Due to the graphic nature of this haunted place, listener discretion is advised. This episode includes descriptions of child death and graphic injury. We advise extreme caution for children under 13.

Leslie raised an eyebrow when she stepped into the hotel, one of her colleagues at the auction house had recommended she come here on her trip to New Orleans, but she couldn't see why gaudy chandeliers dangled from 20 foot ceilings, tacky Palladian mirrors lined the walls and none of the Regency period furnishings were original.

The only object she found remotely interesting was a grandfather clock at the far end of the lobby. It was enormous, at least 11 feet tall and made of elaborately carved mahogany.

As she leaned in to inspect one of the carved animal heads, a face appeared in the polished surface of the wood.

Leslie spun around, a man was standing behind her, he set down a toolbox and pulled out a knife and chisel, she suddenly realized that the clock was unfinished. He was hand carving it with period tools.

No wonder it was such a convincing reproduction. She thought about tapping him on the back and complimenting his magnificent craftsmanship, but she didn't want to interrupt him. Plus, it suddenly felt like someone had cranked up the AC and she was dressed for summer in Louisiana, not Alaska, and she decided to head outside instead. But as she made her way out, Leslie realized she should get the clockmakers name. She'd like to look up as other work. So she asked the doorman.

A puzzled expression flitted across his face. He asked if she meant the man who made the clock. Leslie frowned. No, she told him she met the man who was there. Now he was inside, carving the lower right panel. The doorman replied that there better not be anyone carving that clock. It was an antique finished in 1999. Leslie gave an exasperated sigh. She turned to point out the man and her heart skipped a beat. The clock was finished and the man was nowhere to be seen.

Welcome to Haunted Places, a Spotify original fun podcast. I'm Greg Paulson. Every Thursday, I take it to the scariest, eeriest, most haunted real places on Earth. You can find all episodes of haunted places for free on Spotify and every Tuesday, make sure to check out urban legends. These special episodes of Haunted Places are available exclusively on Spotify this week. Join me on a supernatural journey to the Hotel Monteleone. Own a luxury hotel in the middle of New Orleans, historic French Quarter and discover why to this day it's haunted.

Coming up, we'll check into the Hotel Monteleone. Nicknamed the grand dame of the French Quarter, the hotel monthly own opened in 1886, at the time, it was owned by Italian nobleman and factory owner Antonio Leone, who purchased the 64 room hotel Fichter. He soon renamed it after himself. And as New Orleans evolved into a hub for tourism month, Leone expanded the hotel, adding on some 300 rooms when Antonio muchly own died. The hotel passed to his son and then on to Antonio's grandson.

Frank Monteleone eventually tore down the original building in order to construct a larger, grander hotel, complete with ballrooms, a restaurant and a very unique bar. The Carousel Lounge is a circular bar with 25 seats set around a Central Pole. The bartender served cocktails under the colorful lights of a merry go round marquee. And the best part, the whole thing revolves. Over the years, the Hotel Montoyo has gained a reputation as a magnet for some of the most famous names in American literature.

Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemingway, Eudora Welty and Truman Capote are just a few of the writers who crafted their legacies while staying at the monthly home. The hotel was a particular favorite of William Faulkner, who was said to have written the monthly own into some of his stories. And Truman Capote. He liked to claim he was born there. Perhaps there is something about the ornate halls of the hotel that inspires people to leave their mark on the world. Certainly Antonio Montanelli own cemented his legacy there, but he's not the only one.

In 1937, the head bartender at the Carousel Bar invented the Valkyrie. A classic cocktail still poured in bars around the world. And in the early 1980s, a woodworker named Antonio Puccio carved his masterwork in the hotel.

It was a unique grandfather clock that still stands in the lobby today. Puccio died in 1966, but there are some who say he never left the hotel. Visitors claim to have seen him in the lobby, still hard at work, eternally in the process of perfecting his masterpiece. Perhaps that's the dark side of being driven to create something great. There are some people who can never learn to let go. The doorman tipped his hat and wished Mr. Muchly on a good evening.

