Sixth Sense
By Kaitlyn Scheldorf
Have you heard the Bridget Bleu? I sure have. I have heard the tap, tap, tap along the walls disrupting me from my slumber. I have heard the whispers and
murmurs of voices so quiet they verge on silence. I have heard the whimpers and
whines of children, but when I peek outside my door no one is there.
Have you smelled the Bridget Bleu? I sure have. I have smelled rot at the end of
halls, the burning of skin in the main lobby, and an earthy stench that I cannot exactly
identify, but I can say that it makes me queasy and forces darkness into my vision.
Have you tasted the Bridget Bleu? I sure have. I have tasted the sourness of the
air in the winding halls. I have tasted the fear of the families who were desperate for a
place to stay. I have tasted the ancient dust and grime in the atmosphere, left from
every single visitor there has ever been.
Have you felt the Bridget Bleu? I sure have. I have felt the dryness of each
staircase, outlining brief pockets of cold. I have felt a pulling at my legs as I lie in my
bed, fear keeping me from cracking open an eye. I have felt a shudders roll down my
back as I suffer the uncanny and surreal moments of the hotel ́s dense history
Have you seen the Bridget Bleu? I sure have. I have seen the figures. Eve
single one. Their saphire auras engulf the rooms as they flow through. I used to
scared of them. But I am not anymore.
Maybe you will see me. Maybe you will be scared of me. Maybe you will sense
me as I did the others. Because as of yesterday, I am one of them.
Do you know the Bridget Bleu? I sure do.