In the summer of 1898, the Ozarks region of Missouri endured a heat wave that seemed to press down on the small mining settlement of Thorn Creek like a wet blanket. Temperatures stayed above 90 degrees Fahrenheit for weeks, and the humidity made the air thick enough to feel almost unbreathable. People moved slowly, spoke quietly, and chose their words with care.
But for those staying at the Epstein Hotel on Pine Wood Trail, the silence came from something beyond the heat.
The property belonged to Montgomery Epstein, a 63-year-old businessman who had arrived in the area in 1879 during the lead mining boom. Born in Philadelphia to German immigrant parents, Epstein had made his first fortune in textiles before seeing opportunity in the expanding mining operations of southern Missouri. County records show he purchased the land in 1880 and spent nearly a year constructing what would become the most impressive building in Thorn Creek.
The hotel stood out among the modest structures of the settlement with its imposing Victorian architecture, a wraparound porch supported by ornate columns, tall windows protected by iron bars, and a rear garden once said to be lush and well-tended. By 1898, weeds had overtaken the abandoned flower beds, vines climbed the peeling walls, and shadows seemed to move as evening fell. The white exterior paint had weathered to a pale yellow-gray, giving the entire building an appearance of premature aging and decay.
When the hotel first opened in 1881, local newspapers praised it as a beacon of urban refinement in our modest mining community, certain to attract a more affluent class of visitors to Thorn Creek. The Springfield Republic noted that Mr. Epstein had spared no expense in creating accommodations that would not be out of place in St. Louis or Chicago.
Yet it was common for travelers to quicken their pace when passing the hotel, especially after dusk. There was no specific reason for this, at least none that could be clearly articulated. It was more like a feeling, a state of subtle unease, as if the building were watching those who passed by it. Local residents often crossed to the opposite side of Pine Wood Trail when their path forced them past the hotel after sunset. The behavior became so common that it was rarely discussed or acknowledged.
Interviews conducted by historian Wallace Pritchard in 1959 with former area residents revealed that the hotel had a strange reputation even before the famous events of October 1898. Josephine Garner, a laundress who worked for several wealthy families in Thorn Creek, stated that the hotel was always different. The clothes she washed for them carried a smell unlike ordinary dirt, more like damp earth and dried herbs, even the clean pieces. Mr. Epstein always handed her the laundry himself and never allowed her past the service entrance.
Once she arrived earlier than expected and caught a glimpse of the kitchen. Everything was extremely clean, unnaturally so, as if no food had ever been prepared there. Yet she knew they served meals to guests daily.
Another resident, Bartholomew Miller, who ran the general store across from the hotel, shared his observations. Epstein was extremely particular about his supplies. He ordered unfamiliar items, specific salts, herbs Miller had never heard of, and large quantities of beeswax candles when everyone else had switched to kerosene lamps. He insisted on importing certain goods directly from Europe at great expense, even when local alternatives were available.
But the strangest thing was how the hotel seemed to consume without producing waste. Other establishments of its size had garbage to dispose of, empty bottles, food scraps. The Epstein Hotel barely produced enough to fill a small barrel each week.
Miller also recalled the unusual nature of the hotel's operations. One would expect a hotel to receive regular shipments of food, linens, and coal for heating. But Epstein's place received shipments irregularly and often at night. Heavy wooden crates with strange markings, which Epstein handled himself rather than the porter. And when commercial travelers stayed there, men who had seen hotels across the country, they often left before their scheduled departure, pale-faced and exhausted. Miller remembered one traveling salesman telling him he would rather sleep in the stables than spend another night there. When asked why, the man simply shook his head and said, "The walls, they're not right."
The official history, as recorded in county records, was clear and straightforward. Montgomery Epstein ran the hotel alone after the death of his wife, Millicent Epstein, in 1896. They had no children, and he devoted himself to managing the property, rarely seen in town. His public appearances were limited to occasional business at the bank or post office. He always wore formal attire in a black suit, regardless of the weather, always carried his distinctive silver-handled cane, and remained isolated from everyone. Those who dealt with him described him as extremely polite but reserved, with an accent suggesting European education despite his American birth.
