## I – Midnight Arrival
As the clock struck midnight on a cold, windswept December night, a weary traveler named Harold Gilbert, clad in his worn brown trench coat and sturdy boots, fought against the chilling gale, making his way up the cobblestone path towards the grand, intimidating structure that was the Whitehurst Inn. Harboring shelter under the wide brim of his hat, he hurried towards the warm glow seeping out from the antique wooden door, flung open in warm welcome by a friendly innkeeper.
“I’m expecting you, Mr. Gilbert,” the innkeeper greeted, a small yet genuine smile crossing his experienced weather-beaten face. His name was Murphy, an old man with a sparkle in his eyes that couldn’t conceal an air of sadness or perhaps a touch of fear. He led Harold through the gloomy hallway, the shadows cast by flickering lanterns embellishing the grotesque faces on ancient tapestries and antique paintings.
## II – The Phantom Den
After an informal exchange of words that touched upon Whitehurst Inn’s history, Harold was ushered towards room 333 -“The Phantom Den” as the locals often referred to it. Murphy opened the door of the room cautiously, and the sudden exposure to the gloomy ambiance inside was like a splash of icy water on Harold’s face. The room was dimly lit with a solitary colonial-era lamp, showcasing a sullen mix of dated wooden furniture accentuated by draped ghostly white sheets.
Despite the biting chill outside, Harold noted the lingering scent of cigar smoke within his room, its intensity amplified by the tight confinement of the room. He wondered aloud about smoking policy of the inn to Murphy, only to be met by a solemn, almost fearful gaze from the old man, who dismissed Harold’s concerns by blaming it on faulty ventilation.
Murphy excused himself, leaving Harold alone in the room with the flickering amber lights and the lightly humming cold radiator.
## III – The Spectral Encounter
Hours turned into fleeting minutes as Harold, unable to succumb to sleep, decided to wander around the empty inn. The echoing sounds of his steps on the aged wooden floorboards sounded eerily loud, reverberating through the labyrinthine hallways. As he turned the corner of the main hall, he felt an inexplicable chill creep up his spine.
Emblazoned by the glow of moonlight slipping through the archaic tinted glass, pacing from end to end, was the spectral figure of a gentleman. His ghostly outfit seemed to echo the booming Victorian era. This was presumably the ghost of the original owner. Harold froze in his place, his heart pounding against his ribs, his mind battling between curiosity and the primal urge to flee.
## IV – Unveiling the Mystery
The following day, while devouring breakfast and trying to make sense of what transpired, Harold narrated his encounter with the apparition to Murphy. The old man listened attentively, his features turning rigid and a distant look creeping into his eyes. Slowly, with shaking hands, he revealed the inn’s darkest secret.
The spectral figure was reported to be the ghost of the original owner, a Mr. Albert Whitehurst, a celebrated businessman of the 1900s. He built the inn from his personal wealth, turning it into a celebrated rendezvous point for aristocrats. Tragically, he met his gory end within the inn’s walls under suspicious circumstances. It was rumored that his love for his inn was so profound that his spirit never parted from it. Murphy admitted, much to Harold’s shock, he often smelt cigars, Albert’s usual vice, within the inn at unexpected hours.
## V – The Parting
A sleep-deprived Harold spent the remaining part of his stay at the Whitehurst Inn in a constant state of dread and fascination, with his eyes constantly alert for the phantom. As he checked out on his final day, he looked back at the looming aura of the inn, as chilling as it was charming. Harold was drawn towards the ghostly tales, the eccentric characters, and even the presence of the unseen lingering within the shadows. As he set off on the road, he decided not to reveal his chilling encounters and disrupt the eerie tranquility of the inn. But would he ever forget? Certainly not.