In “Effie,” a skeptical guest checks into the infamous Skirvin Hotel in Oklahoma City. A beautiful hotel, but with a dark story. Here, Effie, a tragic maid from the early 1900s, is said to haunt the halls, terrifying guests with eerie noises and fleeting apparitions. Soon, what begins as a cozy evening with dinner and drinks takes a chilling turn. Was it Effie haunting the hotel? Or something else?
The Skirvin Hotel in Oklahoma City had a reputation for hauntings. Built in 1911, the hotel was infamous among NBA players and travelers alike, who spoke of strange and unexplained encounters there.
The most persistent story was of Effie, a young maid who, in the early days, had an affair with the hotel’s founder, W.B. Skirvin. When her pregnancy was discovered, she was confined to a top-floor room, her cries ignored until, in despair, she leaped from a window to her death.
Guests swore they heard her sobs echoing through the halls, felt unseen hands brush their skin, or saw objects slide across tables without reason. Some claimed to have glimpsed a young woman, her face pale and eyes hollow, staring from the shadowed corners.
I even know NBA players, grown men, who refused to stay on the top floors, claiming they had sleepless nights filled with footsteps and whispers.
The hotel’s history only deepened the dread: a speakeasy during Prohibition, it had been a haven for gangsters and politicians, standing shuttered for over a decade. Its old halls had served as a playground for urban explorers before a lavish renovation brought it back to life.
Yet the stories of Effie remained.
I arrived at the Skirvin in the evening. The lobby gleamed with polished marble and crystal chandeliers. Dinner at the hotel’s restaurant was a delight—steak and a glass of red wine—followed by a nightcap at the piano bar, where a jazz melody floated through the air.
My partner, Alex, and I laughed off the ghost stories as we headed to our room on the tenth floor, a spacious suite with heavy drapes and an antique charm. I settled in and fell asleep easily.
At some point, I dreamed of a shadowy figure moving through the room. In the dream, I simply watched it glide across. It lingered for a bit at the foot of the bed, silent, watching.
I woke with a start, my heart thudding, expecting the dream to fade. But the room was dark, and there, beside my bed, stood a human-shaped shadow—tall, still, its edges soft but unmistakable.
I was awake, too awake, the details of the room sharp: the faint hum of the air conditioner, the weight of the blankets, Alex’s steady breathing beside me. This was no dream.
I reached out to see if it was real. My hand grasped what seemed like its left arm, and I pulled. The figure collapsed onto the bed, its weight pressing across my upper legs. A chill radiated from it, seeping into my skin.
I shouted, bolting upright, shoving at the shadow with both hands. It dissolved under my touch, leaving only a faint pressure in the air, like a sigh.
My partner woke in a panic. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“It was… something,” I said, my eyes looking around the dark room. “A figure. Right here. It fell on me.”
He fumbled for the bedside lamp, flooding the room with light. Nothing. The room was empty. But Alex’s face was pale. “I heard noises all night,” he admitted, his voice low. “Footsteps. Like someone walking. I thought it was you getting up, but you were asleep.”
Effie, the maid… her tragic end. Was it her?
“Let’s check the hall,” I said, needing to move, to do something. Alex hesitated but followed, grabbing his phone as a flashlight. The hallway was silent, the carpet dampening our steps.
The antique sconces cast dim pools of light, but at the far end, near the stairwell, a faint glow—not electric, but soft, pale, like moonlight trapped in mist.
The light coalesced into a shape—a woman. Her hair fell in loose waves. Her face was blurred, but her eyes were wide, hollow, and fixed on me. She raised a hand, pointing not at me but past me, toward the room we’d left.
“Alex,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Do you see her?”
He nodded, his breath shallow. The woman—Effie, it had to be—moved toward us. Her mouth opened, and a low, keening sound filled the air, not a scream but a warning, urgent and raw. She pointed again, more insistently, back toward our room. I took a step back.
Before I could speak, the temperature plummeted, the hallway darkening as if the lights were failing. A new presence—not Effie, but something else, something formless, like a stain spreading everywhere.
The woman lunged forward, her cold hands pushing at my chest, not to harm but to urge me back, away from the thing creeping closer. The darkness seemed to coil around her, as if trying to smother her light.
“Run,” I whispered to Alex, grabbing his arm.
We stumbled back to the room. The door slammed behind us, and I locked it, my hands shaking.
“She wasn’t trying to scare us,” I said. “Effie wasn’t the threat. She was warning us. Trying to make us leave.”
Alex’s eyes widened. “Warning us about what?”
It wasn’t a ghost, not like her. It was older, deeper, a malevolence that didn’t belong to the human world. Effie’s story—the tragic maid, the leap from the window—could all be connected?
I don’t think she was haunting the hotel out of vengeance. She was trapped here along with something far worse, something that clung to the Skirvin’s bones like a curse.
Dawn was hours away. The city outside was quiet, the hotel silent. But as I stared at the door, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still there, pressing against the lock, waiting for us to open it again.