Antonio frowned.

The doorman was wearing a white shirt with short sleeves and an odd seam up the front.

That was not the uniform he'd chosen. The one he'd picked was green velvet with a white necktie and gold epaulets.

Someone had ordered new uniforms for the doorman, and Antonio had a feeling he knew who it was. His son in law, James.

It had been a little over a year since Antonio had his accident. A store had world in out of nowhere, and he'd slipped while trying to lock up the hotel.

He'd been out of commission for three weeks and had expected everything to fall apart without him.

To his surprise, James had done all right, but he had taken it upon himself to make a few changes. Ever since James stepped in, Antonio's wife and daughter had urged Antonio to take some time off.

They pointed out how smoothly James was handling the business and insisted it was fine for him to step away for just a while.

Antonio's wife wanted them to visit his childhood home in Sicily, and his daughter Stella took every opportunity to remind him of how he'd always said they'd show her Europe when he had the time. Antonio knew she meant well. They all did, but she didn't understand. Running the hotel was more than just a job for him. He had made this place his life's work. His hand was in every detail around the marble pillars in the lobby to the gold fringe.

On the doorman's epaulets, a maid polishing the windows of the restaurant waved to him.

Antonio beamed. He loved his staff, another reason to continue working. But as Antonia returned her greeting, he noticed that the restaurant doors were closed. He had told the maitre d a thousand times that the doors were to remain open. It made the place seem more welcoming. Antonio motioned to a nearby maintenance man and asked him to prop open the doors. This was exactly the reason why he couldn't take a vacation to Europe.

It was the little details that had made his hotel a success.

He certainly wasn't going to stop managing things just because he was getting a little long in the tooth.

Antonio heard the brassy sound of a jazz band start up from the other side of the hotel. He glanced at the grandfather clock near reception. It was nearly 10 30. He told James that bands at the Palm Court should be off the stage by 10, otherwise they would wake the guests.

This wasn't some Storyville saloon. It was a respectable hotel. Antonio marched across the lobby, ready to give James a piece of his mind. As he got closer, he could hear the sound of laughter and chatter underneath the music from the sound of it. The room was full of people who they wouldn't be happy that he was kicking the band off the stage, but it had to be done for the sake of their guests. He seized hold of the double doors and swung them open.

Suddenly. There was complete silence, Antonio looked around the darkened room in astonishment, there was no one there as he made his way through the sea of white tablecloths, his whole body chilled. And when he reached the stage, the door slammed shut behind him.

He froze, suddenly terrified that someone had locked him inside. His childhood in Sicily immediately made him think of the mafia. The American mob was not so scary in comparison, but there had been threats to his success before. Maybe someone was finally making good on one. Antonio turned around and breathed a sigh of relief. The doors were still open, just as he'd left them. Antonio strode back into the lobby and spotted what had made the sound somewhat had shut the doors to the restaurant again.

He sighed in frustration as he started back to open the doors himself, Antonio noticed yet another unwelcome change. But rather than making him angry, this one made him exceptionally uneasy. Hanging above the entrance was a large portrait of himself.

He recognized it, of course, but it belonged above the fireplace in his own home, not here. Antonio took a step closer. There was an odd tightening sensation in his chest who would have done this. It wasn't a good look for him to hang a portrait of himself and his own hotel. Plus, he'd never even liked that painting. It was his wife's idea to have it commissioned. She always said she would hang it in the hotel someday, in the future, someday.

When he was gone, Antonio leaned in to look at the little plaque below the painting. It read Antonio monthly on 1855 to 1913. Antonio took a step back, suddenly the room was spinning. He stumbled toward the hotel's front door and froze in horror. When he went outside, everything looked different. Suddenly, something rushed past him. It looked a little like an automobile, but not the kind of automobile he knew.

Antonio shook his head as a dense fog seemed to cloud his mind.

