The Henderson Castle: A Short Story

“Enter at Your Own Risk,” is what should have been written at the threshold of the Henderson Castle. Unfortunately, there was no such sign; therefore, I walked comfortably inside, completely oblivious to what lurks within.

“We’re here,” my mom announced, pulling up at the parking lot of our one-of-a-kind inn. With my head buried in a book, I glanced up to see an impressive mansion staring at me from afar. It was, inevitably, a marvel to look at; its earthy brown, sandstone exterior perfectly complemented its verdant surroundings, an eye-pleasing medley of elms and cedars alike. Sauntering to the main entrance, I turned around to see the city of Kalamazoo sprawled out right before my very eyes. The picturesque view only serving to enhance the
visual aspect of our exquisite locale, which was now blatantly in front of me.

Walking in, we were welcomed by a cordial receptionist, who handed us our rusty key, gladly sending us off, with the remnants of “have a nice stay” following us, as we made our journey up the creaky, wooden steps. Taking the grand staircase, I saw endless walls lined with faded, posthumous portraits of the castle’s previous owners, looking uncertainly, as if something was amiss. Upon reaching our floor, I curiously explored my surroundings, finding myself amidst priceless antiques, from century-old grandfather clocks to wooden cabinets, meticulously lined with fine chalices and goblets, suited for a king. Walking cautiously, I reached the premises of our Tibetan-themed room, which was disconcertingly smaller than I had originally thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a tiny, golden statue of Buddha, firmly situated on a dusty bookshelf, boasting a surreptitious, crooked smile. Around me, the walls, peeling off with paint, were masked under glaring tapestries, opening up to reveal tiny slits resembling windows. Somewhat perplexed as to what to think of my surroundings, I nonchalantly began to unpack my belongings, brushing off my restlessness as exhaustion. I mean, it’s just an old castle, right?

Gradually, the sunny skies of daylight yielded to the cloudy skies of nightfall.
Ultimately, I retreated into my massive bed. With the heavy drops of rain rhythmically striking the windows, I began to drift off into a peaceful slumber.

And then, I heard it. A deafening banging noise. Like someone hammering on a cold plate of iron. Or an armoire being dragged relentlessly across the floor. “Construction at one o’clock at night?,” I thought to myself. That doesn’t seem right. It’s probably just new visitors lugging their suitcases up to their room. Only, why does the sound persist? Shouldn’t two hours be enough time to settle into a room? There must be a rational explanation for this.

And yet, the pounding deepened, the ceiling reverberating the madness occurring up above. Outside, the rain that began a mere few hours intensified, accompanied by fiery bolts of roaring
thunder.

Beeeeeep… I remember waking up, startled, to the buzz of my alarm.
Hardly having slept, I opened my eyes to an image of my mom standing in front of me. “What happened last night?,” she asked me, agitated, and I knew, just then, that I was not going insane.

After that eventful night, we went downstairs for breakfast at the castle’s restaurant. Perusing through their menu, I heard my mom recall the events of that horrid night to the front desk receptionists, which looked amused and bewildered at the same time. “You were the only guests staying last night,” they replied. Hurriedly, the waiter came up to our table, precariously assuring us that paranormal activities were commonplace at the castle.

Suddenly, my scrambled eggs did not look so appetizing. Grabbing our belongings, we stormed out of the haunted inn, never to revisit again. And there I was, stranded with an array of questions spinning through my restless mind, perhaps the most salient one of them all being,
why?