#Hotel Warwick

[secosmolhadoseafins]

[dcartcorner]

progress!

[sarrsqz]

Cosmic Attachments

AHS: Murder House

Tate Langdon x Death!Reader

Mentions of Violet Harmon, Chad Warwick and Sally McKenna.

This is a combination of both Murder House and Hotel, but the large majority of it takes place in the Murder House.

In this, the reader is an ambiguous character to takes on the common Grim Reaper trope of guiding souls to the afterlife. They struggle with doing this in supernatural hotspots such as the Murder House due to the stubborn, evil and traumatized spirits that live there.

But they especially struggle with Tate Langdon, a boy who refuses to accept his hellish fate. But Death just can't seem to grapple their strange attachment with him.

Word count: 2k

If you don't want to read the Hotel section, skip to the transition symbol ┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

The hallways of the Hotel Cortez were never welcoming. At least, for you they weren't. The non-human entities, most of whom contradict your existence, weren't keen on having you roam the building. You demonstrated the truth of their circumstances. The vulnerability they hid behind violence.

But you still saw it. How could you not? It's your job, after all.

The carpeted floor felt grimy, even through your shoes. The lights down the hallway flickered. You could feel a draft echoing through the unmaintained vents, or... screams?

It's difficult to tell when they all feel the same to you. A calling – more work to be done. Eventually, that is.

You heard footsteps staggering somewhere behind you. Turning your head down the dim hallway, you saw Sally stumble out of a darkened room. Her old, crimped and frizzy hair fell around her face while cigarette smoke curled around her figure.

She stopped when she saw you. She pointed at you, cigarette latched between her two fingers. "Well, look who's decided to haunt my hallways. What do you want, Grim Reaper?"

You smiled, glancing down at the patterned floor before meeting her eyes again. "You know that's not my name, Sally." The ghost in question scoffed, throwing her shoulders back to emphasize her distaste at your correction. "And it's not haunting, it's... monitoring. Making sure the lost know they have a choice."

Sally snorted, her feet dragging as she walked further down the dimly light hallway. "A choice? Please. You really think any of us would choose this damned place if we had any real options?"

You shrugged. "Some did. Some still can, if they want. It's never too late for those who haven't thrown it away." Your voice was gentle, but firm. It was a necessary precaution when speaking to spirits, especially those like Sally.

You watched Sally take a long drag of her cigarette. She had stopped walking, planting her heeled shoes into the dirty carpet. Her narrowed eyes never left yours.

Breathing out the smoke, "You mean, if they haven't been stupid enough to turn you down already." Her arm fell back down to her side, cigarette ash falling to the floor. She paid it no mind. "But we all know how that goes–regret and begging. You get off on that, don't you?"

You shook your head. "It's not about getting off on anything, Sally. It's about respect. It's about finality. I don't relish in their pain. I mourn it."

The ghost laughed bitterly. Your words, which normally cut through the fragile facades of the deceased, barely scratched her. "Well, yeah, keep your mourning to yourself. None of us are going anywhere. We're all trapped in our own hells, and nothing you say will change that."

"Perhaps. But I'll still be here, Sally. For those who might change their minds. For those who need to know that there's a way out, even if it's only once." You spoke softly, looking away from Sally for a moment. You nodded slightly, confirming your beliefs to yourself.

You need to stay in touch with your ideals. Your morals. Your job.

You saw her eyes flicker, hints of vulnerability poking through before they hardened again. "Don't waste your time." She brought the cigarette back up to her red lips but stopped before she inhaled the drugs within. "You know, instead of bargaining with the freaks here, you should really be having that talk with your boy-toy at that house."

Your face hardened whilst hers curved with humor.

She shrugged dramatically, tilting her head in the process. "Seems like you're not so good at your job after all." Her eyes widened in mockery.

"Tate's choices are his own. I can't force him to do anything." You defended your stance, shifting your body to fully face the deranged ghost. "My job doesn't circle around force. It's about accepting your situation and moving on."

"Hm. Well, good luck with that." Her eyes narrowed more, which you didn't even think was possible. "Places like this have a way of holding on to its ghosts." Her hand, cigarette still placed between her fingers, gestured around you two to the otherwise empty hallway.

You watched her turn heel and walk down the remainder of the hallway. Your eyes remained latched onto the cheetah print of her coat before she turned out of sight.

You sighed, looking down at your feet for a moment. Shit– you should really check up on that place.

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

You walked into the house through the back door, noticing the emptiness in the air due to the absence of the living. Ever since the death of the Harmons, the large house has sat abandoned for the most part.

