Paranormal Investigation in Liverpool’s Most Haunted Bar—Chilling Activity Captured at the Abandoned Wellington Rooms!

The Woman in the Wellington Rooms

The first thing that struck me about the Wellington Rooms wasn’t the architecture.

It was the feeling.

Standing on the pavement in the center of Liverpool, traffic hissing past, people rushing by with coffee and shopping bags, the building still managed to feel like a bubble of silence in the middle of everything. Modern life streamed around it but never through it. It was as if the city itself had learned to step around this place.

.

.

.

I took a breath, tightened my grip on my camera, and hit record.

“What is up, explorers?” I said, pitching my voice above the sound of the street. “We are back on another haunted abandoned adventure. And today, we have come to Liverpool to investigate this absolutely amazing abandoned social club called the Wellington Rooms…”

As I talked, I kept glancing up at the facade.

If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you might walk past without much more than a curious look. But once you did know—even a little—everything about the building changed.

Built in 1815 as an assembly hall for the elite, the Wellington Rooms had once been alive with music and laughter. Officers in uniform, ladies in gowns, chandeliers sparkling as they danced to celebrate victories over Napoleon. Later, the building had been reborn again and again: as a synagogue, a dance academy, a cultural center.

Now it was none of those things.

Now it was just… waiting.

“If you enjoy exploring haunted and abandoned buildings,” I continued, “hit subscribe, help us get to four hundred thousand by the end of this year. Remember to like, comment, and hit notifications so you don’t miss any future explores.”

The familiar words steadied me. Ritual helped. But somewhere behind them, beneath them, was the quiet awareness that tonight wasn’t just about peeling paint and nice shots.

Locals said the Wellington Rooms were haunted.

Not just “bit-creepy-old-building” haunted, but properly haunted. Ghostly figures in mirrors. Footsteps crossing the ballroom long after the doors had been locked. Cold pockets of air where no wind could reach. Paranormal teams claimed they’d heard faint music—no source, no explanation—as if dancers from centuries ago refused to leave the floor.

Some spoke of a woman in white searching the corridors for a partner who never arrived. Others talked about something darker, something oppressive that moved in the shadows, reminding you that not everyone who entered these rooms ever truly left.

I clicked off the intro and lowered the camera for a moment.

Light from the late afternoon pooled on the face of the building. Shadows clung in the windows, deep and flat. It looked almost shy. Almost harmless.

“Let’s do this,” I said, mostly to myself, and headed for the entrance that would take me down into the basement.

Because if there was one thing I’d learned over the years, it was this:

If a building’s haunted, it always starts in the dark.

The Basement That Breathed

Finding a way inside was easier than it should have been. A loose board, a door that hadn’t been locked quite as tightly as intended, a gap that felt uncomfortably like an invitation.

Inside, the air changed. Street noise dimmed to a distant murmur. The smell shifted from exhaust and takeaway grease to something older: damp stone, dust, and the faint, sour tang of stale beer and rotten wood.

“We’re inside the Wellington Rooms now,” I whispered to the camera, my torch beam slicing through the gloom. “We’re going to take a little look around. We begin in the basement…”

Basements are always bad.

This one was worse.

Brick corridors stretched away in both directions, low and narrow, lined with alcoves and sealed doors. The plaster on the arched ceilings had peeled back in curling strips to reveal old brickwork beneath, mottled and damp. Someone, at some point, had dragged a shopping trolley down here and abandoned it in the middle of the corridor. It sat on its side, a metal skeleton half-swallowed by shadows.

“How the hell has that got in here?” I muttered.

I paused, took my phone out, and opened Spirit Talker—the app I use on investigations, not because I think it’s infallible, but because sometimes the weirdness lines up too well to ignore.

“If there are any spirits that want to communicate with me today,” I said, speaking into the dark, “my name’s Adam. Can you tell me your name?”

The app was silent. So was the corridor.

Then a single word flashed on the screen.

Freeze.

I huffed a surprised laugh. “It is quite cold down here,” I said, breath clouding faintly. “If that’s what you mean…”

My footsteps echoed softly as I moved forward. The torch beam skimmed over the bricks, catching flickers of graffiti, old stains, lengths of pipe threaded along the ceiling like metal vines.

“I think this was used for the cellars back in the day,” I said.

Ahead, the corridor tightened, turning into a tunnel. My light pushed into it and found only more darkness.

“Can you tell me your name,” I asked again, “or why you’re still here?”

