The Windagoo Hotel
By Amanda Marques
The pleasure of your company is requested at The Windagoo Hotel’s first Christmas feast, on Saturday evening, the 24th instant. Entertainment will be provided by Ellsworth and his Orchestra.
20th of December, 1903
My dear friend Albert,
It has been almost a year since we last saw each other, and it is with a heavy heart that I inform you I will be unable to make it to Christmas this year. While I am devastated to miss the opportunity to see you and your lovely Cathy, I am afraid my presence has been requested elsewhere for the date. I am unsure of who manages The Windagoo Hotel, but I have received an invitation to attend their very first Christmas feast. I will be so sorry to miss Cathy's famed holiday turkey, but you know I do not have it in me to refuse such personal invites, especially when they can be good for business. I will be taking the train in two days, as the hotel is up the mountains in the north (according to the map attached to the invitation) and I do not want to be caught up in the middle of the storm. Perhaps we can meet to celebrate New Years together? I will make sure to bring a bottle of your favourite bourbon.
Merry Christmas to you and Cathy, my friend.
23rd of December, 1903
I have been on the train for three hours now. It is safe to say there is not much to do in this coach, but at least the leather cushions are rather comfortable. I am on my way to the pristine Windagoo Hotel to what I believe will be its big opening. The conductors seemed confused when I asked about directions to the hotel, which confirms its debut — I believe that if the feast lives to my expectations, people from all over the world will be booking rooms there for many years to come. However, I am not frightened as I have encountered another two gentlemen and their wives who were also invited to the feast. We did not talk business as it was still early in the morning and we all had a mind to behave politely, but we agreed on meeting for drinks at the hotel’s bar. To this end, we decided to look for The Windagoo together once the train leaves us at its last stop, in the middle of the mountain. I believe we will have to walk for the rest of the way, and if that is the case, I will personally address the manager once I arrive to suggest carriages at the train station for when the hotel is officially open. I am just thankful I packed light for the trip, no more than two suits and a tuxedo for the Christmas gathering. I cannot stay for more than two days since I have business to attend before making the trip to Albert’s chateau. I should also make the time to find some sort of gift for Cathy, who has been nothing but kind the last time I paid a visit. Perhaps an elegant set of china would be much appreciated…
*
23rd of December, 1903
I drifted to sleep after having soup for lunch. One could think that food in trains can be disgraceful, but there are perks of traveling first class. A small boy, no older than twelve, had knocked on my door whilst I was writing, asking in a rather shaky voice if I preferred having lunch in my cabin or at the train’s restaurant.
“Oh, we do not want to seem impolite now, do we?” I said to him, promptly following his skinny figure towards the restaurant. The room was quite busy, families seeking their distant kin for Christmas; but the boy managed to find me a modest table beside one of the windows, which was much appreciated considering there is something about dining with a view. I could not be sure of where we were at that moment, but a white blanket covered the land, snow so white it could be seen as a blessing from the heavens. There weren’t any animals in sight as the grey sky indicated that a storm could start at any moment. I was not worried about that, however, as I was sure The Windagoo Hotel was more than prepared for inconveniences as such. The boy coughed, as if to remind me of his presence, and I tipped him well, his eyes flashing between the bill in his hand and myself. He thanked me and soon after brought me tomato soup, which I devoured far too quickly. When one is hungry, it is hard to remember proper etiquette. I finished my meal with a glass of cognac, already feeling the sleepiness take over my body.
I was awakened by the train’s whistle, announcing that we would reach our final stop. I gathered my things rather quickly and now I am waiting as the train loses speed. To say I am curious to finally see The Windagoo Hotel would be an understatement. I wonder if they are already represented by a bank, and if so, their manager would consider a meeting with me to talk about why The National Bank would be a much better fit for the hotel. I am sure that is the reason behind my invitation, after all, my family’s bank has quite the reputation across the continent.