The 1880 census records list the Epstein household as Montgomery, 45, Millicent, 42, and four live-in staff: a cook, a housekeeper, a gardener, and a porter. By 1890, the live-in staff had shrunk to just two: housekeeper Florence Grady and porter Silas Merritt. After Millicent's death, Florence also departed, leaving only Silas as a permanent employee, though Epstein would bring in temporary help from nearby Springfield for major occasions or during busy seasons.
The details of Millicent Epstein's death present interesting contradictions. According to the official death certificate signed by Dr. Harrison Wells on February 3, 1896, the cause of death was recorded as cardiac arrest resulting from typhoid fever. However, a more detailed medical report found in the archives of the old Springfield Medical College describes symptoms that do not correspond at all with a simple fever.
The patient showed episodes of extreme agitation alternating with deep lethargy. She reported disturbing visions and insisted that something inside the walls was watching her. Her pupils remained dilated even under strong light, and her skin showed unnatural pallor. Most disturbingly, during episodes of delirium, she sometimes spoke in a language unfamiliar to the doctor. When lucid, Mrs. Epstein begged not to be returned to the hotel, claiming that "that thing is waiting for me there." Her husband insisted these were merely manifestations of fever-induced delirium.
The burial record at Oakwood Cemetery in Springfield shows that Millicent was buried on February 5, 1896, in a private ceremony attended only by Montgomery Epstein and the officiating minister, Reverend Collins of the First Presbyterian Church. No obituary appeared in local newspapers and no funeral announcement was published, an unusual omission for a woman of Millicent's social standing. When curious neighbors asked, Epstein explained that his wife had requested simplicity in death as in life, and that public displays of mourning would have contradicted her wishes.
On October 17, 1898, one of the Epstein Hotel's guests, a traveling salesman from St. Louis named Jeremiah Holloway, did not emerge from his room. At first, no one paid much attention. Travelers sometimes sleep late or decide to stay in their rooms. But when his absence extended throughout the day and he missed an important business meeting at the Thorn Creek Mining Company office, the company secretary, Abigail Winters, decided to send the hotel porter, Silas Merritt, to check on Mr. Holloway.
According to employment records from his employer, West Moreland Mining Supplies of St. Louis, Holloway was 38 years old, unmarried, and considered one of their most reliable sales representatives. He had worked for the company for 11 years, and his quarterly visits to the mining regions of southern Missouri were a regular part of his territory. Company correspondence indicates he was expected back in St. Louis by October 20 at the latest. After completing his business in Thorn Creek and surrounding communities, his manager described him as excessively methodical and a man of fixed habits, which made his sudden disappearance all the more puzzling.
What Silas found, or rather what he did not find, would set off a chain of events that would mark Thorn Creek's memory deeply. Even as years passed, many preferred to forget.
As stated in the sheriff's report dated October 19, 1898, preserved in the Thorn Creek sheriff's office and later transferred to the state historical archive, Silas knocked on the door of Room 217 for several minutes without receiving any response. He noticed the door was not locked, merely closed, and decided to enter while calling Holloway's name. Miss Winters remained in the hallway, keeping a proper distance befitting a lady of her standing, but close enough to observe what was happening.
The interior of the room was immaculately clean and orderly, as if prepared for new guests. On the desk by the window sat a half-glass of water. There were no signs of struggle or disorder. No trace of Jeremiah Holloway. The bed showed no evidence of having been slept in the previous night. The covers were tightly stretched, the pillows untouched in place. Holloway's suitcase remained open on the luggage rack, containing carefully folded clothes and personal items. His sales materials, catalogs, order forms, and samples of small mining equipment parts were systematically arranged on the writing desk.
The sheriff's report, written by Deputy Marcus Tanner under the dictation of Sheriff Bartholomew Quinn, describes the scene with almost clinical objectivity, but includes one curious detail. The porter reports that upon entering the room, he noticed the clock on the mantelpiece had stopped completely at 3:17, as had the pocket watch found on the side table. Mr. Merritt states that this detail caused him a feeling of unease, though he could not explain why. Miss Winters confirms this observation, adding that she checked her own watch, which showed the correct time of 10:43 a.m., confirming that the stopped clocks were indeed anomalous and not a reflection of actual time.
