April 2011

Another blog. About Portland. And other stuff too.

about | archives | twitter | flickr | potma | iphone snapshots | facebook | yelp
rss feed | youtube | links | the burning log


Questions? Comments? Reservations?
anotherportlandblog[at]gmail[dot]com

Another Portland Blog

Monday, October 30, 2006

 

A Night at the White Eagle - part 2

Click here for part 1.

Despite all the stories, despite a ghost known to haunt the place may have died in my room, despite the creepy preminition provided by the good folks at General Mills- despite all of that, I tried to get some sleep. There was no turning back now.








If I was going to be menaced by the hotel's resident spirits, I could always call for help...on the direct line to the Kennedy School located out in the hall. I'm sure a bored night clerk at a hotel a mile away would know exactly how to walk me through dealing with a poltergeist attack. After a trip to the bathroom down a hallway filled with portraits of geishas and macabre song lyrics, a rather callous decorating decision given the White Eagle's history, I returned to the Happy Rolling Cowboy room and turned out the light.




In the darkness what sounded like a woman's sobs floated into my tiny room through a paper thin wall. I turned on the lights and crept over for a closer listen. Nope, it wasn't sobbing, it was snoring. The guest next door was going off like a buzz saw.

I tossed in a pair of earplugs to keep their nocturnal snorts and the noise of passing train traffic at bay. With all this racket, would I even notice a sobbing ghost or any spirits rattling chains in the hallways? I finally fell asleep around three.

I was on the floor an hour and a half later. Someone or something was shoving me into a corner by the window. Through the darkness I could see a figure standing by the bed staring back at me. What the hell was going on here? Completely disoriented, I debated my options as "fight or flight" kicked in. I could leap at the figure with the chair nearby or make a break for the door. Whatever it was, it didn't budge. The figure was as still as a mannequin. Standing with a bedsheet in its hands, waiting for me to make my move.

And then I woke up.

Ah, just a nightmare fueled by an evening spent listening to ghost stories and eating greasy fish and chips downstairs. Whew.

But how to explain this next part? I've been unfortunate enough to experience sleep paralysis a few times in my life. I don't know if what happened in the Happy Rolling Cowboy Room at the White Eagle qualifies. I know what it feels like and I know what to expect when it happens. Traditionally, sleep paralysis means a full paralysis of all limbs. If you fall victim, you can't move a damn thing for several seconds after waking up.

I was laying on my side on the edge of the bed when I woke up around 4:30. Fully conscious or locked in some sort of waking dream, I felt something pushing against my chest. Not hands but more like a force, like a steady and strong blast of wind, nothing quite solid. As ridiculous as it might sound, the closest approximation I can come up with is that it felt like someone was scooting across the bed backwards while attempting to shove me onto the floor with their butt.

Yeah, their butt.

This "boo-ty" attack lasted around five seconds, if that. I reached out to stop whatever or whoever was trying to knock me out of bed. Then it stopped.

True story.

Gripped with fear and feeling like a kid convinced a troll was hiding under the bed, I laid there for what felt like an hour, afraid to move. If I reached out to turn on the light would a cold hand grab my arm? Scenes from The Grudge played out in my head. "Sure, go ahead and spend a night in one of the most haunted places in Portland," I angrily thought to myself. "Now you're screwed. We're not dealing with Casper here. There's an undead prostitute or bouncer in this room and they want you out of their bed."

It took me a while but I finally summoned up the courage to flip the light switch and confirm the obvious. No one was in the room. The guest next door was still snoring. A train passed outside. Quoth the Edgar Allen Poe, "darkness there, nothing more."

Completely exhausted, I considered tossing on my clothes, grabbing my laptop and running out of the hotel like a frightened kitten. Then rationality kicked in: surely this was just some combination of sleep paralysis, a waking dream and/or an overactive immigration at work here. Dead tired, I went back to sleep. After all, I'd paid $40 for this room and no freeloading ghost, imagined or otherwise, was going to chase me out. "Get lost Sam," I whispered, shaking my fist in the air for good measure. "Thanks for the company but no thanks, Rose. Screw with me again and I'll dial 411 for an exorcist. You'll be haunting an underpass by tomorrow night."

The rest of the night went by without incident.

In the morning after a shower in one of the hotel's creepy bathrooms, I headed downstairs. The bartender politely listened to my story with a smirk that plainly said, "you're stupid and/or crazy," probably the same expression she breaks out everytime a guest tries to tell her about a spooky encounter in the hotel upstairs. I asked her if she had seen anything weird go down while tending bar at the White Eagle and she shook her head. "To be honest," she said. "I think a lot of our guests drink too much at the bar, head up there and see what they want to see."

Wise words, no doubt, but did they explain away my experience? I'd had two pints over the course of three hours at the bar, barely enough to make my tipsy. If mere sleep paralysis was responsible, why was I able to reach out and push back against the "ghost" that had invaded my bed? I guess I can always fall back on "waking dream."




I'm not a psychologist but, despite everything that might point to a legit encounter with the paranormal, I remain extremely skeptical. If I was I could easily explain all of this with a lengthy medical term containing no less than six syllables.

Do I believe in ghosts after a stay at the White Eagle? No.

But would I spend another night there by myself? Not a chance.

For more photos of the White Eagle and the strange murals and paintings that fill its hotel, click here for a Flickr gallery.

Comments: Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]



Links to this post:

Create a Link



<< Home


SEARCH THIS BLOG? SURE, NO PROBLEMO, AS BART SIMPSON USED TO SAY....





www.flickr.com




-archives-

  • October 2003
  • November 2003
  • December 2003
  • January 2004
  • February 2004
  • March 2004
  • April 2004
  • May 2004
  • June 2004
  • July 2004
  • August 2004
  • September 2004
  • October 2004
  • November 2004
  • December 2004
  • January 2005
  • February 2005
  • March 2005
  • April 2005
  • May 2005
  • June 2005
  • July 2005
  • August 2005
  • September 2005
  • October 2005
  • November 2005
  • December 2005
  • January 2006
  • February 2006
  • March 2006
  • April 2006
  • May 2006
  • June 2006
  • July 2006
  • August 2006
  • September 2006
  • October 2006
  • November 2006
  • December 2006
  • January 2007
  • February 2007
  • March 2007
  • April 2007
  • May 2007
  • June 2007
  • July 2007
  • August 2007
  • September 2007
  • October 2007
  • November 2007
  • December 2007
  • January 2008
  • February 2008
  • March 2008
  • April 2008
  • May 2008
  • June 2008
  • July 2008
  • August 2008
  • September 2008
  • October 2008
  • November 2008
  • December 2008
  • January 2009
  • February 2009
  • March 2009
  • April 2009
  • May 2009
  • June 2009
  • July 2009
  • August 2009
  • October 2009
  • November 2009
  • December 2009
  • January 2010
  • February 2010
  • March 2010
  • April 2010
  • August 2010
  • September 2010
  • October 2010
  • November 2010
  • January 2011
  • February 2011
  • March 2011
  • April 2011

  • Clicky Web Analytics


    This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?