Beyond Cuckoo

The Stanley Hotel Shines 

Unstable weather and thunderstorms came in quick succession all through the day of our Estes Park visit. In anticipation of downpours we scheduled a tour of the Stanley Hotel which inspired Stephen King to write “The Shining”. As a sensitive, I can usually tell if a place is uneasy—if it holds on to its past in an ungodly way—a place where time unusually overlaps. I assure you—the Stanley Hotel shines.

The unstable weather conditions had me on edge all day. Combined with altitude sickness I felt out-of-sorts, unbalanced, and edgy. We had brought ebikes (electric bicycles that have a pedal assist feature) in hopes of touring the town. The first ride we chose was to pedal around the lake and we parked at the visitors’ center. Wet cement, a sudden downpour and my instability resulted in me taking a tumble.

“Are you okay?” Blake asked as he pulled me out from under my bike.

“I can’t do this—not today,” I replied and unexpectedly began to cry. I couldn’t catch my breath and I felt like I had swallowed a bowling ball. Blake looked disappointed, but I couldn’t overcome my fear and we reloaded the RV’s bike rack. “Let’s take a walk instead, okay?”

“You’re shaking,” Blake said. His puzzled expression made the statement sound like a question. A question like what the hell just happened? I didn’t know, so we walked until the sky opened again and we went inside the center. We lingered long enough for our scheduled tour to be ready and drove to the hotel. Feeling better I readied my camera for photos and kept breathing. The pressure had risen from my gut to my chest as I climbed out of the camper.

“Better bring the raincoats,” Blake said as he opened the side door and climbed inside to emerge wearing his jacket and handing me mine. As I pulled my arms through the sleeves a bright light caught my eye.

“Look, my bike is still on.”

“What?”

“The headlight on my bike is on, look!”

Blake fiddled with the on and off switch, but each time he turned the bike off, it came back on. He finally threw a plastic garbage bag over the light, while I turned to watch an ambulance pull up in front of the main entrance.

“I’ll mess with this later,” he said. “At least we won’t attract attention with the light covered. C’mon, it’s time to go inside.”

“I wonder what the ambulance is for?” I said as I snapped a picture of the hotel’s taxi and turned to walk closer to the paramedics. On the ground, a middle-aged woman was refusing to get to her feet.

“Leave me alone!” she commanded. “I just need to sit here for now.”

A small crowd had formed around the lady as she waved her arms and refused to get into the ambulance. We decided that inside was a much better place to be.

“Which tour are you here for?” The smiling tour guide asked from behind a computer screen.

“The history tour,” Blake answered. “Is there a place to sit?”

“Right through those doors. There is a paranormal tour too. It’s cool. Our resident psychic does a séance and people see stuff.”

Blake turned towards me. “Which do you want to take?”

I had a solid grip on the counter top. “Nothing psychic for me. I’m already feeling spooked.”

The tour began with a short film about Freelan Stanley and his invention, The Stanley Steamer. In front of us was a glass bookcase that displayed autographed copies of Stephen King’s books, which attracted more attention. Mr. King had written The Shining” after his and his wife Tabitha’s stay in room 217. At the time, The Stanley closed each winter and the King’s had to insist on a room as the staff prepared to leave for the season. When they finally retired for the evening, most everyone was gone, except for the bar keeper and a few desk clerks and maids.

Soon, we filed out of the screening room to follow our guide around the place. I hung back as much as possible, taking photos and listening to stories that matched much of the novel’s dialog and scenes of what happened to Stephen that night. Apparently, Lloyd the bartender was real. He had closed his books for the year and wouldn’t take Stephen’s money when he came in for a drink. Stephen after awakening abruptly with a terrible headache and nightmares had begun to wander the halls hoping to get tired enough to sleep. The guide left most of the story to our imaginations and mine was working overtime.

I don’t consider my sensitivities as psychic. It’s more like I can pull thoughts out of the air—and the air was thick at The Stanley. The history of the place; tales about its original owner, his family, and friends were intriguing, yet I was picking up on something else. There had been others that were much more invested in the hotel—whose lives were part of it. The room numbered 217 had lost its ID plate to thieves and it lingered unobtrusively at the end of a hallway. A housekeeper in 1911 had been caught in a gas explosion in this room and nearly died. She miraculously recovered and took on a dominant role at the hotel, overlooking the care of the guest’s children and making sure they didn’t get into trouble. It is said that when she did finally die in her old age, that the next day she signed her time card as usual, which was of course, impossible. Although the Kubrick film was filmed elsewhere, Jim Carey did film parts of “Dumb and Dumber” on the premises. He tried to stay in 217 but couldn’t. The desk clerks had to arrange for other accommodations when he appeared in his pajamas demanding another room, in another building.

Well, these stories go on and you can certainly investigate the hoopla online. I however, can’t get over the feeling of the Stanley. Thoughts of jealousy, murder, disease, and lechery ooze from the walls. Some from the time of Freelan Stanley and his adored wife, Flora, who in her later years became completely blind, but no one knew. They had been married for 63 years when she died and during the blind years, she had every inch of the hotel memorized. Her husband was constantly by her side during social events and would whisper in her ear descriptions of who was there and what was happening. I believe that she also could pull thoughts and scenes from the thick atmosphere of the Stanley. At least that’s what I felt as I approached her favorite piano. For me, the hidden power, the shine, of this hotel comes from Flora. Her beloved home marred by human struggles continues to be her legacy more than that of her famous husband. As I snapped photos and walked the premises, I felt protection for her and maybe for me too. The bike incident stopped me from venturing out in a storm. All I had to do was promise not to sleep in room 217.