by Claryn Vaile
Most of her tour guests enjoyed this story. But a few, hungry for truly frightening fare, simply shook their heads.
If spirits did haunt The Keep, Harrison Griffin’s topped the list of likely suspects. Besides his considerable fortune, he’d poured his heart and soul into the place. Whatever else might be said of the irascible Harrison, he had to be credited with giving the city of Denver an architectural gem.
The fate of that gem was now in question. What would TITHE’s takeover mean to the hotel operations? To its appearance? To Rebecca’s future as historian? She couldn’t think about it in the middle of her tour. But it lurked at the back of her mind like a dark shadow, just around the corner in a dangerous neighborhood.
During the lull between lunch and dinner, only a few tables in the Pirates Pub were occupied. Lochlan herded his tour to an out-of-the-way corner nevertheless, in consideration of the hardworking wait staff.
“How’d we get a Pirates Pub in the middle of landlocked Colorado?” he began. “I’m sure you’ve wondered what that’s about. How many of you are familiar with the name Kuhrsfeld?”
About half of them indicated their recognition..
“Easy to tell which folks are local,” Lochlan said. “We Coloradans still associate that name with high finance and philanthropy.”
“Kuhrsfeld Opera House,” someone offered.
“Kuhrsfeld scholarships,” said another.
“And so on,” Lochlan said. “Well, three generations of Kuhrsfelds owned this hotel, from 1918 through 1982. Now the middle generation, Rolph Joseph Kuhrsfald -- R.J. to his friends -- was quite the collector. The man was fascinated by pirate lore of the Caribbean islands in the eighteenth century. At one point he’d collected so many pirate pistols and ship models and maps and flags and sextants that his wife Lilah lost patience with all the paraphernalia cluttering up her toney mansion. She diplomatically suggested that R.J. design the hotel’s new post-Prohibition tavern in a buccaneer theme and relocate the whole kit-and-kaboodle to The Keep. Clever lady, Lilah, don’t you think?”
A few veteran wives in the group concurred.
“So this Pub is also the scene of an infamous murder at the Griffins Keep,” Lochlan said.
“People died here?”
“Of course,” the guide said simply. “Many people have met their ends at the Griffins Keep in its decades of operation, just as people had been born here, romanced here, married here, feted here and ruined here. As for how many people might have been conceived in its guestrooms,” he added, “there’s really no telling. Any of you among them?” He grinned as his meaning sank in.
The murder story he proceeded to tell was the tale of a tawdry love affair from 1946. The triangle involving a prominent local businessman, his fickle young trophy wife, and a smitten – and drunken – WWII veteran determined to eliminate his rival.
“Ooo – I remember this story from the Colorado Historical Society’s magazine a couple years ago!” an excited guest interjected.
Lochlan acknowledged her with a smile and went on with the story. “The gunman fired wildly around the bar, wounding two bystanders before another man, Jerome Marston, tried to wrest the revolver from him. The next bullet went directly into Marston’s heart, killing him instantly.”
“We’ve got a photo of the bloody body on the floor if you wanna see it,” offered one of the Pub bartenders.
Lochlan continued. “Many people believe the ghost of Mr. Marston haunts the Pub. Often, with sudden or violent deaths, the spirit lingers long afterwards in confusion, unsure of what’s happened, unaware that they’re dead.”
Several tour-takers nodded, buying into this theory.
“Sometimes people’ll tell us they’ve seen a young man seated at the bar in the mirrors behind the bottles here,” the bartender added. “But when they look at the bar itself, nobody there.”
“Hello, Mr. Marston,” Lochlan concluded. “Time to move on, folks. The ballroom and its haunted chandelier await.”
As he led his group from the Pub, Lochlan waved to Rebecca, en route with her half-tour to their next stop. She smiled, somewhat wearily, it seemed to him, and waved back
How could someone so small bear the responsibility Lochlan suspected would soon be thrust upon her? But he’d seen the evidence. He knew. Rebecca’s spirit had been adjudged equal to the task, decades before either of them was born.