Ah, there is someone at the door. The two gentlemen I met before want to gather so we can find the hotel together. I suppose I will write my impressions about the property once I am settled.
*
24th of December, 1903
A lot has happened since I last gave this journal any of my attention. I suppose I shall start from the beginning, and offer some insight of what has happened in the past twenty-four hours. It is now afternoon and I am confined to my bedroom at The Windagoo Hotel, but everything is not as calm as one could think — especially for Christmas Eve.
Once the train finally stopped, myself and the two couples whom I had met briefly were the only ones who got out. I made their acquaintances and learned that James was married to Elizabeth, mother of a small child who had stayed with her grandmother as the couple took the opportunity for a brief vacation; the other couple, a bit older and with children studying abroad, was Henry and Clementine. The ladies seemed tired from the trip, which only caused me more shame as I became the messenger of terrible news: no one from the hotel was expecting us at the station. As a matter of fact, the station was completely empty — which now I understand the reason: the weather was terrible. The other two men and I decided to follow the map attached to our invitations and soon all of us were walking up the mountain. It seemed the snow was waiting for us to leave the safety of the station to fall. Not the kind of snowflakes writers describe in their poems but ice rocks the size of my fist; angrily dropping from the sky, attacking us. Mist made it almost impossible for us to see where we were going, our feet tired from walking in what was probably eight inches of snow. I will not lie, it was probably the worst storm I have seen in my thirty-five years. The ladies whined at every step, but of course their laments were deafened by the wind, howling in such aggressiveness it made the hairs on my arms stand up. At some point I looked to both my sides to see Henry and James in a state of defeat. Not only did they carry the weight of their own bodies, but heavy suitcases for their wives’ garments. I thanked my singleness in silence. After we walked for what seemed to be two hours in that terrible storm, up the mountains with our limbs sore and cold, we finally saw the hotel’s silhouette.
As the storm raged on around it, the majestic walls of the Windagoo stood strong and proud, almost as if daring God to shake its sturdy foundation. You could tell most of the rooms were distributed on the first floor — the windows were brightly lit, so white and perfectly spaced the comparison with teeth was uncanny. The second floor was slightly more narrow, where two large windows watched our pitiful plight in the snow. Perhaps I was tired from the journey but I could not elude the eerie sensation that those windows cast a terrible gaze on us. How silly of me, I told myself as soon as the thought crossed my mind. It was most likely that the level held the most expensive rooms. Winter had been harsh on the trees surrounding the property. One could tell they must blossom in spring, delicious fruit and beautiful flowers painting the picture of the perfect holiday destination. Now, however, the trunks were dry and curved, the lanky branches pointing everywhere. As we paced through the snow, Henry’s hat got stuck in one of them, and the wind was so merciless he was not able to retrieve it. I looked back as we rushed in, the bowler trapped in between twigs that seemed to move at will while the storm tried to defeat us. We hurried into the lobby, so eager for shelter that it took several moments before I could really take in The Windagoo Hotel. I gasped at the colour palette chosen for the atrium: a deep and rich shade of red adorned both walls and ceilings, with a pink textured carpet to match. The décor was rather simple, but very elegant. Shades of white contrasted with the red and pink, which was indeed a very modern choice. Perhaps they had a French architect, God knows I can’t ever keep up with trends. The jewel of the crown was a tremendous chandelier that held no less than a hundred candles, I am sure. Red candles, oddly enough. I have never seen anything like this before, and as impressive as it was, the placement of the chandelier did make me frown: instead of occupying the centre of the ceiling, the chandelier rested far back into the atrium, which is quite imprecise on their part.
I did find it odd that during my inspection of the lobby, no busboys came rushing to help us with our luggage. In fact, there was no one at the reception! I approached the counter only to find envelopes with our names beautifully written in red ink, with the room keys resting inside. Now, I am as progressive as the next man, but you cannot run a five-star hotel like this. The independent check-in is a bit much for me, not once during my trips have I dealt with such lack of care by any staff. Regardless, I was too tired to make a fuss about it, so I bid my travel companions goodbye and went on a quest to find my room by myself.