He was trying to remember the last time he'd seen his wife. How long had it been since his accident? The world began to spin again. He needed to sit down. Antonio walked back into the hotel. The doorman wished him a good evening again. Antonio noticed his short sleeves and the odd seam up the front of his shirt. Antonio knew someone had ordered new uniforms for the doorman, but it was well beyond 1913 and he had no idea who it was.

Success seemed to come easily to Antonio Montoyo, the son of Sicilian nobility. He moved to America around 1880 and within six years he was running one of the most respected hotels in all of New Orleans.

McClellan's life story was one of Gilded Age excess, and the hotel monthly phone was his life's work.

Visitors have speculated that Antonio's spirit may still inhabit the hotel, but he isn't the only one who has stuck around to ensure the hotel Muttley home still lives up to its former glory.

There's a maid who cleans up after housekeepers who don't meet her standards, a woodworker who comes back to tinker with his masterpiece, and a ghostly jazz band that plays all hours of the night of all of these phenomena.

However, the most unsettling is a ritual that occurs every night in the lobby. At 7:00 p.m., the locked doors of the restaurant swing open on their own. Not long afterwards, they slam shut again. In 2003, the International Society of Paranormal Research studied the phenomenon and determined that there was no logical explanation for it. Maybe it's the result of a never ending dispute between former employees. Each is determined to return the hotel the way they knew it. But none of them are aware that their version of the hotel mccleen hasn't existed for a very long time.

Coming up, we'll hear about a tragic death that's haunted the hotel for over 100 years. Paper Caster's.

Have you entered the world of haunted places ghost stories. Yet? Every Thursday on this Spotify original film podcast, Alistair Murden summons a new spine tingling tale of Wraith's phantoms and chilling apparitions. Ghost stories resurrects fictions from Japan, India, the U.K., even ancient Rome, created by the minds behind Sherlock Holmes, Dracula and some of the greatest and most frightening literary creations ever devised. Don't miss stone-Cold classics like The Kitbag by Algernon Blackwood, a sinister account of a condemned murderer's final wish and the lengths you go to fulfill it.

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Now back to the story. During the turn of the century, the Bukhara Old Square or now the French Quarter was the cultural center of New Orleans, potted palms dangled from the lacy wrought iron balconies of the colorful townhouses. Notes of a mournful trumpet drifted over the idle chatter of strolling aristocracy and the ornate white stone facade of the hotel. Napoleon stood proudly in the center of it all. Among the many wealthy families that frequented the hotel, perhaps none were as popular as the butcheries.

For a brief moment to labor the picture of Gilded Age prosperity, but one tragic night at the Hotel Montana alone would bring it all to an end.

Josephine sat with her son on a shares in the corner of the hotel suite holding a picture book. She pointed to an image of a black cat and asked Morris if he knew what it was. Murray smiled and reached for one of her dangling earrings. Josephine directed his chubby little hands back down to the page and pointed to a picture of a dog.

Morris began to chew when the front of his nightshirt, her husband Jack, chuckled from across the room. Josephine crossed her arms.

She asked him what he found so amusing about the fact that their son was nearly two years old and still couldn't talk. Jack smiled into the mirror and fixed his cravat. He told Josephine not to bother with teaching Moreese. They had staff to do that. Their son was going to have the best tutors money could buy. He'd go to the best schools and be the best at whatever he did.

He was going to leave a mark on this world, Josephine sighed. Her husband had thought child care should be left to their nurse, Babette Josephine. Like the Babette, at times she was a bit nervous, but a perfectly good nursemaid. Still, there were some things Josephine wanted to do herself.

Every time Morris said a new word, her heart leapt.

She and longed for the day when he would look into her eyes and say, Mommy, I love you.

She'd been waiting a long time and she didn't wish to miss the moment it finally happened. A knock at the door told her that Babette had arrived. They were going to the opera that night. Jack assured Josephine that would keep their son busy with speaking lessons. While they were out, they would have a grand time.

Josephine greeted the nurse warmly and handed her the child. Babbette sat and bounced him up and down.