You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. You haven't been here in a hot minute– too caught up at the hotel in the city.

"Oh, look who it is." You looked over your shoulder at the kitchen area, seeing Chad Warwick leaning on the counter. "Back again, oh door-to-door Jehovah's Witness? Still trying to sell us all on that afterlife plan?" You watched his nose crinkle when he spoke and how his clasped hands gripped each other with more strength.

The man's reaction to you was common. He's always been like this. Originally refusing you to stay with his boyfriend, now existing in pure ignorance ever since the relationship soured with age.

You raised your eyebrows, responding to him anyway. "Your choice, Chad. But remember, doors to the afterlife don't stay open forever."

"Hm, do they?" He tilted his head, watching you as you walked by and towards the staircase. You knew his bitterness was just a reflection of his personal problems, so like the others, you didn't let it affect you.

The stairs creaked under your shoes. Dust and broken glass littered the wooden floorboards. Graffiti decorated the walls in various bold colors as you trailed throughout the familiar building.

Your fingers traced the cracked walls. The paint crumbled and fell behind them, hitting the floor softly. The only sound was the sound your shoes made as you navigated down the hall. You finally stopped when you turned a corner, opting to lean against the wooden doorway instead of fully entering it.

Tate laid on the old mattress in the room. It still sat on Violet's old bed frame, although you don't remember who owned the mattress. It's been too long to remember trivial details like that.

The boy turned his head to face you, dirty blond hair falling over his forehead. "What's the matter, Death? Didn't get enough souls today?" His voice was laced in sarcasm, arms crossed in a defensive pose. He became detached after learning of your true purpose. Cold.

You haven't decided if you should put that against him though.

"Just thought I'd check in, Tate. How's the afterlife treating you?" You raised an eyebrow. He's rejected your proposals of moving on more times than you can count. There's no point in being professional anymore. So why do you still feel so attached?

Tate scoffed, sitting up on the bed and crossing his arms in his lap. "Oh, it's great. Violet still hates me; the house is still a hellhole."

So hostile.

"Why are you here?" He added on at the end of his short rant. You watched his blue eyes, lined with redness, narrow at you.

You shrugged, walking in the room slowly. You lingered around the walls, quickly glancing outside through the window. "Just... doing rounds. Discussing the reality of the stubbornness you ghosts seem to hold for my proposal." You said it nonchalantly, but Tate could recognize your poor attempts at manipulation. You were a truthful, blunt entity. Manipulation wasn't in your blood.

You leaned against the wall, shadows encapsulating your face as you looked at the boy. In contrast, the sun amplified his features. His expression of hatred, fear. Refusal to accept his fate. "Maybe," you started, "I'm just... attached in a way I shouldn't be."

"Attached? That's rich." He crossed his legs on the mattress, jaw ticking as his fingers traced the stained seams of the fabric. "I thought you were all business. Guide souls, move on. An eternal one-night stand attitude." He grumbled, eyes looking back at you.

You smiled. "It's not that simple, Tate."

He didn't respond. His fingers continued to trace the stitches in the fabric, trying to find a distraction to the situation he was in. An obvious detail that none of the ghosts here seemed to take into consideration when scaring the living away was the removal of any distractions or entertainment.

You looked down to where Tate – and also Violet, at some point – had stored his albums. The floor was empty now.

"You know," you heard him speak, "if I go with you, there's only one place I'm heading. Hell. Doesn't exactly sound like a vacation."

It wasn't a lie. You had been honest about that with him from the get-go. The boy was destined for Hell, and you couldn't help but silently pray that he'd just accept that.

"Tate, you've always known the consequences of your actions. But staying here, trapped in this endless cycle, isn't a permanent solution to your problem either. You remained natural, as best you could regarding the boy. Your stance was approachable, casual.

His eyes darkened. His finger stopped the movement against the mattress below him. "At least here, I know what to expect. Hell... that's a different kind of torture. I'm not exactly itching to find out what they have planned for me."

"Hm." You hummed, leaning your head against the cracked wall and staring off at the ceiling. "That's true. You don't. I don't even know."

He scoffed, annoyed by your attitude. He could feel his irritation grow the longer you intruded in his space.

"But think about it, Tate." Your nose crinkled as you turned your head to look back at him. "This house won't stand forever." You smiled. "One day it will crumble or be torn down. And where will you be? Trapped in the ruins, a ghost with no anchor. Your suffering won't end, Tate. It'll just evolve into a new kind of torment."

Tate frowned, a hint of fear flickering in his eyes as he quickly looked away from you. "Why does it matter? I'm already in Hell here. At least it's familiar."