This temporal anomaly becomes more significant when compared with statements given by other hotel guests. The guest register showed three other rooms occupied on the night of October 16 and 17. Room 5 was occupied by Clarence Hargrove, purchasing manager for the Thorn Creek Mining Company. Room 112 was occupied by Thaddeus Blackwood, a lumber merchant from Kansas City. And Room 201, directly across the hall from Holloway's room, was occupied by Samuel and Margaret Whitfield, a visiting couple from Chicago.
When questioned, all three parties reported hearing unusual sounds around 3:00 a.m. Hargrove's statement read: "I woke to a sound like someone dragging something heavy across the floor above my room." The noise continued for approximately five minutes, then stopped abruptly. He considered calling the porter but decided not to disturb the household over what was likely just another guest rearranging furniture. He noted the time was approximately 3:00, give or take a few minutes, as he checked his watch before attempting to return to sleep.
The Whitfields stated in their joint statement: "We both woke to what Mrs. Whitfield described as whispers inside the walls." Mr. Whitfield heard nothing of the sort but noticed a strange smell like damp earth, or a root cellar, that seemed to come from the hallway. When he opened their door to investigate, the hallway was empty and the smell dissipated quickly. Mr. Holloway's door was closed. Their clock indicated 3:15 a.m.
Blackwood, whose room was on the ground floor and furthest from Room 217, provided the most ambiguous account. He had difficulty sleeping while traveling and was awake reading a newspaper when he heard what sounded like someone running in the hallway. He opened his door but saw no one. The large pendulum clock in the lobby struck three. He returned to bed shortly after and heard nothing unusual afterward.
Silas examined all areas of the room without finding the guest. In the closet, he noticed something unusual. An old leather travel bag was open, which seemed strange given that Mr. Holloway was known for his precision in organizing his personal belongings. The bag contained toiletries and some small items. A pocket knife, a silver tie pin, and cufflinks were all arranged with remarkable precision.
The deputy's subsequent examination of the hotel revealed unusual architectural features. Unlike traditional hotels of the time, which followed uniform designs, the Epstein Hotel was designed with clear attention to unusual details. The floors were paved with imported Italian marble in common areas and corridors. The walls were covered with a type of wallpaper that, according to experts consulted years later, contained uncommon pigments that made it exceptionally resistant to fading. Lighting came from gas lamps positioned to ensure light reached the interior even on cloudy days without causing harsh shadows.
Sheriff Quinn's report notes several architectural oddities. The building contains an unusual number of hidden spaces, storage closets built into walls where one would not expect them, service corridors allowing staff to move between floors without being seen, and multiple staircases, including a narrow spiral stair connecting the kitchen directly to the third floor. When asked about these features, Mr. Epstein explained that this design was common in European hotels, where the focus was on privacy and service efficiency.
However, the most curious feature was the subdivision of space in the basement. Although the hotel occupies a large area, the accessible basement was equivalent to only about half that space. The other half, according to architectural plans from the time, was merely packed earth floor. But the wall separating the two sections was not aligned with any upper wall in the building, creating an asymmetrical design that puzzled engineers who later studied the case.
What was most puzzling was the presence of a small, dark wooden door, almost invisible, fixed in the dividing wall, which Epstein always kept closed. When asked about this door during the initial investigation, Epstein offered an ordinary explanation. That area contains nothing of interest, just a storage space for old furniture and personal belongings he had collected over the years. He kept it closed to prevent guests from endangering themselves amid the clutter. Sheriff Quinn did not request the door be opened during his inspection, perhaps out of respect for Epstein's standing in the community, or simply from a lack of curiosity.
Inside the travel bag, Silas found only a small black notebook. It appeared outwardly to be a diary. Flipping through the pages quickly, he noticed they were filled with Holloway's handwriting. However, in the final pages, the handwriting became increasingly disturbed, almost illegible, as if written by someone under extreme stress. The porter took the notebook with him and immediately reported the disappearance to Sheriff Quinn.
Abigail Winters, who had accompanied Silas to Room 217, provided a statement confirming his account and adding her own observations. Mr. Holloway was expected at our office at exactly nine o'clock to finalize a large order of safety equipment for our western mine. He had never missed an appointment in all the years we dealt with West Moreland Supplies. His absence was so out of character that I felt immediate concern for his safety.