She was good at playtime, but when she laid a hand on the boy's forehead and asked if he was a bit warm, Josephine resisted the urge to Crohn. Babbette had grown up in a shack with six siblings, little to eat and even less in the way of medicine.

She was always worrying that Maurice was warm or his cough sounded colicky. She meant well, but didn't understand that when people of a certain class fell ill, they could call a doctor. To her, the slightest upset was a death sentence.

Josephine took a deep breath and decided to humor the poor woman. She put her hand on Maurice's forehead. She'd expected it to be fine, but it did feel a bit more.

Josephine asked Jack if perhaps they ought to stay home.

Jack just laughed.

He reminded her of the last time Babbette thought the child was ill. Marreese had been fine then.

Wouldn't she feel silly if they missed the opera over Babette's Histeria? He smiled and held out his arm as if to signal it was time to go.

Josephine felt a slight unease in her gut, but he was right that that was getting to her head. She took it and they left the hotel room, leaving the nurse and baby waving from the doorway as they walked down the hall.

After a leisurely dinner at Cafe Antoine, Jack and Josephine arrived at the opera just in time for the overture. They took their usual seats in the box and the lights began to dim. Jack and Josephine attended the opera regularly during the summer season. Usually, Josephine thoroughly enjoyed it, but tonight she couldn't seem to focus on the performance. It was probably just Babette's nervousness rubbing off on her, but she was a touch worried about Maurice.

He had felt a bit hot and when she read in the paper about an outbreak of yellow fever. As her anxiety grew, Josephine began to sweat and shiver. She almost felt like she was sick herself when the third act drew to a close. Josephine decided to get some air. She stepped out into the hallway, expecting to be alone. But instead she was greeted by a porter wearing the green and gold uniform of the hotel monteleone. Her heart sank.

She knew immediately that something was wrong with her baby, she turned back to the balcony and pulled her husband out into the hallway. The couple listened in shock as the porter informed them that Marreese had fallen gravely ill. Jack asked incredulously if it was really so bad that they would have to leave the opera. The porter replied that a doctor had been called. He wasn't sure if the child would make it to the night Josephine's stomach lurched, her eyes filled with tears.

Jack gave a derisive snort. He still believed it was probably just Babbette overreacting, that she had gotten a doctor carried away as well. But Josephine begged him to take her home. If Morris was fine, they could be back before the final act, but she had to see her baby. Jack pressed his lips together. He told the porter to fetch their carriage. When the couple left the theater, their carriage was waiting for them, but its driver was nowhere in sight.

The porter ran up from the street in between gasping breaths. He told them that he'd looked everywhere, but he couldn't find their driver. If they could give him a few minutes, he might be able to find them a replacement. Josephine tugged on her husband's arm and asked if he couldn't drive it himself. Jack sneered. They hired a driver for a reason, he said. Josephine began to cry quietly. She begged him to think of her and the baby.

What if he really was sick? Jack was far from pleased, but he leapt into the driver's seat and pulled Josephine into the passenger. If she wanted to go home, he'd take her home, but she'd better hold on tight.

Jack gave the horse's reins a hearty shake, and they were off galloping through the cobblestone streets at a breakneck pace. There were more than a few sharp turns that made Josephine's stomach lurch. But with every wobble of the carriage wheels, she knew she was that much closer to holding her baby boy again. But he'd be saved. She told herself that it was just some terrible mistake, but arrive back at the hotel and find Maurice as healthy and happy as ever.

But a mother always knows when her child is in danger. And somewhere deep inside, Josephine knew that something wasn't right. As they rounded the corner of Royal Street, Josephine saw something sitting in the middle of the road. At first, she thought it might be an animal, but as they drew closer, she gave a horrified gasp. Sitting alone on the paving stones illuminated by the golden glow of a lamp post was Maury's.

Josephine yanked, and her husband's are pointing toward the toddling child. But Jack was completely oblivious.