Chapter 3
“So why’s this place called Griffins Keep?” a tour guest asked before Rebecca got to that point in her usual narrative. “Griffins keep what?”
She explained. “The term ‘keep’ comes from Europe in the Middle Ages. A keep is a fortified tower, the strongest and securest part of a medieval castle. Keeps were places of safety for the nobility, used as a refuge of last resort should the rest of the castle fall to an adversary.”
She paused before adding her tried-and-true disclaimer. “Of course, we aim to make our Keep the first choice for travelers, not their last resort.” Rimshot, please.
“All right, next we’re riding the escalators to the mezzanine level, where I’d like you to look out the window at our neighbor, Pierce Tower, the highest building in Denver.”
On the second floor, her tour-takers craned their necks to look to the top of the skyscraper. “It’s 72 stories, about 750 feet high,” she said. “The Griffins Keep’s water source, our artesian well, is as deep as that building is high. That’s why we have the best ice and the best tea in Denver.” Her tour guests were always impressed with this visual aid. Rebecca never missed a chance to tout the hotel’s unique features.
“Several psychics and mediums who have visited The Keep believe that when they dug down that far and tapped into the aquifer, they created some sort of otherworldly passageway that has made the hotel a way station, not only for travelers in this realm, but also for spirits on their way to the afterlife.”
Rebecca always struggled to present this possibility as even remotely plausible.
“Now the well itself,” she continued, “is sunk right below the Pirates Pub. And that corner of the hotel – all the way from the subbasement to the roof – has more reports of unexplained phenomena than any other part of the building. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe those psychics know something we don’t.”
Eyes widened as she built the suspense. “We’re going next to the space directly above the Pub, the Silver Spoon Club. Stay with me, or wander at your own risk.”
They followed at Rebecca’s heels like her Westy, Willoughby, expecting a treat. She led them through the dark paneled entryway in semi-darkness. The space itself was lit by natural light filtered through stained glass windows featuring heraldic shield and crest designs. From the exposed timbers of the roof were suspended milkglass-shaded chandeliers.
“This unusual room occupies one of the 45-degree angles of our right-triangular building,” Rebecca said when all had gathered around. “Originally guest rooms, it became an exclusive private gentlemen’s and dining club for decades. Now it’s devoted to event rentals. It’s the perfect shape for a wedding or any sort of program. It’s also considered the most ‘haunted’ space in the Griffins Keep.”
“Now you’re talking,” a vaguely familiar-looking tour guest said.
“Stories from both hotel associates and guests recount lights that have gone on and off for no reason. Doors have opened and closed by themselves. Some people have felt this carpet crawl under their feet like something alive. Some employees refuse to come into this room alone.”
Pointing to the bar in the back of the room, Rebecca continued. “Other reports tell of a bartender who melts in and out of the wall over there.”
“Does he mix drinks first?” a guest wondered aloud.
“I certainly hope so,” Rebecca replied.
An elderly lady on the tour commented with a wink, “You know, I often find that, right when I need them, bartenders disappear.”
The group’s amusement buoyed Rebecca. If there were any effective deterrent
to evil spirits, surely it was laughter.
“One of our most persistent ghosts is occasionally reported here in the entryway or just outside of it,” Rebecca continued after a suitable pause. She walked her tour guests over to a lit display case in the back of the dark hallway. “And some employees have a theory about who this entity might be.
“Over the years, he’s been described as wearing a dark suit or a dark uniform and a hat, which several people have said looks like an old-fashioned railroad conductor’s cap. When people have tried to approach this spirit or speak to him, he always drifts down to the lobby level of the hotel and into the wall of our 90-degree angle corner.”
Rebecca glanced around at the skeptical faces, empathizing completely, and plunged on.
“Now, when the Griffins Keep first opened, the entire ground floor was encircled by retail shops and businesses. And in that 90-degree corner was the Rock Island Railroad ticket office.”