Cobwebs brushed my face. I flinched, instinctively wiping at my skin, but when I swung the torch up, I couldn’t see any webs. Just brick, shadow, and the emptiness of somewhere people stopped coming a long time ago.

“This place is absolute vibes,” I whispered. “Creepy, but vibes.”

Long corridors branched off, each one feeling like it might lead to something I wasn’t altogether sure I wanted to find. But the basement could wait. The real heart of the place—the ballrooms, the bars, the mirrors people talked about—that was above.

“We’ll try and get upstairs so we can investigate,” I said. The microphone on my camera picked up the slight tremor in my voice better than I wanted it to.

Backtracking through the maze of passages, I tried to ignore the sense that in some of the blind corners, something had just stepped back into shadow to avoid my torch.

At one point, I clearly heard the floor creak. A single, distinct footstep on what sounded like wood, not stone.

I stopped dead.

“Hello?” I called. My voice bounced back at me, thinner than before.

Nothing answered.

The problem with city-center explores isn’t just ghosts. It’s people—homeless, addicts, kids looking for trouble, anyone and everyone who might have found the same way in I just did.

“I don’t mean any disrespect being here,” I called down the corridor. “I’m just here to take a look around, try and communicate with somebody. Is that okay?”

Nothing.

Silence.

I found a set of steps eventually, leading up from the basement toward faint daylight. Pizza boxes were strewn across the floor nearby. Someone had definitely been here more recently than 1815.

“People have been in here,” I muttered, stepping over the trash. “Definitely.”

I took the stairs slowly, one hand on the camera, the other resting lightly against the wall.

If someone tried to rush me, I at least wanted to know which way they were coming from.

The Bar and the Warnings

The door at the top of the stairs whined open and spilled me into a low room that smelled like old beer and damp wood.

“Hello?” I called again. “If someone’s in here, I’m not the police. I don’t care if you’re here. I’m just here to explore.”

No answer, apart from my voice rattling around the rafters.

Right ahead of me was a bar.

Taps stood in a dusty row, their handles still marked with brands that had gone out of fashion. Behind the bar, old optics clung to the wall, empty glass bottles still clipped into their cradles as if expecting another night’s work.

It felt wrong seeing them so still.

“Check out the old bar taps,” I murmured. “Optics, all still here…”

My torch caught the gleam of another staircase leading up. But before I climbed again, I checked the corners: behind the bar, behind the doors, behind anything big enough for a person to hide behind.

The last thing I wanted was someone high or desperate lunging out of the dark.

Satisfied I was alone—at least in the conventional sense—I headed upward.

The next level was different.

Daylight filtered in through high, filthy windows, softened by dust and the stain of age. I could feel the building breathing more up here, like I’d come up from underwater into a thicker, stranger atmosphere.

My phone vibrated faintly in my pocket. I pulled it out.

She’s dangerous, the app read.

I stared at the screen.

“She’s dangerous,” I repeated quietly. “Who is she?”

My eyes flicked automatically to the nearest doorway, expecting to see someone standing there. There was no one. Just a corridor, its floor warped and splintered, leading deeper into the building.

“Hello?” I called. “Is anyone in here?”

Silence. The kind that listened.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I added. “Just to investigate the place.”

No reply from the air.

But Spirit Talker chimed again.

Doomed.

“That’s… reassuring,” I muttered.

The corridor opened into a wider space—the entrance hall. Even in its decayed state, it was beautiful. Stained glass windows glowed faintly above the doors, their colors muted. Posters still clung to the walls, their edges curling.

Irish Sea Sessions, one said. Discovering the Liverpool Irish… the rest of the text had faded beyond reading.

Another poster near a mirror advertised something called “Presence Beyond Mirrors.”

I frowned.

“Present? Presence? Beyond mirrors…” I mused. “Well, that’s not ominous at all.”

Above the double doors, more stained glass tried its best to filter the weak daylight into patterns. The floor beneath me bounced in places, the joists exhausted from years of neglect.

While I admired the entrance hall, Spirit Talker lit up again.

She screams.

“Who do you mean?” I asked quietly. “Who are you referring to? Is there somebody I should be wary of in this place? Someone that doesn’t want me here?”

No answer.

But the app wasn’t done.

She screams again, it added.

The back of my neck prickled.

I carried on, following a corridor toward what had once been the main ballroom.