The horse's hooves thundered closer to the infant. Josephine screamed for her husband to stop, but he just gritted his teeth and drove on. They were twenty feet away and then ten. Josephine had to do something. She tore the reins out of her husband's grasp and pulled them as hard as she could. Towards the front of the hotel. The horses cried out as their heads were jerked to one side. One of them reared up on his hind legs. Another lost his balance and fell to the ground.

There was a thunderous crack as the axle broke, the carriage toppled onto its side. Everything was chaos. Josephine had fallen into a nightmare of screaming horses, flooded limbs and shattered wood.

She knew Jack was laying nearby, but she couldn't make sense of what was going on. All she knew was that she had to get to her baby. She pulled herself out of the chaos and limped toward the spot where she'd seen Maurice.

But she couldn't find him. He couldn't have crawled away, but there was nothing there. Josephine looked back at the accident, afraid that Morris had somehow gotten pulled into the mess.

That was when she saw it. Her husband's broken body laying on the pavement. The carriage had toppled over onto him, his neck was twisted at an odd angle, and you could see a white sliver of bone where horses half had cracked his head open. His dead eyes stared back at her blankly. Josephine looked up at the blood, flecked the side of the massive hotel and screamed for a moment. She couldn't look away from her husband's grotesque corpse. People began flooding out of the hotel.

Someone yelled for help. A doorman and a porter ran into the street to pull the mangled carriage of shock, and Josephine looked on in horror. But then she remembered her baby. She'd seen him, but he wasn't here. She had to get to her child. She couldn't lose them both.

Josephine pushed through the crowd of onlookers, hands grabbed at her, trying to get her to sit down. But she shook them off. She strode to the elevator and told the operator to take her to the 14th floor. Inside their hotel room, Babbette was seated on the city, her head in her hands, while a smartly dressed man was busying himself with the doctor's bag.

They both looked up as she entered the room, but Josephine ignored them and fell to her knees beside the bassinet. She wrapped her arms around her child and began to stop. His body was still warm, but when she looked to the doctor, he shook his head. He told Josephine her son had passed 10 minutes ago. Hours later, when the shock wore off and grief sank in, Josephine finally understood what Morris had been doing in the middle of the street, bathed in a pool of golden light, he'd been saying goodbye.

Jack and Josephine Badger were a wealthy couple known to frequent the hotel monteleone with their two year old son, Maurice. The story goes that one night the couple left their child with a nanny in order to attend the opera. It's still unknown whether they were informed of the child's illness.

But on their way home, there was an accident and Jack Badger was crushed by a carriage when Josephine returned to her room. She found her young son had contracted yellow fever and was on the brink of death. He died soon after. It is said that Josephine returned to the hotel many times throughout her life, she was desperate to see some sign of her son, some indication that his soul might live on. After many years, she finally got her wish.

Her appeared to her in the very room where he died. He told his mother he loved her and he was doing fine. Coming up, the spirit of the dead child returns now back to the story.

Though ghosts can be found all over the Hotel Montana alone, it would seem that they are particularly drawn to the hotel's 14th floor. Like many old buildings, the Hotel Monteleone chose to label its 13th floor as the 14th. But of course, there are some who believe that renaming a floor is not enough to keep misfortune at bay. And though the number itself might seem perfectly safe, horrible things still linger there. Sasha watched as her wife collapsed onto the plush hotel bedspread, calling the mattress heavenly.

When they first started dating, she'd found Katie's childlike enthusiasm endearing. Now it was just exhausting. Katie picked up a brochure from the bedside table and started reading aloud about the hotel amenities.

There was a rooftop pool, a spa and a revolving bar shaped like a merry go round. Katie looked to Sasha, beaming. Wouldn't that be amazing? Sasha tried to feign enthusiasm, but it was clear that Katie wasn't convinced. Sasha knew she was being difficult, but she couldn't help it. On Monday, she was going to take her fourth pregnancy test. They tried artificial insemination four times and so far nothing. Katie had suggested a weekend getaway to help them take their mind off things.

