December 31, 2025

The hotel still operates, barely. Staffed by a skeleton crew, kept afloat by its ancient reputation, its unshakable pride. The Fairmond Grand, perched at the edge of a forgotten lake in upstate New York, was once the crown jewel of winter getaways. Opened in December 1923, its first New Year’s Eve Gala was an opulent affair that became tradition. The ballroom, once glittering with champagne and possibility, now gathers dust between rentals for weddings and corporate retreats.

You aren’t sure what made you look it up tonight.

Lonely, maybe. Disconnected. Bored with the noise of the digital world. You stumbled onto an old article about haunted hotels, clicked a few links, read some reviews. One, in particular, stands out: The Fairmond is where the years go to die. I booked one night for New Year’s and I never left. Not really.

An address. A vintage flyer for the 2025 New Year’s Eve Gala. You think it’s a joke, a clever bit of internet performance art. But something in you itches. You check the distance. Driveable.

You don’t even pack a bag. Just go.

The hotel looks like something from The Shining. Massive stone columns. Frosted lanterns. A lobby out of time, with gold trim and a grandfather clock that ticks too loud. The man at the desk wears a velvet jacket and doesn’t ask for ID. He hands you a brass key, and says, “You’ll be just in time.”

Your room smells like cedar and lavender. A note on the dresser, written in fountain pen: Cocktails begin at 10. Music at 11. Midnight comes only once. Dress accordingly.

You open the wardrobe. Inside is a tuxedo, your size. Or a gown, if that’s your preference. It fits like memory. The mirror over the sink fogs without steam. You check your phone. No signal. But music hums through the walls, old and warm. Benny Goodman. Ella Fitzgerald. Then something you can’t name. Something sad.

You follow the music to the ballroom.

It is immaculate. Crystalline chandeliers. Velvet-draped tables. A bandstand with real musicians, or so it seems. The guests dance in perfect step, a blur of decades—1940s shoulder pads and 1980s sequins, powdered wigs and flapper beads. You hear snippets of laughter in languages long silenced. Every guest turns to glance at you when you enter, but only briefly. As if your arrival is expected. As if it happens every year.

The bartender pours something into a cut-glass tumbler. “On the house.”

You take it to the table that awaits you. A cozy one near the wall. You can watch the floor, and you can watch the door. Not to worry, this isn’t poker night. You don’t have to worry about Aces, and Eights.

The crowd parts. You are dancing. The partner changes, faces dissolve. A woman in a 1930s dress whispers, I buried him in the lake. A man in a zoot suit murmurs, We never left the ballroom. A child in a ghost costume giggles and disappears.

The music slows. The band counts down. Ten… nine… the chandelier flickers. Seven… six… a woman sobs. Four… three… the temperature drops. Two… one…

Midnight.

Applause. A kiss from no one.

Your phone buzzes. A single message: Thank you for attending The Last Gala.

You look up. The ballroom is empty.

But you hear music coming from behind the door again.

And for some reason… you quickly down your perfect drink. You feel something that tells you it was much stronger than you thought—was something in it, or was it just the moment of the night? You follow.

Welcome to the Fairmond.

Happy New Year.