“So this ghost is still trying to sell tickets to who-knows-who to who-knows-where,” a guest speculated.
“That,” the guide said, “or he’s conducting spirits to the next station on their journey.”
A middle-aged man in a herringbone sport coat boldly stepped up to Rebecca at the front of the tour group and announced, “I saw that ghost when I was here last year.”
Momentarily caught off guard, Rebecca quickly retrieved the memory. “I thought you looked familiar,” she said. “Mr. Everett, right? You were with that extended family group on an evening private tour.” She turned to the group. “It was the only time anyone on one of my ghost tours actually saw a ghost. Do you want to tell them the story?”
“Uh, sure. OK.”
Rebecca led the group to the entrance where the incident had happened, remembering that evening clearly. She’d gone up to preview the Club before the tour. All the lights had been blazing and the doors were locked, so she’d called Security, requesting that they turn off most of the lights to make it spookier. When Rebecca had come by the Club entrance a few minutes later, security guard Salma was in the process of unlocking the doors. She was peering through the crack between them into the entryway.
“Oh!” she’d said to the historian, apparently surprised by what she’d seen inside. “Curtis is here this evening.”
“Excuse me?”
“Curtis,” Salma repeated. “He’s the spirit who haunts this space. I haven’t seen him a quite a while, and I’m getting the feeling he doesn’t want you going in there tonight.”
“Stop teasing,” Rebecca had said, always amused by these so-called “sightings.” She’d gone on her way and brought Mr. Everett’s group up about 20 minutes later. The doors to the Club had been still – or once again – locked.
When Salma returned to let them in, she’d muttered to Rebecca, “Told you you weren’t welcome.”
Rebecca had said nothing to her tour group that evening about Salma’s warning, but it did provide an interesting preface to what had happened next.
Mr. Everett began, “So it was night and they’d turned off almost all the lights in here, and it was really dark. Rebecca told us a couple ghost stories, and as we were all leaving, I was bringing up the rear. As soon as we were outside in the hallway, I asked her and the rest of my family, ‘Was that guy coming out of the restroom a hotel employee?’”
Rebecca jumped in. “We all stared at him. No one else had seen a man, and the restroom inside this entrance is a ladies room.”
“I freaked out,” the man admitted. “I saw his face, heard his footsteps on the floor. I saw a ghost! I saw an honest-to-god ghost!’”
Rebecca added, “The kids in his group began to scream, and even I felt a cold prickle on the back of my neck and down my arms. This gentleman was so convinced that he had witnessed something supernatural that I almost believed it, too. And this is the very restroom his ghost came out of,” she concluded, pointing to it on her left.
Mr. Everett looked at her, puzzled, and shook his head. “He didn’t come out of that restroom,” he corrected. “He came out of the door here.” He reached over to the opposite side of the entryway and touched the wood-paneled wall with his hand. No restroom. No door. A chill ran through them both. Several of the tour guests instinctively eased away from that side.
What used to be there? Rebecca wondered, desperate to make sense of it. The next day in the archives, she pulled out the blueprint showing the original layout of the second floor. Much had changed over the decades. But there had never been a room – or a doorway –in the place Mr. Everett had indicated. Instead, a circle within an equilateral triangular shape on the floorplan appeared to indicate something inside the wall. Could this be the spiritual portal those psychics had sensed?
Lochlan would know what to make of it.
“Tell me about this new historian of Griffins Keep. Where are you from? Are you married? Children? And more importantly, what brings you here?” Lochlan MacKenzie had probed upon first meeting Rebecca five years earlier, taking her measure.
“I’m one of those rare Colorado natives,” Rebecca had answered. “Grew up in Colorado Springs. Survived Christian boarding school in Texas, though my faith in the Church did not. Got my undergrad degree in Education, with a Theater minor.”
“That explains why you’re so good at leading tours,” Lochlan said. “They combine both teaching and performance, when you think about it.”