The official investigation into Holloway's disappearance was superficial and brief. After three days of searching without finding any trace of the businessman, Sheriff Quinn concluded he had likely left to pursue a business opportunity without informing anyone. The case was closed, and Room 217 at the Epstein Hotel was cleaned and made ready for new guests.
Investigation reports mention a detail that did not receive sufficient attention. During the search, deputies found all of Holloway's clothing and personal belongings intact in the room. His wallet contained money, $47.35 according to the inventory, business cards, and his gold watch remained in place on the side table. If the businessman had indeed left of his own free will, he departed without taking any of his belongings.
A telegram was sent to West Moreland Mining Supplies in St. Louis to inform them of their employee's disappearance. Their response, preserved in the case file, expressed disbelief. Holloway most reliable. Stop. Fifteen years of exemplary service. Stop. Impossible. Stop. That he would leave his position or company property. Stop. We will send a representative immediately. Stop.
The company representative, Vincent Caldwell, arrived in Thorn Creek on October 22, but by then Sheriff Quinn had already closed the official investigation. However, the notebook Silas found was never attached to the official case. Sheriff Quinn claimed he returned it to the porter, who in turn stated he never received it.
For decades, the whereabouts of this document remained unknown until 1964, during the renovation of an old courthouse in Thorn Creek, when a carpenter named Emmett Dawson found a wooden box embedded in a false wall. Inside the box, wrapped in black silk, was the diary of Jeremiah Holloway. The carpenter initially kept the discovery secret, fearing it might be related to some unconventional religious practice. Only three months later, upon hearing a conversation about the missing salesman, Emmett decided to reveal his discovery to his employer, who in turn notified county authorities.
Emmett Dawson, as reported in a 1964 interview with the Springfield Herald, discovered the hidden compartment while removing damaged wood panels from what had once been the sheriff's private office. "I noticed the wall behind the panels seemed hollow when tapped," Dawson explained. "Due to my curious nature, I investigated further and found a small rectangular cavity that had been covered with plaster and then hidden behind the panels." It appeared to have been created when the building was constructed in 1885, not a later addition. The box inside was made of cherry wood with brass fittings, an expensive item at the time.
Reverend Josiah Blackburn, responsible for the local parish and serving as president of the historical society, took possession of the document and decided to hand it over to the history department at the University of Missouri. However, for reasons never explained, the diary was kept in the restricted documents section of the university library, where it remained inaccessible to the public for another five years.
In a letter to the Springfield bishop, Reverend Blackburn wrote: "Your Grace will understand my hesitation in determining the appropriate destination for this document. Its content, especially in the final pages, raises questions that go beyond our shared theological understanding. I am not suggesting anything of a supernatural nature. I am, as you know, opposed to such interpretations. But there is in these pages testimony to something deeply disturbing that should be studied by minds prepared for deeper psychological analysis. What concerns me is not what was written so much as the clear transformation in the person who wrote it."
The bishop's response, also preserved in the archive, was equally enigmatic. "I have reviewed the document in question and share your concerns. Perhaps it is better to leave some accounts unexplored by the general public. The course of action you have proposed seems wise. However, I would caution you to distance yourself from further investigation of this matter. I have observed that those who delve too deeply into certain mysteries often find themselves changed by the experience, rarely for the better."
In 1969, Professor Abernathy Crawford, while researching the social history of the Ozarks, obtained permission to view the document. What he found in Holloway's diary disturbed him so deeply that he abandoned his original research and devoted himself exclusively to studying this case. Abernathy Crawford was not only a competent historian but also a meticulous researcher with secondary training in psychology. Born in 1923 in Kansas City, he served briefly in the army during World War II before dedicating himself to academic life. His specialty was documenting oral history and analyzing personal documents such as letters and diaries to reconstruct the social and psychological aspects of historical periods. When he gained access to Holloway's diary, he was working on a broad study of social transformations in rural Missouri at the turn of the century.
The first entries in the diary are dated October 13, 1898, the day Holloway checked into the Epstein Hotel. They were ordinary entries about a businessman's day, task lists, expense records, and occasional reflections on his sales trip. The handwriting was steady and organized, reflecting the methodical personality his colleagues attributed to Holloway.
