ghosts don't always want to scare you. sometimes they just want to chill.
Hotel Elliott in Astoria, Oregon
The Haunt
They called it the most haunted room, in the most haunted hotel, in one of the gloomiest cities in the country. I called ahead and begged them to save it for me. It’s always hit or miss if a hotel is going to have any patience for paranormal enthusiasts. If I plan far enough in advance, sometimes I’ll broach the subject with an email to feel them out. Mostly they never respond.
That was far from the case at Hotel Elliott. I received an email response right away confirming the haunts and offering decent pricing. I couldn’t believe my luck! It’s always a relief when an establishment leans into the ghosts, rather than denying their existence. Instead of sighs and rolled eyes, I got encouragement and stories! An actual email response! I knew right away this place would be magic.
A storm is raging as I cross the dramatic, moody Astoria-Megler bridge over the Columbia River and into town. It’s the longest truss bridge in North America, made famous by The Goonies. It feels like I’m crossing a threshold.
I find parking and lug all my ghost hunting gear through the wind and rain, up the clanky old elevator to room 307, notorious for the most spectral visitations. I begin with my baseline sweeps and photographing everything, like I always do, before exploring the rest of the building—all the common areas and basement.
The Basement
Warm and sepia-soaked, the basement speakeasy shines under historical lavender glass prisms, designed to catch the daylight from above. I have the whole place to myself, so I take my time slowly exploring every nook and cranny. Vintage film posters plaster every wall, inducing a sense of nostalgia. Tiny bistro tables are scattered throughout, invoking a timeless escape.
Despite rumors of spirits, the speakeasy proper feels quite unremarkable. It isn’t until I step into the fitness room, of all places, that I notice an extreme heaviness. I hate bright lights more than anything, but the lighting in this room feels unnaturally dim, jaundiced and sickly—as if trying to be bright and failing.
I slip around the corner and the intensity grows stronger behind a set of red velvet curtains, thick and uninviting. Shelves of ancient cigar boxes stand on display, and I wonder if they are responsible for the influx of haunted energy before I notice a “staff only” sign and whip my head around nervously, searching for security cameras. I’m terrified of breaking rules. That doesn’t usually stop me.
Vertigo and dizziness plague me as I make my way down a dark hallway towards the exit of this clandestine crevice. I flee past the exit sign, emerging into a brightly lit hallway, feeling instantly better.
My relief gets overshadowed by the oddity of this new space, seemingly built for nothing and leading to nowhere. The only furniture is an antique dresser with a giant old mirror. Something about its placement feels off.
It would make sense for the bureau to sit in the middle wall at the end of the hallway, adding a focal point and depth to the space, allowing you to view your reflection as you came towards it. Instead, it’s situated on an adjacent wall, facing nothing but the other side of the hallway. Almost discouraging people from facing the mirror directly. Creepy.
I find out later that the area I had come from was known as the cigar room. It is frequently the most active area of the basement during paranormal investigations. Despite its gorgeous display of vintage cigar boxes, it’s now kept off limits to the public.
Room 307
I take the creaky elevator back up to my room and decide to make myself at home. I open the curtains, unveiling the streets below getting pelted by rain. I lose time, staring out the window at the street lights, illuminating sheets of rain blowing sideways in the wind.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
What was that? I hear tapping on the walls. The windows start to whistle in the wind. I look over and see faint shadows by the door, but I can’t make anything out.
I get excited, but alas—I’m behind on my weekly Substack post, already a day late. I sit on the edge of the bed and get to work. As I edit, I catch small flashes of light out of the corner of my eye. A few bangs and bumps echo around me—maybe a neighbor, maybe the storm.
A blue glass lamp hangs over the sink and keeps tugging at my gaze. I swear it swings ever so slightly. Subtle—like a pendulum. But every time I look at it directly, it stops.
Things really start to pick up when I begin recording audio. I sense movement to my right, which makes me jump!
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It starts to get cold.
I reach out with my mind, sensing a young man, playful, possibly a teenager. The energy in the room is strange but oddly peaceful. Like hanging out with a friend. Like he just wants to be included.
I tell him I need to finish recording and reposition my tiny mic. At one point, I feel a nudge on my shoulder while I’m speaking. A moment later, the whole bed begins to shake, just slightly.
Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s been a long week. Maybe I’ve just spent too many nights in too many haunted places. But honestly? I’m not scared. Even with the tapping, the whistling wind, the shifting bed—there just isn’t any dread.
Haunted? Sure.
Afraid? Not at all.
It just feels like I’m chilling with a friend.
