crackling around the words. Rooms haunting nightmares “You are expected. Please, come at once.” His hand shook as he ended the call. It was a mo- mentary lapse—nothing more. He had tried to ig- nore the pull of the invitation, but something about the voice lingered, a faint whisper in the back of his mind that gnawed at him. And so here he was, standing before a hotel that looked as though it had been untouched for decades, a relic of a forgotten time. He had been travelling for hours, and his exhaustion made him willing to embrace any semblance of shelter, no matter how strange. The door creaked open before he could even knock. A woman stood there, dressed in a long black dress that seemed to blend into the shadows. Her pale face was framed by dark, slicked-back hair, and her eyes—those eyes—were wide, too wide, and unnatu- rally dark, as though they had seen things no human should ever witness. Her lips twisted into a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Mr. Carver, welcome,” she said, her voice as cold as the wind outside, but strangely inviting. “We’ve been expecting you.” Julia A. Girard Carver blinked, unable to hide his surprise. “I... I didn’t realize you’d know I was coming. I never con- firmed my stay.” Her smile never faltered. “We know everything about our guests, Mr. Carver. Everything.” Something about her made his skin crawl, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He glanced past her into the lobby, expecting a warm glow, perhaps some life to greet him. Instead, the air inside was thick, heavy with silence. The flickering light of a gaslamp cast long shadows across the worn furniture, and the si- lence, oh, how thick it was, pressed against his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs. “I... I wasn’t expecting such... an empty ho- tel,” Carver managed, stepping cautiously over the threshold. The door slammed shut behind him with a jarring finality. “No, of course you weren’t,” she replied, her voice now almost amused. “But we do prefer privacy. There’s... no need for others to intrude.” Carver felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was impossible to ignore the unease creeping over him, curling its tendrils around his spine. Yet, he was here now. No turning back. Rooms haunting nightmares The woman didn’t say another word, just turned and began walking toward the grand staircase at the far end of the lobby. Her movements were flu- id, almost too fluid, like a shadow drifting through the dim light. “Your room is ready. It’s on the second floor. Room 206. Right next to the old library.” A chill ran down his spine. Room 206? He hadn’t mentioned his preferences when he made the reser- vation. Or had he? His mind felt foggy, clouded with the fatigue of travel. “Thank you,” he said, trying to steady his nerves. He forced himself to take a step forward, following her as she ascended the staircase, the faintest sound of her heels clicking against the wooden steps. Halfway up, she paused and glanced back at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. “Be sure to sleep well, Mr. Carver. The night here is very... special. It brings out the most... interesting parts of people.” Carver’s throat tightened. “What do you mean by that?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and contin- ued up the stairs, disappearing from view. Julia A. Girard “Wait...” Carver called out, but his voice was swal- lowed by the oppressive silence of the hotel. With a shaking hand, he reached for the banis- ter as he followed her, the floorboards creaking un- der his weight. The hallway above was narrow, the walls lined with dark portraits of people whose faces seemed to shift in the shadows, their eyes following him as he passed. The air felt thick, humid, as though the building itself was holding its breath. When he reached the door to Room 206, he was hesitant. He placed his hand on the brass doorknob, which seemed to burn under his fingertips. The moment he turned it, the door opened—slowly, as though it had been waiting for him. Inside, the room was lavish, yet somehow oppressive, like a tomb too large for its occupant. Carver stepped inside, his senses assaulted by the strange, acrid smell that seemed to come from the very walls. The faint rustle of something brushing against the floor made him jump, but when he looked down, there was nothing. His pulse quickened. The door slammed behind him. Rooms haunting nightmares “Sleep well, Mr. Carver,” came the voice again, but this time it was no longer the woman’s, this voice was deeper, rougher, as though it had come from the very heart of the hotel itself. Carver spun around, but no one was there. His breath hitched as the darkness in the room thickened, wrapping itself around him like a cloak, suffocating him with every passing