A Writer’s Night at America’s Most Haunted Hotel

Book tours have taught me to expect the unexpected. There was the couple in Texas who kindly housed me but warned about their vicious late-night, door-opening, biting cat, and the time a prominent politician’s son asked me to edit his “fictional novel,” a thinly-veiled story about his father’s real-life exploits. But nothing prepared me for what happened in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

I’d recently met the fabulous writer Stephanie Storey while she was touring her beautiful debut novel Oil and Marble. Stephanie grew up in Arkansas, and I’m pretty sure she told the director of the literary festival, Books in Bloom, about me. I received an invitation to be a featured author at the festival in the spring of 2018. I’d never been to Arkansas and was excited to experience both the town and this celebration of literature. My communication from the director stated I’d be staying at the Crescent, a historic hotel founded in 1866. The town was as adorable and welcoming as advertised, a Victorian village with rumored healing springs, and everyone I met exuded warmth and hospitality. The thriving literary community radiated kindness and engagement.

My room was comfy and oddly shaped, the kind of space that had clearly remained much as it was in the 1800s. The quirks of the layout only added to its charm. It wasn’t until I checked in that day that I noticed a sign proclaiming the hotel to be “America’s Most Haunted Hotel.” I’m not easily spooked, but I do have a healthy curiosity and respect for possibilities.

That evening, after going out for dinner with several other authors from the festival, I took the stairs rather than the elevator to get some exercise as I made my way back to my room. When I reached my floor, I noticed a throng of people blocking the hallway. As I got closer, I realized they were listening with rapt attention to a hotel employee leading them on the nightly ghost tour. And then it hit me: they were standing directly outside my room. The tour guide was calling my room the most haunted room in the hotel.

I looked around, half-expecting someone to jump out and shout, Gotcha! You shoulda seen your face! But no. I eased closer to listen, catching fragments of the guide’s narrative: something about a secret pregnancy, a woman who had mysteriously fallen—or perhaps jumped—from the window of the very room where I’d be sleeping that night. The group murmured, a young girl chewed her nail, a man snapped a photo of my door, and then they moved on down the hall, leaving me standing there. I said aloud to no one, Are you kidding me?

That night, I settled into bed, read for a while, and then turned off the lamp. I wasn’t particularly concerned about the ghost tour’s commentary. After all, the guide was doing his job, creating atmosphere and mystery to justify the tour fee. My room was cozy and funky, and I liked the bed. I nestled into the sheets, closed my eyes, and drifted off.

Then, almost immediately, I sensed a cat hopping onto the bed. Now, I know that sounds wacky. And I can’t exactly articulate the sensation. Still, if you’ve ever had a cat, you know that particular feeling—the gentle padding of paws, the slight shifting of the comforter, barely perceptible but unmistakable. This felt so real, so present, that I jumped up and turned on the lamp, sending my reading glasses flying off the nightstand. There was no cat on my bed. I looked underneath, checked the bathroom, searched the corners of the room, all the while calling Here, kitty kitty, my suspension of disbelief tested. Absolutely nothing.

I got back into bed, turned off the light, and lay there, mind racing, acutely aware of every shadow and sound. I thought of my youngest child, a seventh grader, back home in South Carolina. He had a big math test the next day. I turned the lamp back on and grabbed my phone to text him a good luck, good night text. Not eager to get back out of bed to retrieve my glasses, I squinted and pecked out my message.

“Night, buddy. Proud of you. You got this! Love you so much.”

I hit send, turned off the lamp, then, oddly enough, slept soundly. The next morning, I awoke early and absentmindedly picked up my glasses, only to realize, with great embarrassment, that my late-night text had not been to my son Will, but to my longtime OB-GYN, Dr. Robert. Mortified, I typed a quick explanation. I kept it simple: “Oops. Wrong recipient. Meant for my son.” He replied with a crying-laughing emoji. Thank goodness my gynecologist had a sense of humor.

I opened my laptop and prepped for my session at the festival later that morning. Sipping my coffee, curiosity got the better of me. On a whim, I googled “ghost cat of Crescent Hotel, Eureka Springs,” not really expecting to find anything.

Holy moly.

There was, in fact, a ghost cat at the Crescent Hotel—and it had a name: Morris. He was a real orange tabby who had lived at the hotel for twenty-one years, supposedly serving as its unofficial general manager. He had an office with his title on the door and a custom cat-door cut into the lobby so he could move freely through the hotel. When Morris died in 1994, over three hundred people attended his funeral. He was buried on the hotel’s East Lawn with a headstone.

Are you kidding me!

According to what I found, Morris apparently loved his job too much to leave. Guests and staff continued to report his presence—a cat brushing past ankles, faint meows in empty hallways, and, you guessed it: a gentle weight on the bed.

I hadn’t experienced the ghost of a tragic woman in the most haunted room, but I may have experienced Morris.

As I left the hotel that morning to start my day at the festival, I stepped outside and visited Morris’s grave. Standing there, I thought about what it means to be a writer—to remain open to possibilities, to imagine. Morris’s late-night visit had broadened my lens. And as unexpected situations tend to do, the experience made me consider a new what-if. A cat so devoted to his purpose that he transcended death itself to continue his work? There was a story in that. 

There always is, if you’re willing to see it.

***

Fig Days (on-sale April 6, 2027; Regal House Publishing)