Sasha had agreed to go, but she knew it wouldn't help. Katie hopped off the bed and asked if Sasha wanted to get a bite to eat. Sasha said she wasn't hungry, but Katie should go ahead, maybe have a drink at the carousel bar. She'd come down at a bit. Katie gave a sigh of resignation, but she didn't argue. She just gave her wife a long, sad look and left the room. Sasha lay down on the bed.

She knew that Katie was trying, but she couldn't possibly understand what she was going through. Katie had always been more ambivalent about kids. She wanted them, sure, but they didn't matter to her in the same way they did to Sasha. Sasha would try to remind Katie about how she always said her novels were her children.

Through them, she'd created something great and left her mark on the world.

Couldn't she understand that Sasha wanted to do the same? Sasha climbed under the covers. The room had suddenly gotten very chilly. She wondered if Katie had turned up the AC on her way out. She closed her eyes and was just beginning to doze when she felt something tug on the blankets, Sasha bolted up and looked around.

At first she didn't see anything, but then she felt another tug on the blankets and heard a giggle. Her heart began thumping. Hadn't she read something about this hotel being haunted? Her pulse sped up as she didn't want to see whatever had made that laugh. But she did want to convince yourself that it wasn't real.

With her fingers poised to cover her eyes, Sasha peeked over the edge of the bed and froze. Sitting on the hotel room floor as a little boy with curly blond hair, he looked like he was about two years old and was wearing a kind of old fashioned nightdress. Sasha sat frozen. Where did he come from? The chubby toddler just smiled at her and cooed. Sasha couldn't help but smile back. He began biting at the bedspread and was getting drool all over it.

Sasha shook her head, amused and asked how he'd gotten into the room. She didn't receive a response, but figured someone must be looking for this kid. Sasha told the little boy to wait right where he was while she called the front desk.

As she picked up the phone, the boy giggled again. There was something odd about it. It almost sounded like the echo of a laughter rather than the sound of a real child.

When the clerk answered the phone, Sasha looked back at the little boy, but he had disappeared.

Her mouth fell open and the phone dropped from her hand, Sasha ran to the end of the bed, she looked everywhere, but there wasn't a trace of him. Even stranger, the spot where he'd been sucking up the blankets was completely dry. She clutched at her hair, not knowing where he could have gone. The door was closed, but maybe he'd gotten out some other way. Sasha jumped when she heard the door open, but it was just Katie.

She told Sasha she'd had a look at the carousel bar and it was pretty cool. But Sasha didn't care about the bar right now. She grabbed Katie's hand and explained about the boy. She told Katie they had to find him. He could be hiding somewhere or maybe he was lost in the hotel. Katie sighed deeply. She took a seat on the bed and took Sasha's hand. She asked a Sasha was sure she'd seen a child. Sasha narrowed her eyes.

Katie asked if maybe the child was a dream or even a figment of the imagination. She asked if maybe Sasha had wanted a child so badly she'd invented.

Sasha pulled her hand away, her face flushed. She said she needed to take some time alone. Katie immediately tried to apologize, but Sasha stood up. She strode out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Sasha ran to the elevator and hit the lobby button repeatedly.

She was angry, but when her breath calmed, all she could think was if Katie was right.

Was she really crazy or whatever it was she needed to get out of here? The elevator arrived and Sasha rushed inside as it began to move. She paced back and forth. But when Sasha heard the elevator doors open, she was surprised to find she wasn't in the lobby, she had actually gone up. She was on the 14th floor. Well, really, the 13th floor, but it was labeled the 14th. Sasha pressed the door, close button, but nothing happened.

So she pressed the button for the lobby. But still, the doors remained open with no other choice but to find the stairs. She stepped out of the elevator. Everything about this hallway was the same as the one she'd just come from.

But it seemed different.

Somehow the lights on the ninth floor were warm and yellow, but here the light had a dim gray tinge to it, almost coloring the hallway in black and white as Sasha ventured down the hall.