This is when things began to feel queer. I was able to explore more of the Windagoo as I looked for my room, the key inside the envelope did not bear any numbers that could help me; and I faced some odd coincidences. The lit windows I first saw outside seemed impossible to find, as there were nothing but red walls on the first floor. As I crossed the corridor to go back to the lobby, I heard marvellous music being played and I couldn't help myself, I had to follow it and compliment the pianist, tip him, and ask him why the hotel was so empty and short staffed. Had we arrived too early for the feast? It couldn’t possibly be, as we arrived one day before the celebration. Was this some kind of modernist approach to hospitality? I certainly was not enjoying it. However, as I spotted the poorly lit piano, in an opposite corner from the chandelier, the music stopped abruptly. I squinted, certain that I had seen a silhouette as I was walking in that direction. Perhaps my eyes were starting to betray me, but I am positive I heard music. I was so tired of the charades that upon seeking refuge in my room — one of only two on this level — I did not even bother to think of where the other couple might stay. I was momentarily overwhelmed by whiteness. Everything was spotless; almost as the colour of the snow outside, a bizarre contrast with the rich scarlet from the rest of the Windagoo. There were no switches to dim the lights and I wondered how I was going to sleep in such brightness, but I occupied myself by taking a long bath to relieve my limbs from the frigid cold. The bathtub was quite spacious, two people could easily fit in there, and I closed my eyes for the longest time — perhaps I even drifted to sleep, because my eyelids trembled slightly and the water that surrounded me gained a crimson colour, awfully similar to blood. This vision only lasted for a second. I assume it was because of all the red draped over every inch of the rest of the hotel but it disturbed me in such ways I rushed myself out of the bathtub.
I could not sleep properly. Every time I felt myself dozing off, I heard excruciating noises, much like the snarls starving beasts produce. I told myself it was nothing but the storm outside, and judged myself silly, but after a night of insomnia and soreness I woke up today with my mind set on taking my leave. I am sure the Windagoo was not blessed by a priest upon its opening and I no longer can ignore the unsettledness in my chest. I must leave after the feast, I must make haste. I hope to see both James and Henry downstairs, since I was not able to find them after the check-in. I should also strongly advise them to accompany me because The Windagoo Hotel is not what I expected.
*
MISSING
Handsome reward will be paid by the Livingston Family for any information regarding the disappearance of EDWARD LIVINGSTON, last seen on the second platform of Roscoe Station, at approximately 4:30pm, on 23rd of December, 1903.
Description of EDWARD LIVINGSTON
Age 35 (Thirty Five) Years. Blue Eyes. Short, Brown Hair. Salient Nose. Freckled Face. Wearing Grey Suit by Paul Abrahams, Black Mackintosh and Black Leather Boots. Talks With An English Accent.
15th of January, 1904
*
18/10/1974
Dear Diary,
I can’t believe my parents are dragging me to this lame ass hotel for a weekend. And not just any weekend, Josh’s birthday weekend! For the first time since the beginning of high school he seemed to notice me, and invited me to his birthday party himself! Ugh. “You can’t stay home by yourself, Lorraine”, “the world’s a dangerous place, Lorraine”, “boys just want one thing, Lorraine”... Why do they have to be such bummers? When I tried to argue that they were the ones who won a trip to the countryside and I didn’t have anything to do with that, dad gave me a side eye that could only mean no allowance if I opened my mouth again so now I’m writing. We’ve been on the road forever, I’m so bored. It won’t stop raining and that usually makes me kinda sleepy in the car, but of course my parents are listening to another cassette tape by Frank Sinatra. I think it’s the fourth one since we left home and it makes me want to jump through the window but I would probably drown. We better get there soon before my ears start bleeding. Even a hotel in the middle of nowhere is better than listening to this torture. Bon Jovi, anyone???? God. My parents are the worst.
