Checking Out | A Ghost Story From New Orleans

Martin Graves stepped out of the taxi and onto the cobblestone street, suitcase in hand. The sun, dipping low over New Orleans, cast long shadows through the French Quarter, darkening the historic district with an eerie glow. He stared up at the Hôtel de Saint-Jean, a towering relic that seemed to pulse with life, despite its age. The building loomed over him, its wrought-iron balconies twisted like ancient, grasping fingers. Gas lamps flickered weakly, struggling to push back the encroaching night.

The entrance, framed by crumbling pillars, beckoned him forward. Above the archway, the hotel’s name had been etched into the stone, the letters barely legible, worn down by the passage of time. The place had seen better days—long ago, he guessed—but there was something about it, something that pulled at him. Maybe it was the decay, the sense that this place had lived through things, witnessed things, and refused to let them go.

He hesitated at the threshold, then pushed open the heavy wooden doors. Inside, the lobby was dim, the light from a massive chandelier barely cutting through the gloom. The walls, covered in peeling wallpaper, seemed to close in around him. Dust coated every surface—antique furniture arranged haphazardly, like it had been abandoned. The grand staircase wound its way to the upper floors, the banister polished smooth by countless hands.

Martin approached the front desk. An elderly clerk stood behind it, his eyes sunken, his voice dry as he handed over the key. “Suite 312, Monsieur Graves. One of our finest. It’s… been unused for a long time.”

Martin nodded, taking the key. The clerk’s gaze lingered on him, unnerving, as if measuring him. Ignoring the feeling, Martin walked to the elevator. The ride was slow, the old machinery groaning with every inch it climbed. When the doors opened, he stepped into a dim hallway. The air was thick with the smell of old wood, mingling with a faint, sweet rot, like flowers left too long in a vase.

His room waited at the end of the hall. The door, like the rest of the hotel, showed its age—paint chipped, brass knob cold in his hand. Martin opened it and stepped inside. The suite was grand, in an outdated way. Heavy drapes smothered the windows, blocking out what little light remained. A four-poster bed dominated the room, draped in velvet long past its prime.

Next to the bed stood a large mirror, framed by carved figures that seemed to twist and writhe, cherubs and angels caught in some eternal struggle. He dropped his suitcase on the luggage rack and sat on the bed, loosening his tie. He glanced around, taking in the room. Something flickered in the mirror, just on the edge of his vision. He turned his head sharply. Nothing. Just his reflection, the room, empty.

Martin shook his head. The day had been long, exhausting. Work stress, fatigue—they were playing tricks on him. He dismissed it, focused on unpacking, but the unease clung to him like a damp fog. As the evening wore on, the feeling grew. He couldn’t shake it. Every time he glanced at the mirror, he thought he saw something—a shadow, a shift in the light. But when he looked directly, there was nothing. The room remained empty.

Night fell, and the city outside buzzed with life, but Martin’s suite felt cut off, isolated. He tried to focus on his work, flipping through documents, but the words blurred on the page. His mind kept drifting back to the mirror. He looked up, and his heart stuttered.

A woman stood in the corner of the room, her form just visible in the reflection. Her face hid behind a curtain of dark hair. Martin froze, his pulse quickening. He spun around, expecting to see her standing there, but the corner was empty. No one.

He stared at the spot where she should have been, breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he turned back to the mirror. The woman was gone. Only his reflection stared back, pale and tense.

Fear tightened his chest, but he forced himself to focus on his work. He couldn’t afford to let nerves get the better of him. But the feeling of being watched persisted, crawling over his skin like insects. Then, the whispers began.

Soft at first, barely noticeable, like the rustling of leaves. He stilled, ears straining. The whispers grew, voices just on the edge of hearing, threading through the room. He stood, nerves frayed, and searched the suite. The voices seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

His eyes returned to the mirror. The woman was there again, closer this time, standing just behind him in the reflection. Her face, pale as bone, her eyes hollow, stared at him with a sorrow that chilled his blood.

“Jean-François…” Her voice was a breath, a rustle. “I miss you.”

Martin’s heart pounded in his chest. He stumbled back, nearly falling over the bed. He turned, expecting to find her standing behind him, but again—nothing. Yet, he felt her presence, pressing in on him, cold and insistent.

The woman stepped out of the mirror. Her movements slow, deliberate, she glided toward him. Her gown, once elegant, hung in tatters around her thin frame. Her hand, skeletal and cold, reached for him.

“Jean-François…” she whispered again, eyes locked on his. “You look so much like him.”

Martin wanted to scream, to flee, but terror gripped him, holding him in place. Her hand brushed his cheek, icy fingers sending a shiver down his spine. She leaned in, her breath cold against his skin, her voice a lament. “You remind me of him.”

His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Her touch slid through his hair, gentle, almost tender, yet colder than anything he’d ever felt. Panic surged through him, breaking the spell. He bolted for the door, fear driving him forward, not caring that he was dressed only in his boxers. The door banged open, and he fled into the hallway, heart racing.

He didn’t stop until he reached the street, gasping for breath, his body trembling. The night air hit him, and the oppressive weight of the room lifted. Slowly, he turned back to the hotel. The windows of his suite stared down at him, dark and empty. But in the growing light of dawn, he thought he saw a figure standing there, watching him from the shadows.

The whispers had stopped. The cold, heavy feeling had faded, but Martin knew he could never go back. As the first rays of the morning sun broke over the city, the woman in the window dissolved into the light, her sorrowful eyes lingering on him for just a moment before she vanished.

“Jean-François… I miss you.”

The echo of her voice carried on the breeze, faint but unmistakable. Martin turned away, fear and confusion twisting inside him. He didn’t know who Jean-François was, but he knew one thing: He would never set foot in the Hôtel de Saint-Jean again.