Your voice was still soft, but sterner as you continued to fill his head with images of his fate. "Familiar doesn't mean safe. The ghosts bound to this place will scatter, their ties disconnected. Lost without something to focus their energy on. You have a chance to leave this shit hole on your own terms. Obtain a semblance of control over your fate."

"Fuck. Control, seriously? What kind of control do I have knowing what's on the other side?" His voice got louder, angrier as his head shot up to face you again.

"Hiding from what you fear will only make your existence more miserable when this place can't protect you anymore."

Your face went blank. You watched one of his eyes twitch, annoyed by the impending reality he was faced with. You stared at each other, yours a look of understanding, his of fear and boiling hatred. Suddenly, he whispered, "You really believe that, don't you?"

You nod. "I do. I need to. And I'll be here, waiting, for whenever you do too."

You stood up straight, not giving the boy another look as you left the room. Your hand trailed against the wall again, before you turned the corner.

Tate watched you leave, attempting to appear indifferent to your conversation. But he couldn't deny the emotions it stirred up inside him. He could take what the other ghosts said about him. He could push their words down until he either forgot about them or lashed out in a swell of emotions.

But you... you were different. You were an inhuman, cosmic creature crafted by the universe.

And his attachment to you wasn't going to save him. 

[hotelbooking]

Warwick Denver Hotel Nestled in the heart of Denver, Colorado, Warwick Denver Hotel offers a luxurious and convenient stay for both business and leisure travelers. With its prime location, this 4-star hotel provides easy access to the city's top attractions, shopping districts, and entertainment venues. Upon arrival at Warwick Denver Hotel, guests are greeted with warm hospitality and a stylish ambiance. Check-in begins at 3:00 PM, allowing ample time for guests to settle in and start exploring the vibrant city. The hotel boasts 219 well-appointed rooms, each designed with comfort and elegance in mind. Whether you're traveling solo, as a couple, or with family, Warwick Denver Hotel offers a variety of room options to suit your needs. The hotel's check-out time is until 12:00 PM, giving guests a relaxed morning to enjoy a leisurely breakfast or take advantage of the hotel's amenities. Families traveling with children will appreciate the child-friendly policy at Warwick Denver Hotel....

[poem-today]

A poem by Rachel Coventry

On the Death of an Absent Father

It is a very different thing to remember a place while it still stands, even as a ramshackle ruin, than to remember it once it has been torn down.

The long corridor from the toilets to the dancefloor, where we sat for hours surreptitiously pouring vodka from the naggins in our handbags into our glasses, is gone.

The Warwick Hotel, broken and dilapidated, invisible for an age as we drove past it, forgetting how little hope we had as we attempted to launch ourselves from the dirty carpet, how little hope as we adorned the pitiful world with laughter.

The Warwick Hotel is gone. It is an empty plot that someone will force a future on.

Rachel Coventry

Watch and listen to Rachel Coventry read her poem (at 4:20).

Read Carol Rumens commentary on the poem which she chose as poem of the week in The Guardian.

Image: The start of the demolition of the Warwick Hotel in Salthil, Galway. Photograph: Joe O’Shaughnessy.

[yanksafloat]

Trains, a taxi, and half pints

Safely landed in Manchester, we continue our journey to Warwick.

Friday, 15-09-2023 Once safely landed and delivered to the Manchester airport terminal via bus, I really wanted to shop at the Marks & Spencer we passed, but we had to hustle along (not exactly sure why) and get the train to Manchester Piccadilly. Trekking to the train There we changed trains and traveled to Leamington Spa for another train change that took us to Warwick. Trains were referred…

[gardenwalrus]

Brian Epstein & Diz Gillespie's relationship

So I put together most of the quotes on Brian and John 'Diz' Gillespie's relationship from Peter Brown & Steven Gaines's book The Love You Make & Jim Irvin's MOJO article on Brian's death earlier to make it a bit easier for me to look at in full - I'll put it on here too if anyone wants to read.

(Some of the quotes from the MOJO article are in the BBC documentary The Brian Epstein Story. It's available on YouTube here but its also available on BBC iPlayer for the next three weeks in better quality)

//

In spring 1965, Brian meets and quickly falls for 'Diz' Gillespie, a young Californian actor living in London, who soon moves into his Whaddon House flat. 