second. The walls groaned, the floorboards creaked as if something was moving beneath them. And then, the whispers started. Faint at first, just a fluttering in the corners of his mind. Then louder. And louder still. They were his own thoughts, but they weren’t. They were twisting, warping, pulling at his fears and re- grets. “Sleep, Mr. Carver... Let your nightmares feast.” And as the words filled his ears, the room seemed to close in around him. He was not alone. Julia A. Girard I. Thomas Carver’s boots clacked against the cobbled path, the rhythmic noise muffled by the thick fog roll- ing in from the moors. The wind screamed through the Highlands like a wailing banshee, tugging at his coat and pushing him forward toward the looming silhouette of the Aberdare Hotel. The air tasted of brine and decay, heavy with the scent of wet earth and distant sea spray. It was colder than he expected, colder than it had any right to be this time of year. The hotel stood like a monument to another time, its towering stone columns weathered by centuries of abuse from the elements. The structure sagged under its own weight, and yet, it refused to bow. There was no sign of life from within, no warm glow of lights spilling through the windows, no flicker of move- ment behind the curtains. Just darkness. Just silence. Rooms haunting nightmares He paused in front of the entrance, his fingers nerv- ously brushing against the old brass handle. His heart hammered in his chest, a quick staccato beat, but he dismissed the feeling as an effect of the long journey, of the isolation. He had to admit, he was weary to his bones. The strange invitation, the cryptic phone call from the woman, and now this forgotten corner of Scotland, miles from civilization, had worn him down. A single night in this place, that’s all he had agreed to. No harm in that. Carver pushed the door open, the hinges groan- ing in protest, as if reluctant to welcome him inside. The lobby was dim, the flickering light from an old gaslamp casting long, uneasy shadows across the cracked tiles. The faint smell of dust and mildew mingled with the unmistakable scent of something older, something more sinister. A woman stood behind the reception desk. She was tall, slender, her black dress clinging to her form in the low light, the fabric pooling like ink around her feet. Her skin was deathly pale, almost glowing, and her dark eyes seemed to absorb the light around her rather than reflect it. Her face was unreadable, smooth and blank, save for the faintest curl of a smile at the corners of her lips. She didn’t seem to blink as Carver approached. Julia A. Girard “Mr. Carver,” she said, her voice thick with a syr- upy sweetness that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Welcome.” Carver stopped, surprised. “How did you know my name?” The smile on her face twitched, like a spider’s legs tapping against glass. “We know everything about our guests,” she replied, her tone almost patronizing. “Please, follow me. Your room is ready.” He hesitated, but only for a second. There was something in her eyes, something unsettling, that made him want to ask more questions. He opened his mouth to protest, but his exhaustion took over, his limbs heavy with fatigue. After all, he’d come this far. One night wouldn’t kill him. “Right,” he muttered. “Lead the way.” She turned without a word, gliding across the floor like a spectre, the train of her dress swishing softly behind her. Carver followed, each step echoing loud- er than the last, the silence pressing in on him. The walls seemed to close in around him as they made their way down the long, narrow hallway. The floor- boards groaned underfoot, sending a shiver up his Rooms haunting nightmares spine. There was something wrong with the place, something in the way the shadows seemed to shift and writhe, something in the way the air felt too thick, too still. He couldn’t place it, but he felt it in his gut, a cold knot that tightened with every step. The woman stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. She placed her gloved hand on the brass doorknob, and the metal seemed to sigh under her touch, as though it were alive. She turned the knob slowly, almost deliberately, and the door creaked open. “This will be your room for the night, Mr. Carver,” she said, her voice softer now, but somehow colder. He peered inside, expecting a warm, welcoming space, but what he saw made him pause. The room was grand, no doubt about it, velvet drapes hang- ing from the windows, antique furniture polished to a dull gleam, and a massive four-poster bed that seemed to loom over him. But there was something unsettling about it. The air inside was thick, stagnant, as if it had been sealed off for years. The wallpaper, a faded floral pattern, rippled slightly at the edges, as