Mirrors lined parts of the wall, each one dusty and streaked, reflecting warped versions of the room. Every so often, as I passed, I caught my own shape distorted in them: pale face, torch beam, camera, and behind me nothing but empty air.

“Positive,” Spirit Talker chimed suddenly.

“That’s… a change of tone,” I said, half under my breath.

Then I stepped into the main hall and forgot the app for a moment.

The Ballroom That Remembers

“Jesus,” I breathed. “Check this out…”

The room was immense.

Even stripped of light and life, it was stunning. High ceilings were edged with intricate plasterwork, still clinging on in most places. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like crystal skeletons, their arms tangled with cobwebs, their glass pendants dusty but intact. Long windows, much taller than any person, bled a weak grey light through grime and broken panes.

At the far end, a stage-like area connected to a bar. Over the entrance to that bar was a sign: JFK Bar.

“Walk forward,” Spirit Talker urged.

“I am,” I said, taking careful steps across the uneven floor.

An inscription below the JFK sign noted the years: 1917–1963. On the wall hung a framed picture of John F. Kennedy himself, flanked by the American and Irish flags. The colors had faded, but his gaze still had that strange mix of charm and distance he was famous for.

“Okay,” I said, standing near the picture. “If there’s anybody that would like to speak to me, can you come towards my voice? Can you let me know that you’re here?”

Sinful, the app flashed.

“Sinful,” I repeated. “Can you tell me your name or why you’re still here? I’d really appreciate it.”

I meant it.

This was the core of what I did. Not the views, not the thumbnails, not even the thrills. I wanted to understand. To listen. To give some attention to places and presences that had been left behind.

“If you need any help or anything,” I added, “I’ll gladly try and help you. You can use my energy to communicate.”

The app chimed again.

She screams. She’s dangerous.

I swallowed.

“Can you tell me where she is?” I asked. “I’d like to try and speak to her if that’s possible.”

Soon, Spirit Talker responded.

A chill slipped down my spine.

Another word appeared.

Here.

“Is she aware that I’m here?” I asked the empty space. “This woman who doesn’t want me here?”

We know, the app replied.

I stood very still.

The room was silent—too silent for a building this size in the middle of a city. Outside, I knew cars were moving past, people were heading home from work, a whole modern world was vibrating with life.

In here, all of that might as well have been miles away.

“Are you aware that you’ve passed away?” I asked quietly. “Are you aware that you are spirit now? That you died?”

End, popped up on the screen.

Again.

End.

“Would you like to move away from this place?” I tried. “Move on? Are you able to?”

Something dripped, somewhere in the building.

It took me a moment to realize that made no sense.

It hadn’t rained in days. The room was bone dry. Yet there, again, the faint sound of water falling onto stone came from somewhere over my left shoulder.

I turned. Nothing. Just cracked plaster and shadow.

Right, Spirit Talker said.

“Is that you that I can hear now?” I asked. “Is that you making that sound?”

I am, the app replied.

My skin tightened.

I decided it was time to bring out more equipment.

The Man in the JFK Bar

I set up in the JFK Bar.

It felt like the right kind of place to start a more focused session: open to the main ballroom, doors behind me, multiple lines of sight. I put a REM pod—a small device that lights up and beeps when something breaks its electromagnetic field—on the bar, along with my camera and the Spirit Talker still running on my phone.

“Okay, explorers,” I said softly, sitting on a bar stool. “We’re going to begin in the JFK Bar. If there’s anybody in this room that wants to communicate with me, as I said, my name’s Adam. I come here respectfully. You can use my energy, and I’d like to hear from you.”

Spirit Talker buzzed.

Anton, it said.

“Anton,” I repeated. “Anton, is that your name? Are you here alone or is there more here with you?”

All right, the app replied, then flashed his name again.

“Okay, Anton,” I said. “If this is you, can you tell me why you’re still here?”

Fight.

My eyes flicked up to the room around me.

“Did you pass away here?” I asked quietly. “Maybe in a bar fight? I haven’t seen any records of that, but I can look it up.”

The next word came quickly.

Eighteen.

“Is that how many are here?” I asked. “Maybe your age?”

Legend, Spirit Talker said.

This time, it came through in a voice—female, faint, but unmistakable. The word itself was garbled, but the tone was there.

“Can you tell me the female’s name?” I asked.

Ma’am, the app printed.

My skin prickled.

“Is that what people called you?” I asked the room. “Did you work here? Is that what people called you—Ma’am?”

