Before the sky darkens, I settle into a table at the hotel restaurant, prepared to quiz the staff about their own experiences with the haunts of the Golden Lamb. My waitress shows me a hand with a nasty scar that stretches across three fingers, which were sliced open when a porcelain sink collapsed on her in the basement. She had just finished telling her colleagues about how all the ghost talk was hogwash when the sink came crashing down.
Now she’s a believer. And she keeps her distance.
“I won’t go upstairs, I won’t go downstairs, I won’t go in the tunnels, nothing,” she says. “No, thank you. Everybody knows, they don’t ask me any more because I’m not going.”
By the end of my stay, I met three staff members who refused to venture to the top floor.