LORRAINE
LOR
MRS. JOSH
MRS. JOSH
*
18/10/1974
Dear Diary,
We are finally here. You’d think my parents would’ve brought me to at least a five star hotel, but no no no no no. The Windagoo Hotel looks like it could have been funky, but a billion years ago. It is literally the beginning of fall and the trees around this place are looking dead already, not a single brown leaf in sight. I thought that since we were traveling to the countryside, I would see a few animals. I think squirrels can be so cute even though my cousin Francis, who lives in the big city, once told me they are just like rats. I don’t think I believe her. But anyway, back to the Win whatever Hotel. I brought my Polaroid to snap some cool pictures but what is there to photograph? The tacky red wallpaper that is peeling and showing some disgusting drips? The piano that looks a hundred years old in a corner that is so poorly lit I doubt someone ever actually played it? Or worst, Edward, the manager whom I swear to God talks like this is one of my dad’s old books and is so pale I doubt he EVER went sunbathing in his life? No, thanks. I would be the joke of the group and my popularity can’t afford that, especially after missing Josh’s party. I don’t even want to think about that. Anyway, I’ve been in the room for pretty much all the time since we got here. It looks like a hospital room, it is so white! There’s literally nothing to do. I’m in the same room as my parents because they are the cheapest people I have ever met in my life. There’s one double bed and a single one practically glued to the wall, which was so warm when I leaned back I even checked if the heater was on. It wasn’t. Weird, right? There’s no way they have some sort of special heating system inside these walls, they don’t even have room service!
Wait, my parents are talking to me.
I DON’T NEED TO KNOW YOU ARE GOING DOWNSTAIRS FOR SHRIMP COCKTAILS, I’M NOT YOUR NANNY. GOD.
*
18/10/1974
Dear Diary,
It’s almost 3am. I fell asleep while reading Macbeth for my English class and woke up to an empty room. My parents aren’t back yet and that’s kinda weird, they usually go to bed at 10pm max, which makes it very easy for me to sneak out back home. Maybe I should go after them. They promised we could go hiking tomorrow morning so I could take some rad pictures.
*
18/10/1974
Dear Diary,
They weren’t at the restaurant and the hotel looks empty. I’m writing this leaning against the reception counter. There’s this tiny lamp I’m using because everything else is completely dark. I almost tripped on that stupid pink carpet, which, by the way, was sticky with something I couldn’t see. Gross. If I stained my Converse with some weird goo I will be pissed. I walked kinda fast because even though I’m almost 17 I…
Okay, Diary, I will tell you this because I know no one else will read it.
I’m scared of the dark.
But just sometimes! Like now, I’m writing instead of looking for my parents because I’m scared to turn my head. I know I’m just being a cry-baby but I can almost feel a hot breath against my neck, and the dripping noises from the walls are getting louder and louder. Gulping? Growling? They almost sound as if there’s an animal inside the lobby. Maybe there’s a dog I didn’t see? Yeah, maybe it’s a big dog. Or maybe I’m just imagining things. I shouldn’t have let Francis drag me to that Exorcist movie at the cinema, I keep having these thoughts because of it! Fear makes us crazy, doesn’t it? I’ll be okay, I just need to find my parents. Maybe they went back to the room and we missed each other.
I’ll be ok—
*
What’s grooving, guys and gals? This is Harold, and Joan, and Lorraine! We can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message right after the beep, we will reach out as soon as possible.
BEEP
Harold, it’s your boss, David. Remember me? Funny, because you haven’t shown your face at the office for WEEKS and I was just wondering if you like having a roof under your head! Call me back as soon as you get this, Harold, or I swear you will get fired. I’m getting tired of screaming at your answering machine. This is my last straw.