“Thank you,” Rebeeca said, appreciating the compliment before continuing her abbreviated bio. “Married once. Pretty disastrous, actually. No children, thank goodness. That might have required me to keep in some sort of contact with my ex. As it is, I haven’t seen or heard from him in… well, twenty-five years, at least. Kept his last name, though. I’d never be innocent little Becky Holcomb again.”
Lochlan had done a strange double-take at this revelation, Rebecca remembered. He’d looked at her as if peering through different lenses.
“Holcomb was your maiden name?” he repeated. “Rebecca Holcomb?”
“That’s right. Why? Do you know a Holcomb? I have lots of family around.”
Lochlan had shaken his head, made light of it. “No, it’s nothing. Just saw the name somewhere, that’s all. Go on, please.”
“What brought me here? Hmmm…” Rebecca had taken a moment to consider her answer to this part of his questions. “Not the generous pay, that’s for sure. I don’t know, it’s just… this is the Griffins Keep, you know? The most iconic, most elegant and most historic hotel in Denver. How could I resist, loving Colorado history as I do? What about you? Same questions.”
“Edinburgh-born, a Baby-Boomer, like you. Denver-raised since the age of 10,” Lochlan had replied.
“Honorary native, then.”
“I like to think so. Never been married, no children. I’m not gay, by the way,” he had added, assuming she might jump to the conclusion which had not, in fact, occurred to her. “Just never found the right woman, I guess.” Lochlan had smiled a little self-consciously. “Friends tease that I’m married to The Keep.”
“And how long have you two been together?”
“Started in my late 20s, way back. Always liked it, so I’ve stayed. An incredible building, an incredible history – an incredible challenge. I really consider it a privilege to care for the old girl. I also believe everyone at The Keep is here for a reason,” he said. “Especially you.”
“Why me especially?”
Lochlan shrugged. “Not sure. I just sense that your connection to the hotel’s past is unique. Significant.”
“I suppose you’ve seen a lot of changes over that many years, know all the nooks and crannies.”
“Comes along with years of repairs, renovations, remodels. Some for the better, some not so much. It never ends. Surprising things turn up when you start tearing into these walls and floors.”
“Really? Like what?”
Lochlan lifted his eyebrows, piquing her curiosity before he answered. “Oh, you know – things people have sec
retly stashed over the years and left behind, either intentionally or unavoidably. The Keep’s like a huge honeycomb, with all the hollow terra cotta blocks that make up the fireproof floors and interior walls.
“I’ve uncovered lots of old liquor bottles, mostly bootleg from the Prohibition years. Naughty French postcards. Old newspapers, letters, receipts, photographs. Occasionally we find money – minor stashes only, dammit.”
“Nothing beats the real-life mysteries,” Rebecca said. “That’s the best part of studying history, when research is like detective work. One clue leads to another and another, if you’re lucky.”
It had taken only a brief conversation with Lochlan to discover that his interest in The Keep’s past veered well beyond strictly factual accounts. His personal friends were the psychics who had sensed the hotel well’s spiritual dimension.
Rebecca encountered him often on the tenth floor of the nine-story Keep. The carpentry shop, paint shop, upholstery and furniture repair shops in which Lochlan worked all shared the roof with the archives and her work space. The next time he stopped in for a visit, she asked him about her latest mystery.
“You’ve told me of people who believe that The Keep’s well is some sort of portal for spirits in the hotel,” she began.
Lochlan nodded. “Spirits of the dead have long been associated with subterranean water. The River Styx in Greek mythology, for instance. Artesian wells spring from particularly powerful underground aquifers, sufficiently pressurized by associated geological formations to rise to the surface naturally when tapped. Spirits are thought to be attracted by the energy in such aquifers.”
“Why is that, exactly?”
“Entities manifest themselves through energy. The greater the energy, the stronger the manifestation,” the engineer explained simply. “That’s how dousers – diviners like Harrison Griffin – detect underground water sources, by picking up on that energy subconsciously.”