'Dizz was an aspiring actor-singer in his early twenties, with dark hair, mischievous eyes and an impish, upturned nose. Brian was so taken with him he seized upon Dizz’s phantom acting career to play Svengali. … Using the excuse that Dizz was a NEMS artist, Brian paid many of his debts and began to dole out a small allowance from his own pocket. Naturally, all of Brian’s friends warned him against being used by this boy. “He may be manipulative,” Brian said, “but he’s different than most. There’s something special about him, something that I can’t name.”'  - Peter Brown, The Love You Make: An Insider’s Story of The Beatles (1983) p.172

Despite Brian's infatuation, the relationship is evidently volatile and unhappy - 

'But Diz was bisexual and upset Brian by bringing women back to the flat and causing scenes in public, once in front of Brian's parents. Their doomed relationship lasted too long and clearly made him miserable.' - Jim Irvin, “The Death of Brian Epstein”, MOJO (November 2002)

- and this instability was further intensified by the pair spending many nights at Brian’s flat ‘ingesting large amounts of uppers, Tuinals, and Cognac’, which would often turn violent:

‘…these drugged, drunken nights ended in some sort of unhappy confrontation. They ran from simple arguments to all-out fistfights, which included breaking vases and mirrors. One night, unhappy with Brian’s largesse, Dizz worked himself into a rage. When Brian ordered him out of the house, Dizz raced to the kitchen, grabbed the largest knife he could find, and held it to Brian’s jugular vein while extracting an additional sum of money from Brian’s wallet.’ [Brown, p.72] 

As a result of the incident, Brian ends the relationship, yet according to Brown ‘[Brian] only pined away for the boy, lovesick over him.’

Yet it isn’t long until Gillespie appears again in August 1965, contacting Brian, who was in New York two days ahead of the Beatles’ Shea Stadium concert. Brian appeals to his New York business partner, Nat Weiss, to keep Diz away. 

In a meeting with Weiss, Gillespie pushes for a car in exchange for staying away from Brian. When told this information, Brian insists that Nat Weiss gives Diz $3,000 to buy a car. Weiss therefore strikes a deal with Diz - that he was to ‘be kept locked in a hotel room at the Warwick Hotel on Sixth Avenue - with a private guard hired by Nat - until the Beatles and Brian left town.’ [Brown, p.185] 

After this event, Gillespie disappears again, only to appear a year later in LA on August 28 1966, the day of the Beatles’ penultimate live performance. Brian, overjoyed, believes it to be a true show of Diz’s love for him, and the pair spend the day together at a house in Beverly Hills - despite Nat Weiss’ scepticism: 

‘At first Nat was incredulous, then angry. “Brian, you must not have anything to do with that boy–”  “Now, now,” Brian interrupted, “he came all this way to find me. He said he came because he loves me.”  Nat sighed but said nothing. As preposterous as it was that Dizz Gillespie had any real affection for Brian, Nat could see by the smitten look in Brian’s eyes that he believed it. ... Brian had been so skittish lately that one wrong word could send him off on a three-day snit.' [Brown, p.205]

Weiss’s caution was not unfounded - the following day, Diz had disappeared and taken briefcases belonging to Brian and Weiss. Weiss’s case had contained important business documents, whereas the contents of Brian’s case would have been even more damaging if made public: 

First, there was his large and questionable supply of pills, obviously the property of a junkie. Then there were half a dozen or so billets-doux containing explicit references to his conquests, along with Polaroid photographs of his young friends. Lastly, there was $20,000 in brown paper bag money skimmed from concert funds to be distributed as a bonus [Brown p.206] 

Nat Weiss soon received a blackmail note from Gillespie, demanding an additional $10,000 for the return of Brian’s personal photographs and letters. The suitcase was eventually recovered, however $8,000, the pills and Brian’s photos and letters were all missing - as was Gillespie, who had not been found by the police. 

Alongside the fear that the content of the suitcase may still at some point be made public, as well as the realisations that:

‘...he'd been duped by someone he trusted – coinciding with the last performance by his boys – seemed to tip Brian into despair. "That accounts for his first major depression," says Weiss. "That was the beginning of Brian's loss of self-confidence." [Irvin, 'The Death of Brian Epstein']

--

Also of note - this livejournal account pointed out that a ‘vendor’ mentioned in the descriptions of two Christie’s auction items in 2006 was most likely Diz Gillespie. The items were a 1962 Beatles handbill and an autographed copy of John Lennon’s book In His Own Write, which was addressed ‘To Diz, You're a great turn, good God, from John Lennon’

The description of the 1962 handbill: 

‘According to the vendor, he was given this handbill by Brian Epstein in 1966. The two met at a party in Los Angeles in 1964 and maintained a friendship for many years.’