02/11/1974, 9:32
*
BEGINNING OF THE RECORDING
ANNA: Testing, testing. Hello. My name is Anna Maxwell and today is the fifth of January, 2022. It’s 10:12pm and I’m a guest at The Windagoo Hotel. The reason I’m recording this is to document what I found in this building, and how I ended up here. I begin by saying this testimony isn’t for the weak nor sceptic, but I promise I’m telling the truth. It is up to you if you want to believe it. I was traveling up the mountains when my car broke down in the middle of nowhere. I do this trip once a year, to reconnect with myself and Mother Nature. I find it incredibly relaxing to meditate in the woods by myself and record the experience for my YouTube channel, but that’s beside the point. It started to drizzle and I was stuck in my car, trying to get some bars on my phone to call a mechanic, or even a taxi. I swear I’m not a distracted driver, but when I looked to my left, I saw a hotel that for sure wasn’t there when I was driving — trust me, it’s the kind of building you can’t miss! I thought getting a bed for the night would be better than waiting in my car, so I rushed in. The hotel looked like it was a big deal back in the day, but now it looks decrepit: a piano in the corner seemed to have about thirty years worth of dust on top of its keyboard, the furniture was dull and old-fashioned and there was a putrid stench of something I couldn’t put my finger on. At first, I didn’t find it strange there were no other guests. After all, who in their right mind would book this for a getaway? I rang the bell in the reception and looked through my phone as I waited for someone to come: still no signal. When I looked up, I swear this girl materialized out of nowhere. She startled me, her black hair contrasting with her pale skin. Her uniform was simple, with a tag that clarified her name was Lorraine. She didn’t look older than eighteen, probably working to gain some extra money during college or something. Or that’s what I assumed when I tried to make conversation with her, but she didn’t even care for it, just offered me a key and stared at me until I walked away. I wasn’t tired but I was hungry. I figured I’d get something to eat, maybe a Greek Salad with an orange juice, so I turned back to ask Lorraine where the dining room was, but she wasn’t there anymore. Weird, right? And it only gets worse from here. While exploring the totally empty hotel, I came across some papers scattered on a desk close to the piano: invitations to past feasts held at The Windagoo, random newspaper clippings and two diaries. Let me show you. See, one is made of leather, with the initials E.L. on the cover, and the other is this pink one with collages spread all over it. I read them. They are overall pretty basic, but here’s the interesting part. Both of them narrate the stories of Edward and Lorraine before and during their stays here, at The Windagoo Hotel. Lorraine, who has the same name as the weird receptionist. Both of them wrote about unusual things they noticed here, from alarming noises to visions with blood. I went through every page of Lorraine’s diary and found a polaroid. The quality is very bad but I am sure one of the girls is the actual twin of the receptionist. What could this mean? I think this place is haunted. There’s something off about it, my crystals have been strangely warm ever since I got here. Lights turn on and off randomly and I googled this place and didn’t find anything! Tell me, how do you own a hotel and you don’t even have a website to attract customers? No pictures, no videos, no TripAdvisor reviews, no nothing. I’ve decided to record everything for my channel. This could lead to creepy discoveries, but I’m not scared. I know a lot of you might see me as a lunatic, but I have a feeling about this. I have enough battery on my phone and I also want to interview Lorraine, show her the diary, and ask her if it belongs to her.
I will login later with my discoveries.
END OF THE RECORDING
PRESS GREEN TO PLAY AGAIN
PRESS RED TO DELETE
*
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Wendigo (/ˈwɛndɪɡoʊ/) is a mythological creature or evil spirit from the folklore of First Nations based in North America. The wendigo is often said to be a malevolent spirit, which possesses human beings, animals or, in rare cases, inanimate objects. The wendigo is known to invoke feelings of insatiable greed and hunger.
Other transliterations include Wiindigoo, Weendigo, Windego, Wiindgoo, Windgo, Windago, Windiga, Wendego, Windagoo, Widjigo, Wiijigoo, Wijigo, Weejigo, Wìdjigò, Wintigo, Wentigo, Wehndigo, Wentiko, Windgoe, Wītikō, and Wintsigo.
