When we were researching forgotten hotels of the Victorian era, one location kept resurfacing in dusty records and faded newspaper clippings the Harrington Hotel. Guests rarely requested Room 9, and those who accidentally received it often switched within hours. Rumors whispered about the oppressive silence inside, a silence that felt so heavy it pressed down on the chest.
During a winter storm in 1887, Miss Clara Pendleton checked in. All other rooms were full, forcing her into the notorious chamber. At first, nothing seemed unusual, aside from a single portrait on the far wall a stern gentleman with eyes painted so meticulously they seemed alive. Clara felt uneasy, as though the man studied her.
Near midnight, a sound broke the silence soft weeping, drifting from the portrait itself. Clara approached with a candle, and her breath caught in her throat. The portrait's painted eyes previously open were now closed. On his cheeks were painted tears.
Before she could scream, the figure stepped out of the canvas, becoming almost solid. The man still crying reached toward her and whispered, Free me. Then he vanished, leaving the painting blank. The hotel sealed Room 9 the next morning, and the portrait has never been seen again.
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