The word whimsy has been showing up a lot lately as a synchronicity. I take the hint and add it to the title of my post—”wishing and whimsy: a journey through fairy town”—a little nod to the universe. I hit Publish.
We make our way back to the window and continue watching the storm. I’m pleased as punch when I notice the Astoria Column in the distance, a massive tower perched atop Coxcomb Hill.
I know I should be pulling out my ghost hunting gear, trying to make contact. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. The vibes are so relaxed, I feel lulled into absolute tranquility. I’ve never felt anything like it—not sober anyway.
It’s nice. Pleasant. Almost like the room itself is giving me permission to let go and just be. I’ll always be grateful for this evening of intense peace.
It feels like a spa day in the middle of a haunting.
A spa day that is the haunting.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The windows start to rattle, and I notice the clock.
11:11.
Spiritual awakening. Enlightenment.
It feels like an invitation—to let go. To be present. To see the world around me with childlike imagination. To relax and enjoy the moment without feeling the need to do anything at all.
Sometimes we investigate the paranormal to reach across the veil. But sometimes, we don’t need fancy tools or equipment to experience the ghosts. Sometimes they simply show up, and meet us exactly where we are.
Tonight, the paranormal came to me. And I honestly teared up a bit, overwhelmed by the sheer release of stress and anxiety.
Me and my ghost. Two peas in a pod.
A balmy night in the middle of a torrential downpour.
An anchor in the storm.
The next morning,
I looked out my window and noticed something in the daylight I’d missed the night before: an old building labeled Bank of Astoria, and below it, in smaller letters over the doorway—Museum of Whimsy.
I packed up and said my goodbyes to Astoria from the rooftop of Hotel Elliott, watching the steel container ships travel lazily along the Columbia River.
On a whim, I wandered downtown a bit before heading to Seaside for the Oregon Ghost Conference. A piece of skeleton art caught my eye in a shop window, and I ended up buying a tiny statue that felt deeply meaningful. As I turned to leave, I noticed the name above the door: A Gypsy’s Whimsy Herbal Apothecary. A sign on the window honored the shop owner’s Romani heritage.
I couldn’t help falling in love—with Astoria’s dreary weather, its peaceful hauntings, and its whimsical synchronicities. I even spotted a few Ouija boards in more than one shop.
I’ll definitely be back.
Maybe for a visit.
Maybe to stay.
Post Script: A Friend’s Tale
Later, at the Ghost Conference, I met up with my dear friend who co-runs a paranormal investigation team in Astoria called GhostOria. Definitely check them out on Facebook if you want to see some of their investigations and review their evidence—they’re brilliant investigators who are incredibly welcoming, inclusive, and respectful.
I mentioned my night at the Elliott, and she told me they had investigated that very room. They stayed in the 307 suite, just like I did, each taking separate rooms within the suite. They brought out their equipment but weren’t getting much activity, so they decided to call it a night.
Not long after, my friend was woken by a strange tapping sound—sharp and metallic, like something rapping against metal. She was uncharacteristically rattled, which is rare for her, especially in a haunted location. She heard the tapping several times but felt too spooked to go investigate. (She’s a little embarrassed about that now, though she certainly shouldn’t be—this room seems to stir up all sorts of unusual emotions in all of us.)
She eventually traced the noise to her water bottle being tapped, but her co-investigator was fast asleep in the other room. The tapping happened repeatedly and was even captured on audio. Strangely, the video footage from their overnight camera was inexplicably corrupted.
I don’t pretend to know everything—or anything, really—about hauntings. Why are we sometimes afraid? Curious? Or relaxed out of our minds? I heard a theory on a podcast recently by
(and I’m probably oversimplifying) that we may have the ability to thin our own veils, or that we “veil ourselves,” so to speak. That stuck with me. Maybe it’s not just about “the veil is thin” as a universal state. Maybe we ourselves interact with the other side in whatever way we need to in that moment, for better or worse.Maybe we have more influence over the haunting than we realize.
All I know is I went to Hotel Elliott expecting to stay up all night talking to a ghost through a spirit box. Instead, we vegged out and watched HGTV. And even though I didn’t get any hard or fast evidence, it was still one of the most haunted places I’ve ever stayed—and also, unexpectedly, one of the happiest nights of my life.
You can also buy me a coffee if the spirit moves you:
Oh, nothing like Astoria, Oregon. Miss it everyday.
I’ve never stayed in Astoria, but I’ve driven through dozens of times on my way to Seaside or Cannon Beach, and I’ve always loved it there!