There is a creeper-clad guest house in the Lake District that does things a little differently. The house is in an out-of-the-way corner close to the shores of Ullswater, and if you want to stay there, you have to hand-write a letter. This hotel does not advertise itself, and they make no apologies for keeping up antiquated traditions.
Having heard rumour of such a place, I visited when I was in the area, hoping to have “luncheon”. I received no luncheon, only a frosty reception from the hostess because I was not an overnight guest. That brief encounter inspired a ghost story and a strong desire to stay one night in this hotel that time left behind.
During the following year, my short story became a novella, and one which I hope to publish soon, but there was still one thing left to do… So I wrote a letter to stay, and a barely-legible note came in reply to confirm my visit. So, could the creepy hotel live up to the haunted house of my imagination? For my own sake, I hoped not.
I arrived at the isolated hotel and was shown to my room by someone with poor English. The corridors were long, narrow and deserted, and the carpet and wallpaper were dark red—I couldn’t help but think of the Overlook Hotel from The Shining. Already I was feeling oppressed by the place, then as the concierge went to leave, I asked for my room key. He said, “There are no room keys, I’m afraid, Sir.” Sometimes reality truly is scarier than fiction; even the room in my novella had a key!
Of course, this house being stuck in the 1970s, there was no tea or coffee making facilities. Although they would bring tea to your room in the morning. Now, the house did have one modern detail—Wifi, but the password was “upstairsonly” just to reinforce that you must not be seen on your phone when in the downstairs dining rooms, bar and lounge.
I dressed well to go down for dinner, and I was glad that I did because I very quickly felt like an imposter as the guests were desperately posh. But I have skipped over one of the spookiest details—something that set me on edge before I even met the guests. First, you go to the bar—there is a set time, and this is when you order your food. The bar is the reddest room I have ever entered, and old Lloyd got me a whisky and took my order. I had not met the barman before now, so I offered to tell him my room number so he knew where to send the bill. Lloyd replied, “It’s Mr Arrowsmith, is it not, Sir?” How the bloody hell did he know my name!?
I can only assume that I was the only new guest that day, and thus my face was the only new one. But as someone who likes spooky things, I have to admit, I enjoyed this little interaction with old Lloyd.
Having made polite conversation with the absorbitantly posh people, we all went to the dining room. It was a four-course meal, and it was excellent. I wanted to take a photo of the room—or even a selfie—but due to how much it felt like dining in the Overlook Hotel, I was too scared to retrieve my phone or take a picture.
After dinner, it was time for the really spooky bit—night. The house in my ghost story really came to life when the main character went to sleep. Now, I don’t remember my dreams from that night, but I did at least wake up in the morning! So, having survived the night, I celebrated with the tea they brought into the room while I was still in bed. Finally, I made payment in cash and departed. The house certainly didn’t disappoint. In some ways, it was spookier than my story. Perhaps, one day, I may muster up the courage to return—should it still be there…
N. P.