The description of the autographed book: 

The vendor first met John Lennon and Brian Epstein in 1964 and was given this book by John Lennon when he visited him at his home, Kenwood, in Weybridge, Surrey. Diz was the vendor's nickname.

[eptodaytommorowforever]

Events In The History And Of The Life Of Elvis Presley Today On The 6th Of January In 1957.

Late-morning-early afternoon of Sunday, January the 6th,in 1957 at the Warwick Hotel in New York. Elvis Presley would soon be off for rehearsals for his appearance on Ed Sullivan that night – – his last, and the only one where he was filmed “from the waist up.” b/w rare candid photo's of Elvis Presley at the Warwick Hotel in New York.

True Fact; Ed Sullivan said he would never have Elvis Presley appear on is show. but when he met him and saw he was a decent human being and due to public demand Ed Sullivan had no choice.

[abybweisse]

Ch213 (p2), Recap, West Pier, and Colin Greville

We get a recap about what little is known about this resort hotel, now revealed to be called Nectar Springs.

Reasonably priced but service is so good that people decide to extend their stays or even move in. (Are they seen after that?) As I said before, in a spoiler post, the resort hotel is visually based off The Grand Brighton -- originally built in 1864 -- a highly expensive resort hotel in Brighton, where service is said to be "unparalleled".

Then a recap about Undertaker's reanimation of real Ciel and the other lords of the stars... or at least the fact they require a lot of blood. Also a reminder that their own purpose at the hotel is to discover whether it's a blood collection center, then destroy it, if it is.

Sebastian points out West Pier and explains some about the activities there. Apparently, you only see the sea from there during the winter. Is this a high tides thing? I'll have to look into this.

Then the demon goes on about how humans have such peculiar habits, like talking about nothing and putting themselves in situations that increase the likelihood of getting ill.

Our earl says that if they can see the pier, the resort hotel must be nearby.

It's time to talk about their aliases, and Sebastian explains his young master is Colin Greville, the 3rd son of Earl Warwick. Sebastian is to be his valet, James Blackwood.

Our earl gives Sebastian a mild compliment, since it would make sense for a sick child in a landlocked earldom to seek recuperation in a place like Brighton, by the seaside. Warwickshire is just about smack dab in the middle of England, sort of hugging the southeast outskirts of Birmingham. Unless our earl can pull off a more northern accent, he should pretend he's from southern Warwickshire... though I doubt Yana-san will bother with that detail.

😆 Not like it'll matter much anyway....

[ljblueteak]

The Beatles at the Warwick Hotel, August 22, 1966 x

[suraemoon]

Elvis at the Warwick Hotel in New York on March 17, 1956

[nikidontsurf]

Elvis in his bathroom at the Warwick Hotel in New York City, March 17, 1956. He stayed at the hotel when he appeared on the Dorsey Brothers "Stage Show" program on CBS. Photos by Alfred Wertheimer.

"Elvis is in the bathroom, shaving. I asked him, not knowing any better, if I could come in and continue our photo session. He's combing his hair, looking in this little ladies' mirror. He's using Vaseline hair tonic, not "bear grease." He's bare-chested. He had pimples on his back and a boil on his left shoulder, and you would think he would be very conscious of that. But he was totally unselfconscious.

The wonderful thing about Elvis was that he permitted closeness. Later on, I found out he also made the girls cry. Those were the two qualities that made him different from other performers I had met. Others would let you to come within six or eight feet, but that was it. They'd get nervous, or they'd start to ham it up. Not Elvis. He was always just himself." - Alfred Wertheimer.

[savethelifeofmychild]

Peter Tork at the Warwick Hotel, 1967

[hotelbooking]

Warwick Paris (Former Warwick Champs-Elysees) Located in the heart of Paris, Warwick Paris (Former Warwick Champs-Elysees) is a 4-star hotel that offers a luxurious and comfortable stay for both business and leisure travelers. With its prime location on the famous Champs-Elysees, guests are just steps away from iconic landmarks, high-end shopping, and a vibrant dining scene. Renovated in 2015, Warwick Paris boasts modern and elegant interiors that perfectly blend with the hotel's classic Parisian charm. The hotel features 149 well-appointed rooms, each designed to provide a relaxing retreat after a day of exploring the city. Whether you choose a cozy standard room or indulge in a spacious suite, you can expect a seamless blend of comfort, style, and functionality. Check-in at Warwick Paris begins from 03:00 PM, allowing guests to settle in and start their Parisian adventure. The hotel's warm and attentive staff ensures a smooth and efficient check-in process, making you feel welcome...