The Stanley Hotel, Colorado – Room 217
Under the Stanley’s looming gaze,
where the pines conspire and hush
Grand facade shivers in the blue of night,
moonlight slick as a blade’s rush
Windows flicker secrets, curtains breathing in the chill
Floorboards creak with memory, stairwells groan with will
Some say the walls remember every scream and secret kiss
That the very air grows heavy with every legend told amiss
Corridors stretch in endless gloom, old carpet bruised with stain
Whispers climb the wallpaper, ghostly laughter thick as rain
Shadows lengthen, doubling back, devouring every beam
The Stanley’s pulse is fevered, running wild beneath the dream
In the hush of the hallway, footsteps echo out of time
Shoes too light for flesh, too patient for a crime
Room 217 breathes hunger–locks rattle on their own
Keys turn in empty doorknobs, and no one sleeps alone
Here, the past sits up in bed, eyes hollowed by regret
Unfinished conversations, debts the living can’t forget
Objects drift across the dresser, a glass shudders in the gloom
A suitcase unpacks itself and fills the haunted room
Sheets twist with cold that isn’t air, but memory coming near
The dead have never left this place–they only linger here
Downstairs, the ballroom simmers, light flickering on the floor
Mirrors catch the movements of dancers lost in yore
A waltz unfolds for no one, dust swirling through the crowd
Phantoms in their finest, heads bent but never bowed
Each spin and dip is silent, save the rattle of the breeze
Yet music trails behind them, notes floating like disease
Sometimes the chandelier will tremble, glass chiming in the dark
As if the room itself remembers every lover, every mark
All the lost and desperate nights,
all the deals and dirty schemes
All are pressed between the boards and wound around their dreams
Welcome to your nightmare, where comfort turns to doubt
Where the lights stutter warnings that you shouldn’t figure out
Your shadow grows a backbone, learns to walk ahead
Something’s watching from the closet, underneath the bed
The scent of roses long dead drifts up through vent and seam
A woman’s voice, cold and cracked, cuts through any dream
Touch the mirror, feel it pulse–a surface never clean
A hundred faces flicker, sharp and cruel and mean
The air is always listening, the silence tastes of fear
In every corner of the Stanley, the past is always near
Some say King wrote of madness, but madness wrote him back
Dreams bled out onto pages, paint peeling on every crack
No matter who you are, or how brave you claim to be
There’s a part of you the hotel wants–a part you’ll never see
Night stretches longer here, the moon seems slow to rise
Dawn brings no mercy, only memories and lies
Once you check into this place, you check into your mind
And not everyone who wanders leaves their shadow behind
You’ll hear the suitcase sliding, the bed creak without touch
You’ll wake to icy breathing and a grip that’s just too much
Stand at the window, look out across the pines
The world beyond feels distant, cut off by ancient signs
Inside the Stanley, everything is real–every rumor, every fright
Room 217 is waiting, hungry for your night
Whispers never soften, footsteps never fade
This grand old haunted mansion was born to hold the shade
And when you leave, if you can, you’ll find you’re not alone
A piece of Stanley’s madness will follow you back home