though the walls themselves were breathing. And the floor... there was something faintly wrong with the floorboards. He couldn’t place it, but they seemed to sag under invisible weight. Julia A. Girard “I...” He hesitated, his throat dry. “Just for the night?” She smiled again, the same thin, unsettling smile. “Just for the night,” she confirmed, her eyes narrow- ing just a touch. “Sleep well, Mr. Carver.” There was something about the way she said it, something ominous, as if she were letting him in on a dark secret. But Carver was too tired to press the is- sue. He stepped over the threshold, his gaze drifting across the room as he tried to shake off the feeling of unease that gripped him. The woman’s smile didn’t falter as she stepped back into the shadows, her figure blending with the dark- ness of the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made his stomach churn. He stood there for a moment, staring at the door. A sense of isolation settled over him, more suffocating than the cold. But he shook his head, telling himself he was being foolish. This was just a hotel, after all. Just a hotel. He took off his coat and placed it on the bed, the silence of the room pressing against him. The whis- pers were faint at first, almost inaudible, like the soft Rooms haunting nightmares rustling of leaves in a breeze, but they grew louder. Carver froze, his breath catching in his throat. The whispers... they weren’t in his head. They were real. He turned around, his eyes darting across the room. There, in the corner, where the wallpaper curled and seemed to pulse, a figure appeared. A shadow, shape- less at first, but then it began to form. It was a wom- an, pale, her face twisted in an expression of agony, her eyes wide and empty, as if she had seen things no living person should. She reached out, her fingers like claws, stretching toward him. Carver took a step back, his heart racing in his chest. His mouth went dry. The door behind him suddenly rattled, a loud bang echoing through the room. He spun around, his pulse pounding in his ears. Nothing. The room was silent again, save for the whispers. The shadows in the corners seemed to grow longer, more menacing. And in the air, that scent, sickly sweet, cloying, began to suffocate him. Julia A. Girard His breath came in shallow gasps. He turned back to the corner, but the figure was gone. But it hadn’t been a dream. He knew that much. He felt it. The whispers grew louder still, and the tempera- ture in the room dropped suddenly, a chill sinking into his bones. Something in the walls, in the very structure of the hotel, was alive. And it was watching him. It wanted him. But why? Carver’s pulse quickened. He wasn’t alone in this hotel. And he was beginning to fear that he never had been. Rooms haunting nightmares II. Carver had barely closed his eyes when the dreams began. At first, they were faint, just a soft tapping against his skull, like fingers drumming on glass. But soon the tapping grew louder, more persistent, until it be- came a steady, rhythmic pounding. He tried to shake it off, but it was as if the very air around him had turned to stone, holding him down. A pressure built on his chest, as though something was pressing from all sides, suffocating him with its presence. Then came the whispers. Low at first, just barely au- dible, but they crept into his mind like the slow crawl of a spider across bare skin. Carver could feel them, the words sliding around the edges of his thoughts, twisting like serpents in his brain. “Sleep, Mr. Carver. Sleep and feast on the night- mares we offer.” Julia A. Girard The voice was low and guttural, a heavy rasp that sent cold chills down his spine. It sounded like it came from somewhere far off, as if through a thick fog, but it was unmistakably close, too close. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. His mouth moved, but the only thing he could hear was the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears, and the voice. Always the voice. Figures cloaked in shadows materialized around him, their forms shifting like smoke, but their eyes, hollow and empty, stared at him from the darkness. There were too many of them, moving closer with each beat of his frantic heart. His chest tightened. The air grew colder, a biting chill that sunk into his bones. His breath came in shallow gasps, fogging in front of him. One of them stepped forward, a hand reaching to- ward his face. Carver flinched, but the figure’s hand passed through him like a cold breeze. His entire body shuddered with the touch. The figure leaned close, its mouth opening wide, teeth jagged like bro- ken glass. “You will feast,” it whispered, its voice like the scraping of nails on a chalkboard. “You will feast on your own fear, your own nightmares, Mr. Carver.”