I could talk for an eternity about my harrowing experiences at the high society Country Club, but I’ve been sworn to keep their afflictions a secret. There is one thing, however, that can’t go untold; that I must share with you.
Let me preface this story so you may learn a little bit about me, it’s important you know that I committed 11 months to improving my mental health. I had a few diagnoses that were left untreated for a while, so I made the decision to seek help. This led to my admission to a long-term treatment center called a DAS Program (Diversion Acute Stabilization), which is a story in and of itself that I’ll save for another day.
Having said that, I would like you to keep in mind that I am taking the right medications and controlling my diseases as I share my experience with you
After my mistreatment, I was excited to start working again, and was consistently filling out applications. Some time passed and I was frantically exhausting every option to find a new job. As I was feeling weary, a fresh listing popped up for the Country Club. I was pleased to see it was within walking distance from my house. I submitted my resume and within the hour the manager (let’s call him Dave) and offered me an interview the following day. The interview went well, as usual. I was honest about my prior medical treatment and diagnoses, and David was accepting and said the club could easily accommodate my needs by hiring me part-time in housekeeping. He said hopefully in the future I could be cross-trained and become a full-time employee in various positions.
I was perfectly happy to start part time cleaning up peoples messes and keeping a good distance from the members. To be clear, I was happy to work anywhere so the fact that I got hired at a well established Country Club made me really excited.
This chance served as my golden key and I had just opened the door to make connections with powerful and wealthy, people thanks to my courteous and professional nature. I had to build luck because I wasn’t blessed from birth.
A little history on the club, while protecting privacy, it was well over 150 years old. It caught fire on Christmas Eve, and again Christmas Day. Little is said about the fires, only that it was lovingly restored within just two years. It was rebuilt larger and better than before, keeping its Victorian allure over the many years. I’ve never seen anything so magnificently beautiful. The cascading marble stair case, gold and diamond chandeliers, and opulent ballrooms, embellished with crystal windows and wrought-iron accents, with massive stained glass masterpieces, almost haunting as it lingered on you mind well after your departure.
Some places, such as hotels, may have a highly suspicious room or two, but the Club has an entire floor sealed off to members and forbidden to employees.. I was a trustworthy person, but I also had a curious mind that was always looking for untold tales and mysteries. I was also skilled at planning my actions like a chess player would, always thinking two moves ahead and influencing what you would do next.
I managed to persuade Dave that the Club would benefit from being thoroughly cleaned in the nights after the members had left so that I could polish off the smaller details. He happily agreed and was moved by my initiative. I therefore had the Club to myself two nights during the week.
During my first night after completing my commitments, I slipped up to the abandoned floor. As dirty as I had imagined, I left a trail walking to the only door on the floor. The room must have been massive. Wiping off the brass panel with a worn cloth, the room was introduced as the original “Bridal Suite” which as expected was locked.
It didn’t seem suspicious at first because the room was on the fourth floor, which the elevator did not reach. So the supposed graceful walk down the picturesque staircase, presenting an elegant entrance to the venue, would have been a tedious process, likely sabotaging her make-up. The new suite being on the second floor made sense, allowing for a far more enchanting descend.
I’m familiar with the newer addition. The package included luxurious benefits that got the Club a lot of attention. The room was accommodated with a small stage and an illuminated floor-length mirror to allow the bride to see her gown from front to back and head to toe before the grand entrance. There was an adjoined room for the brides maids to get ready to offer privacy if wanted. Soft, overpriced dressing robes are a congratulatory gift. Our venue also provides a day-of coordinator known as a “Bridal Assistant” or “Lady-in-Waiting”, managing communications between the bride and the venue, and the time of events in the room to ensure the bride’s needs are met before saying “I do.”
As I started to lose interest in the level’s mysteries and untapped potential, I started to make my way toward the stairs with the intention of stopping on the third floor, locking the corridor behind me, and taking the elevator the remaining distance down.
I barely turned around when I was roughly knocked to the ground as blast of air whipped past me, so hot that my normally fair skin turned red from the heat. I winced in pain, momentarily oblivious to what was happening. I heard a struggle coming from the stairway, which proceeded down to the closed-off foyer that divided the 3rd and 4th floors. I choked on the a dirty smell of burnt hair and what I can only presume was the stench of burning flesh. It was pungent, assaulting most of my senses at once. I pierced my eyes shut partially for safety from whatever was replacing the originally stagnant air, and but mostly because I was scared to death of what I might have seen. The fumes were repulsive. The metallic taste of blood took a while to leave my mouth, moist in my nose with a trace of earth and bubbling fat but it doesn’t smell like meat. It has a shadow of morality to it; you know it’s human, and it’s haunting. If you don’t understand exactly what that smells like, you’re privileged that the description doesn’t cause you agony; but I can still smell it. Something about that stench of death etches itself into your mind and cannot be ignored, reminding you of the horrifying pain someone actually suffered.
Through damaged vocal cords, I heard piercing cries of terror and pain. Inaudible voices desperately trying to aid whatever tragedy was unfolding right in front of my eyes, which blindly unaware of what was actually taking place.
Still terrified, I crawled toward..whatever was happening, covered in not only dust but also sweat and the contents of my own stomach. As I made my way around the curve of the stairs, I could see the enclosed foyer that had been a crime scene moments before. I was met with a nothingness except for the wails and the smell, accompanied by the heat.
Running through the empty space, scorching my skin even more, I escaped the scene as possible. I fled knowing that the mess I had created would stay a secret until I had worked up the nerve to return. Traumatized and in a state of confusion, I hurried home to wash my body with hot water and numerous layers of soap, oblivious to the constant blistering of my fragile flesh. No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to remove the stench off of my skin or out of my nose. Trying to calm myself without the use of my anxiety medication, I replayed the scene over and over, attempting to see it in a new light.
In my experience, there is almost always an explanation other than a ghost, such as my panic disorder feeding off of my PTSD, but I knew this wasn’t the case.
And while this was not the end of the story, it is the end of that first night.