TALES FROM THE UNVISITED: A NIGHT AT THE TIMESMARK

It’s the month of October, and we know what that means. Scary stories! So, join me for a frightening tale about a luxury hotel without any luxuries.

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It was a cool Thursday evening in autumn as Rita Breckinridge aimlessly paced the halls of her home in frustration. She and her significant other had finally decided to take a much-needed break. Life, it seemed, was in a serious ebb. The walls of her home provided no solace, as they represented a time with a love now lost. After years together, all her friends were “their friends.” A night out with them would be tantamount to an unwelcomed therapy session. Work was driving her to the point of near madness. So, it offered no distraction. What she needed was a bit of “me time” … Some time away from it all.

She soon concluded that a staycation was in order. Deciding to treat herself, she recalled stories from her youth of a luxury hotel by the name of The Timesmark—once regarded for its grandeur and prestige—that was but only a few hours’ drive. Focused almost entirely on her career and appeasing her former partner—who was not necessarily drawn to life’s decadences like The Timesmark—she had not thought of the hotel in years.

In that moment, she decided to send an email to her admin notifying her that she would be taking tomorrow off. Already feeling slightly relaxed in anticipation of the weekend ahead, she then proceeded to book a stay at The Timesmark. Still wanting solitude and hoping to avoid any unnecessary human interaction, she searched the hotel’s site for mobile check-in and mobile key options. To her surprise, these features were not offered. While choosing to see it as an oversight, she was a bit concerned as to whether this might be indicative of other disappointments to come at the legendary hotel. Not wanting to dampen the excitement, she dismissed such negative possibilities and packed a weekend bag.

CHAPTER 1: THE CHECK-IN

It was mid-Friday afternoon when Rita arrived at The Timesmark in her electric vehicle. It was a beautiful turn of the 19th century building—unbeknownst to Rita, elegantly masking the horrors that resided inside. As she pulled up, she was greeted by Valet, who welcomed her to the hotel. With only a small weekend bag, when asked if she would like assistance with her luggage, she respectfully declined. So far, so good. That is until what happened next. When she mentioned that her vehicle was low on charge and feared that she might not have enough range to make it home, she learned that the hotel does not possess an electric vehicle (EV) charging station. With a pit her stomach—which just sank—she made her way towards Reception.

As she navigated the sparsely populated, albeit grand lobby—which either paid homage to a bygone era of opulence or had not been touched since—a front desk representative soon welcomed her. The representative asked for Rita’s name, which she provided but, in typical Rita fashion, insisted that she be addressed by her first name. Rita’s pleasantry apparently went unnoticed by the representative who, without interruption, continued to complete the check-in process.

Slightly rubbed, Rita looked past the representative and noticed a wall full of plaques. Hotel of the Year. Five-Star Hotel. There must have been at least ten. The inconveniences and missteps thus far must have been one-offs, Rita rationalized. Despite her waning optimism, Rita felt reassured in her choice of accommodations as she gazed upon the commendations. It was then that she noticed that the last plaque was from 1989! A slight faintness took hold.

Managing to maintain her composure—and despite really wanting to retreat to her room in isolation—Rita attempted to strike up a conversation, believing it rude to avoid such social pleasantries. She began to share how she was in desperate need of relaxation and rejuvenation. The representative—who addressed her as miss (not Rita, as requested) but failed to remember the last name—offered canned words of reassurance and encouragement, and then, as if needing to get back on script, continued with the check-in process.

Rita was then informed that Housekeeping only services rooms every other day and upon checkout. Meaning that since the room was serviced prior to her arrival, and Rita would only be staying two nights, it would not be tended to during her stay. Now outwardly miffed and failing to see why she would not have just stayed home if she wanted to sleep on old sheets and repeatedly use towels—heck, at least her home had a charging station for her car—she requested that her room be cleaned throughout her stay. Learning that the hotel was short-staffed, but the request would be made with no guarantees, Rita abandoned the idea of small talk and focused on getting through the check-in process as quickly as possible.

She could not help but ruminate on how many of the unpleasantries she had experienced thus far could have been avoided with self-check-in. Luck, however, smiled upon her for the first time that day as the representative then completed the check-in process… or so she thought. Addressed yet again—and much to her irritation—as “Miss with the forgotten last name”, she was given her room key and number. And, as if the conversation about Rita’s much needed “me time” never occurred, she was invited to—ne, highly encouraged to attend—social hour at the hotel’s bar. Now with lowered expectations, Rita was hardly surprised when the invitation failed to be followed with an offer for a complimentary cocktail. Rita politely accepted the key and the invitation and headed to her quarters more frustrated than when she decided to book the trip. As if everything was covered in blood, Rita saw red!

CHAPTER 2: A LABYRINTH OF MISERY MASQUERADING AS A LUXURY HOTEL

Now in the safety of her room, which matched the impressiveness of the lobby, Rita thought to herself, “what else could possibly go wrong?” As the day faded, so too—she hoped—did its ills. But after the light of day (or lack thereof in Rita’s case) comes the darkness of night. And all types of atrocities lurk in the dark.

She sat her bag on the valet, grabbed a few items, and went to the restroom to freshen up. As she began to rinse her face, she remembered she had to be sparing with the towels, given the housekeeping situation. Overwhelmed and needing a break from her getaway, she changed her clothes, folded the sheets back, and laid across the bed attempting to decompress. With the day granting her no wins, she decided to retrieve a book from her bag. As she picked up the novel which she had been intending to finish for over a year, she found herself unable to concentrate. The day’s trials replayed in a loop.