Mom, it answered. Then: It.

“Oh my god,” I breathed. “So you spoke to, saw, interacted with John F. Kennedy—is that what you’re saying?”

Me on next, came the reply.

“Is there people waiting to come through?” I asked, half joking, half not. “If the person wants to come, they can come through. You can speak to me. As many people as want to, just try and be clear.”

Knocks sounded somewhere in the building—one, two, from different directions.

“Who’s making those knocks?” I asked. “I’m in the bar area.”

Newcomer, Spirit Talker said. Then: Me.

“I am a newcomer,” I agreed. “Are you local to this place? Is this your local drink house? Your bar?”

The screen stayed stubbornly quiet for a moment.

Then another word.

Dark.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

“Everything’s just… gone very dark,” I muttered. “Are you making it dark in here?”

After we…, the app began, the rest of the sentence too garbled to interpret.

Arms, it added.

“Can you reach out?” I asked. “Maybe touch me. Maybe knock on something in here. Knock on this picture of JFK.”

Nothing touched me.

But the tension in the air thickened like fog.

I decided to switch tools. I pulled out the PSB-11 spirit box—a device that rapidly scans radio frequencies, producing white noise intercut with fragments of stations. The idea is that spirits can manipulate those fragments to form words.

Static filled the bar. I let it run for a few seconds, then spoke.

“I’m waiting for Ma’am to come through,” I said. “The lady that occupies this space. Can she come through now?”

Static hissed, punctuated by occasional snaps of half-caught music and voices.

“Is there anybody that would like to communicate with me in this room?” I asked. “Anyone with a message to pass on, maybe?”

For a while, there was nothing but the crackle.

Then, through the noise, in a distinct woman’s voice, I heard:

“Adam.”

I froze.

“So you heard my name,” I said slowly. “Is there anything you’d like to say to me?”

The spirit box sputtered, then fell into noise again. Somewhere behind me, the building creaked like an old ship.

“Would you like to be left alone?” I asked.

“Maybe,” a voice muttered inside the static.

“Make that noise again,” I urged.

I didn’t know if I was tripping or if something really had spoken, but I knew what I’d heard: my name, clear, in a woman’s voice. The one, presumably, who apparently didn’t want anyone here.

“Would you like me to leave?” I asked.

The spirit box hissed.

“Tell me why you’re still here,” I said, slightly more firmly. “Tell me why you can’t leave. Say my name again. Confirm that it’s you.”

Somewhere in the room, wood popped as it settled. The sound of distant music threatened to creep into the scan—snatches of melody, but never more than a second before the device swept it away.

“Do you see the red light on the bar?” I asked. “If you’d like a drink, would you like to touch that red light?”

I waited.

The REM pod stayed quiet. The bar remained dark.

“I’m trying,” a female voice whispered faintly through the static.

My skin crawled.

The Girl Boss in the Ballroom

The next phase of the investigation had to happen in the main ballroom.

I set devices around the space: cat balls—small plastic balls that light up when touched—for visual feedback, the REM pod in the center, and a “dead bell,” an old-style metal bell that rings with the faintest flick of energy or vibration.

I switched to another app—a necrometer-type program that, like Spirit Talker, would generate words, but sounded different enough to give me some triangulation.

“Okay, explorers,” I said softly, walking through the hall. “We’ve come into the ballroom now. I’ve set some devices out—couple of cat balls, the REM pod, the dead bell. We’re going to try the necrometer, listen out for stuff. Hopefully, we can make contact with somebody.”

The room was even more eerie in near-silence. My camera did surprisingly well in the low light, but to my eyes, the edges of the room looked permanently out of focus, as if the darkness itself were thicker there.

“So,” I said, “the spirit that I’ve been communicating with so far—can you come through? Speak to me in this room?”

The necrometer crackled, then spoke a single word.

“Yes.”

“Tell me why you’re still here,” I asked. “Why can’t you leave? Is there a reason?”

A pause.

“Yes,” it said again.

“Would you like to leave?” I asked.

Silence. Then: “No.”

“You said eighteen earlier,” I reminded whatever might be listening. “Was that an age? Or was that how many people are here?”

No answer.

“Now,” I said, “if you’d like me to leave, you can let me know somehow. Maybe touch one of the devices. These little balls here just light up. They don’t hurt. They won’t disturb you. They are just indicators for me to know if you’re here.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then, to my left, one of the cat balls flashed to life—bright, sudden color in the gloom.