She suddenly felt chilled to the bone. It was the same penetrating cold she felt back at the room. Then she heard a sound that made her heart nearly stop. It was the sound of children laughing.

Sasha Fros says two little girls emerged from around the corner. They had dark hair braided into short pigtails and both or old fashioned pinafores. For a moment it seemed like they saw her. But then they continued on down the hallway, walking past her as though she didn't exist.

And as they neared the end of the hall, the two girls evaporated into a dense fog. Sasha fell to the floor. She had come here to forget about babies, but it felt like this hotel was tormenting her with an endless parade of children. She sobbed quietly into the arms of her sweater.

After a moment, Sasha heard a man's voice. She looked up to see a well-dressed, older gentleman with a cane standing in front of her. Sasha didn't know how he'd approached without her hearing him. He extended a handkerchief and asked why she was crying. Sasha didn't know what to say, so she decided to tell the truth. She was worried that she might never have a child.

The man smiled and helped her, and he asked Sasha to take a walk with him because she couldn't think of a reason not to. She did.

The man told her he'd had four children, three boys and a girl. He'd love them, but he hadn't spent very much time with them.

This hotel had been his child. He'd worked here all his life because he thought if he could make this hotel great, that would be his legacy.

As they approach the elevator, Sasha noticed the man's clothing. His suit was beautiful, but incredibly outdated. She wondered how old he was. The man pressed the button for the elevator and frowned. He said he didn't know who redesigned the buttons, but he disapproved. As the elevator doors opened and they walked inside, the man turned and gave her a wistful smile. He told her that he hadn't seen his children in a long time. But over the years he had learned an important lesson of having a family.

Isn't about how we'll be remembered in the future.

It's about how we enjoy the president. He told her if she needed anything.

His name was Antonio. He hoped she would enjoy the rest of her stay at his hotel. Sasha thanked him and exited onto her floor, suddenly realizing she felt much warmer. Maybe she was up for a trip to the carousel bar. She could apologize to Katie and they could enjoy a night out on the town. Sasha brightened. She knocked on the room door, telling Katie she was sorry. Maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad after all. Visitors to the 14th floor of the Hotel Monteleone frequently report a waking in the night to the chilling laughter of an invisible child.

The ghost of Maurice Bajour is known to haunt its halls, but it would seem that Marreese is not the only child to inhabit the floor. One couple reported that during their stay, the elevator accidentally stopped on the 14th floor.

So they got off to have a look around. The further down the hallway they went, the colder it got, and they reached a bend in the corridor. They saw a group of children playing in 19th century clothing. One by one, the children turned to stare at them before vanishing into thin air. The Hotel Monteleone is still owned and operated by the Mongolian family in the 1950s, ownership of the hotel passed from Montreal and son Frank to his grandson, Bill, when Bill died in 2011.

It passed to Antonio's great grandson, William Montoyo Jr. with each generation.

The hotel has grown a little more, more ballroom's more suites, more floors today.

It's a sprawling complex of nearly 600 rooms, a behemoth that rules over the upscale establishments of the French Quarter.

It certainly lives up to its title as the grand dame of New Orleans with a reputation like that. Is it any wonder that the hotel, my opinion, inspires some degree of ambition in its guests or that it commands the devotion of the employees who spend their lives, their. It would seem that the hotel has gone beyond the vision of its creator that has become an entity with a unique pull on the human mind. It's a place that's easy to get sucked into.

And if you're not careful, you just might stay there forever.

Thanks again for tuning into to haunted places. We'll be back on Thursday with a new episode. And don't forget to come back on Tuesday for our Urban Legends series available only on Spotify. You can find more episodes of Haunted Places and all other originals from podcast for free on Spotify. I'll see you next time. Haunted place, this is a Spotify original fun podcast, executive producers include Max and Ron Cutler song designed by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Eric Larson.

This episode of Haunted Places was written by Zoe Louisa Lewis with Writing Assistants by Alex Garland, Facts Checking by Unneighborly and research by Adriana Gomez and Mikki Taylor. I'm Greg Polson.