Each incident chipping away at her sanity. No mobile check-in. No EV charging. No housekeeping. “Miss forgotten last name”. Need to be alone? Why not come down for social hour?! Before long, she realized that she had been replaying the incidents, not in her mind but, aloud. Fortunately for her, she was alone and there were no witnesses to see her hysterics. Mumbles turned to giggles. Giggles turned to uncontrollable laughter. She was cracking up—pun intended.

Snapping herself out of it, she put the book aside and decided that some form of mindless entertainment might help. As she turned on the TV, she was horrified to find basic cable. Basic cable! The visual equivalent of elevator music! She scrambled for her phone, thinking of the countless apps that might “save the day”. Poor cell signal. She retrieved the key envelope in hopes of finding the Wi-Fi login information and—surprise, surprise—it was nowhere to be found. She grabbed the room phone and called the front desk for assistance. No answer. It was inconsequential since the only Wi-Fi signal belonging to the hotel had weaker strength than her cell service.

Giving up on mindless entertainment, Rita put on a swimsuit and went to explore the property, planning to take a nighttime swim in the indoor pool followed by dinner and a massage. As she walked the property, she stumbled upon the indoor pool, but found the doors to be locked. There was no sign or perceivable reason as to why she could not have this one small thing. Frustrated, Rita made a beeline for Reception.

When she arrived, she was greeted by the same representative from earlier. When she inquired about the indoor pool, she was told that it was closed for renovation—although nothing was visibly wrong with the pool at that moment. The representative offered the outdoor pool, oblivious to the chilly fall weather.

Ignoring the absurdity of the suggestion of an outdoor swim, Rita proceeded to book time at the spa. The representative raved about the spa and applauded “Miss forgotten last name’s” decision. An appointment was then made for Sunday afternoon. When Rita reminded the representative that it was both only Friday and that she was checking out on Sunday, she learned that the spa had a single masseuse and esthetician. Unfortunately, they must be booked in advance, as they were contracted from a third-party spa offsite. Further, the massage therapist had unfortunately taken the night off, since there were no appointments scheduled, and was fully booked on Saturday. In hopes of working with another masseuse, when Rita inquired about taking the hotel’s shuttle to the offsite spa—remembering that her vehicle was low on charge— she was told that the spa was outside of the shuttle’s complimentary driving radius.

The representative then inquired as to whether keeping the Sunday reservation was of interest and recommended, yet again, that evening’s social hour—taking place at that very moment in the hotel’s main bar—as a substitute for the evening swim and massage. Refusing to even acknowledge the question about Sunday’s appointment but conceding that she could certainly use a drink, Rita asked the representative to point her to the bar.

As she sat at the bar, she noticed that the social hour was not very social. There were a handful of people in the space, all of them strangers to one another. Aside from maybe a few drink specials, not much was seemingly done to make the event much of an experience. The saving grace, however, was that the bar was beautifully crafted and well stocked. Surely such a presentation came with an outstanding mixologist. When asked what she would like, Rita proceeded to order her favorite cocktail—a strawberry mojito. As her luck would have it, the bar was out of mint. Without saying a word, as she was feeling less sociable by the second, she raised from her seat and made her exit.

As she left the bar, she stumbled upon the restaurant and perused the menu. A magnificent selection of decadent dishes sprawled the pages. Although she was calorie conscious and everything she saw thus far fell far outside of her dietary limits, Rita, despite the many disappointments she had experienced up to that point, remained hopeful. She continued to search the menu for a dish that might fit her dietary restrictions. Alas, there was nothing. Not a single thing.

Numb to the torment, in a zombie-like trance, Rita made her way back to her room to sleep—but likely to toss and turn—the night away.

CHAPTER 3: EARLY CHECKOUT

The next morning, deciding that her weekend of pampering and self-indulgence turned out to be more stressful than the woes from which she was seeking respite, Rita packed her bag and made her way to the front desk. She waited for what seemed like forever for a representative to appear. There was no help in sight. Just the outdated plaques staring back, mocking her predicament. She had visions of hopping over the desk and ripping them off the walls. Just the thought of it gave her an inkling of the delight she had been hoping to experience that weekend.

Opting against destruction of property, she elected to place the key on the counter with a note stating that she was checking out early. As she approached Valet, she was greeted and asked how she enjoyed her stay. Exhausted, she forced a grin and said that it was “just fine.” The Valet, happy to hear the “positive feedback”, left to retrieve her car.

As the car arrived, she could not get in fast enough. She handed the Valet a few dollars and drove off towards the sunrise, unsure of whether she had enough charge to even make it back home. Though, it was of no matter. She had escaped and would take her chances. And with that, no one—at least from The Timesmark—ever saw “Miss forgotten last name” again.

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Happy Halloween, everyone.

Don’t be like The Timesmark, inadvertently torturing travelers with experiences for which there is no return—for them or you. Contact Luxe Hospitality Consulting for design, experiential, and workforce solutions.

Written by Ryon M. Jason

Ryon is a hotelier and the Founder & Principal of 1SEVENTY1 , a hotel and resort investment company whose luxury hospitality consulting division, Luxe Hospitality Consulting , provides design, experiential, and workforce solutions.