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely. “Can you use your voice, or stamp your feet? Maybe make a knock? Is that possible?”

I waited.

“I sense your presence,” the necrometer announced.

“Well, that’s good,” I said. “Could you manifest yours for me? I’d really like to know who I’m speaking with. Really like to know if you mind me being here…”

“Not likely,” it replied.

“So, you don’t like me being here?” I asked. “Does my presence bother you?”

“Crime,” it said.

“My presence is a crime?”

“Hilltop.”

I blinked.

“That’s weird,” I said slowly. “We are on the higher end of the city…”

The cat ball flashed again.

“Crying,” the necrometer added. “Early.”

“I’m early?” I asked. “Were you expecting me to come at night? My theory is if it’s haunted, it’s haunted. It doesn’t matter what time. Is that why you were saying you were resting earlier?”

“Speaking,” came the reply.

“Are you speaking? Is this the woman speaking now? The one that said she may not want me here? Are you in charge? Do you run this place? Do you look after this place?”

No “yes” came. No “no”.

But the sense of being regarded—that grew.

“I’m not here to damage,” I said softly. “I’m not here to disrespect the place. I feel like you’re not going to do anything I ask tonight, are you? Today. I feel like the vibe I’m getting is a confident woman. In charge. Girl boss, you know what I mean?”

The necrometer responded almost immediately.

“Leave something,” it said. “Record the voices. Leave something. Record the voices.”

“Do you want… like a gift?” I asked slowly. “I can leave you this cat ball, if you want—the one that you’ve set off.”

Around us, the ballroom listened.

“I am recording the voices, by the way,” I added. “Exactly like you said.”

Footsteps sounded faintly, from somewhere I couldn’t locate exactly—too soft to be definite, too loud to ignore.

I tried one more time.

“Okay,” I said. “Can you set one of these devices off in front of me? I don’t think she’s going to do anything I ask,” I added to the camera, half amused despite how on edge I felt. “I think she’s girl bossing.”

“Hank,” the necrometer reported.

“Well, my name’s Adam,” I replied.

The device went quiet.

The room didn’t.

I heard my name again—not through the necrometer, not through the spirit box, but in the space itself.

“Adam,” a woman’s voice whispered.

My heart thudded against my ribs.

“Adam,” the necrometer repeated, almost on cue. “Adam is restless.”

My mouth went dry.

“That’s twice,” I said slowly. “On two different devices. Adam. Adam is restless. And I am getting restless. No way…”

“Adam,” the voice repeated, more distinct now, like someone standing just behind my left shoulder.

I turned. Nothing there.

“She is a girl boss,” I said, half hysterical laugh bubbling up to cover how rattled I was. “Independent, strong woman. That’s the vibe. I don’t think she’s going to do anything I ask. I think she’s going to do things on her own time. I think this is her putting me in my place.”

Leave something. Record the voices.

She was telling me what to do.

I looked around the ballroom one last time.

“What would you like me to leave?” I asked.

No answer.

“Well, I’m not leaving you the bell,” I said gently. “I can’t leave you the bell, unfortunately, as I need that to speak to other people.”

“I am inspired,” the necrometer said.

“You’re inspired?” I asked. “Can you use your voice in the natural world, in my world, so I can hear you? Is that possible? Can you whistle?”

“Wait and see,” it replied.

I believed it.

The next section of the investigation, I knew, had to happen back where the building was at its worst.

The basement.

Running in the Dark

I didn’t want to go back down there.

The ballroom, for all its eerie grandeur and demanding spirits, still had light. Space. Breathing room.

The basement did not.

“Okay, explorers,” I said as I headed down the narrow stairwell, torch beam cutting through damp air. “We’ve come down to the basement. A lot of noises down here. Very dark, very eerie. Not a big fan of it, to be honest.”

The corridors seemed tighter this time. The darkness more absolute. The damp smell intensified, rich with mold and something vaguely metallic beneath it.

I switched on an old favorite for Halloween investigations: the Necrophonic app. It functions like a spirit box without the sweeping radio noise, instead layering pre-cut audio samples that can (in theory) be manipulated more directly.

“Okay,” I said, standing in the center of a junction of corridors. “If there’s anyone down in this basement that wants to communicate, now’s your chance before I leave. Come and use your voice.”

Static. Whispering textures. Half-voices that weren’t quite words.

“Would you like me to leave?” I asked.

A breathy voice hissed through the audio.

“Yes.”

My pulse kicked.

“Is that you that I just heard?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to move on from this place?” I tried. “Move away from here?”

Another voice, harsher, snapped through.

“Get away.”

“Hi,” I said reflexively, stupidly. “Why are you still here?”

Voices layered over each other, fragments stitching themselves into something almost coherent:

“Why… still… here…”

“Who was it that said my name?” I pressed. “Upstairs? The woman who said my name?”

The corridor seemed to constrict around me.

“I’ve got such a horrible feeling down here,” I said to the camera. “Such a horrible feeling. I need to get out of here.”

I took a few steps back, aware that every instinct in my body was telling me to leave, now.

“So,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, “whoever is here—if you do want to move on, you can use my energy. You cannot follow me out of this place, but you can go toward the light.”

“Burn,” a voice snarled through the speaker.

“Can you confirm that you understand?” I asked. “Can you confirm that you understand you can’t follow me?”

The app crackled, then dropped into a deep, unnatural silence. Not the natural quiet of an abandoned cellar. Something else.

My heart was hammering in my ears now.

“Okay, guys,” I said, the veneer cracking. “I’m literally freaking out down here. I’m freaking out down here…”

I started moving toward the stairs.

Somewhere behind me, in one of the side corridors, something moved.

Not a creak.

Not a drip.

Running.

Clear, fast, unmistakable running footsteps, pounding along the corridor directly toward me.

I didn’t look back.

Whatever was behind me, it wasn’t interested in subtlety anymore. The sound closed the distance in seconds—impossible, deeper and bigger than any one person’s footsteps should have been in that confined space.

“What the—” My voice vanished in the rush of adrenaline.

I bolted.

Up the stairs, torch beam jerking wildly, free hand grasping at the banister. My boots hammered the steps in time with the pounding behind me, then overtook it as I threw myself up and out of the basement, into the half-light of the upper corridors.

I didn’t stop until I was back in the entrance hall, chest heaving, every sense straining for the sound of pursuit.

Nothing.

No running. No voices.

Just the building, calm and watchful, as if it hadn’t just chased me out of its underbelly.

I stood there for a long moment, listening to my own breathing echo off the walls.

“Whatever still lingers inside these walls,” I said eventually, “doesn’t want to be forgotten.”

After the Dance Stops

When I stepped back outside, the city slammed into me like a wave.

Cars. Music from a passing taxi. Someone laughing down the street. A busker’s guitar. All the little pieces of noise that make up a living place.

Behind me, the Wellington Rooms sat in its own gravity, a tide pool of another time.

I turned back to look at it.

The windows reflected the city, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I stared long enough, I’d see someone else staring back. A woman in white, perhaps, searching the ballroom for a partner who never turned up. A bartender named Anton, caught forever in the aftermath of a fight. A sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued girl boss of a spirit who insisted on telling me what to do.

Leave something.

Record the voices.

“The laughter, the music,” I said to the camera, “they’ve long faded. But something still moves in the dark corners of the Wellington Rooms. Maybe the spirits of Liverpool’s past are still dancing. Or maybe something much darker has taken its place.”

I thought of the running footsteps hammering up the corridor behind me. The way my name had come through, twice, on two different devices. The sudden darkness in the bar. The insistent, almost managerial quality of the woman’s presence, as if she were less a ghost and more the building’s very will.

“If you felt or saw something I didn’t,” I added, “let me know down in the comments.”

On the screen of my camera, the building looked flat. Two-dimensional. Tame.

In my memory, it still pulsed.

“And make sure you’re subscribed,” I finished, “because the investigations are far from over.”

I turned the camera off.

For a moment, I just stood there, watching the building.

Behind its walls, the empty ballroom waited. The chandeliers hung motionless. The JFK Bar collected dust. Mirrors held echoes of people who weren’t there anymore. In the basement, corridors twisted under the city like buried veins.

Maybe, even now, a woman’s voice whispered a name that wasn’t mine, somewhere deeper in the house. Maybe footsteps echoed across the empty floorboards, answering music no one else could hear.

The Wellington Rooms weren’t just abandoned.

They were occupied.

Just… not by the living.

I slung my gear over my shoulder and stepped back into the flow of the city. Traffic swallowed me. People brushed past without knowing they were walking around a pocket of haunted air.

Behind me, the Wellington Rooms kept their secrets.

For now.