An entry from October 14, 1898, provides a glimpse into the salesman's routine state of mind. "October 14, 1898. Met today with Mr. Hargrove, purchasing manager for Thorn Creek Mining Company. The paperwork is as organized as my company always insists. Mining equipment, blasting supplies, and safety tools remain strong products sufficient to keep my commission levels comfortable for the rest of the quarter. This hotel is curiously luxurious for such a remote location. The nights are particularly quiet here. The building seems larger and emptier than its guest count suggests. I sometimes wake thinking I heard someone walking in the hallway, but find no one upon checking. The owner, Mr. Epstein, recommended a local drink to help with sleep, but I am hesitant. I prefer clarity of mind to the confusion caused by medication."
Later that same day, Holloway adds: "Dinner at the hotel was surprisingly excellent. Mr. Epstein mentioned his cook trained in New Orleans, which explains the quality and refinement of the food. I had an interesting conversation with the guest Mr. Blackwood regarding the region's timber resources. He showed interest in our company's blasting equipment for stump removal. We will follow up tomorrow with an appropriate offer. The weather remains unusually warm for October."
Over the following days, the diary follows a similar pattern. A recurring theme is his growing discomfort with the hotel's atmosphere, though he attributes it to the remote location and his personal exhaustion from travel.
An entry from the morning of October 15, 1898, shows the first hints of something unusual. "Slept poorly. Dreams were unusually vivid. I found myself wandering corridors that seemed to belong to the hotel but with a different design, with doors opening onto brick walls and staircases leading nowhere. I woke several times thinking I heard my name called, but the hallway was empty each time I checked. I must reduce my coffee consumption after dinner."
That same day, Holloway records his first exploration of the hotel's basement. "October 15, 1898. Went to the basement today to fetch a bottle of wine Mr. Epstein recommended for dinner. The entrance was difficult to find, hidden behind a service door in the kitchen area. I have never seen such a meticulously organized storage area in a rural establishment like this. Epstein seems particularly proud of his wine collection, which he says he imported from Europe. Strangely, I found a small door in the back, slightly ajar, though I am certain it should have been closed. Epstein appeared suddenly behind me, startling me greatly. He seemed disturbed to see me there, though he was the one who gave me the directions himself. He accompanied me back upstairs, his hand gripping my arm with surprising strength for a man his age."
This encounter represents the first major disruption in Holloway's routine. His description of Epstein's reaction suggests an unusual loss of composure in the normally courteous hotel owner. The reference to that small door left mysteriously ajar introduces an element that would become central to later developments.
Later that evening, Holloway writes: "Conversation at dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield from Chicago was pleasant enough, though Mrs. Whitfield seemed distracted, repeatedly looking toward the walls as if she heard something the rest of us could not. When I asked if everything was alright, she merely smiled and claimed she was tired from travel. Mr. Epstein was particularly attentive to her throughout the meal, refilling her wine glass at an unusual rate. The Whitfields retired early around eight-thirty. I remained in the parlor reading until ten, then returned to my room. The hallways seem unusually dark tonight despite the gas lamps."
However, beginning October 16, the tone of the diary begins to change slightly. Holloway starts recording strange sensations, nighttime noises he cannot identify, a persistent feeling of being watched, and objects that seem to change position when he is not looking at them.
"October 16, 1898, morning. I found my shaving tools arranged differently from how I left them. The razor was placed across the soap dish instead of beside it, as is my habit. A small detail, but troubling because I am methodical in such arrangements. I mentioned this to Silas the porter, who suggested he might have accidentally disturbed my belongings while delivering fresh towels. I accepted this explanation, though I do not recall requesting extra towels."
Later that day, the meeting with the Thorn Creek Mining Company board was productive, securing an order for safety equipment exceeding his quarterly quota. This should have been cause for celebration, yet he found himself strangely unsettled. Upon returning to the hotel, he noticed the garden seemed different in some way. The arrangement of the neglected flower bed appeared to have changed, though he could not determine exactly how. When he mentioned this to Epstein, the owner looked at him strangely and remarked that the hotel adapts to suit its needs. What a strange phrasing, one that stayed stuck in his thoughts.
That night, Holloway's notes take on a more disturbing tone. "October 16, 1898, evening. Again, that sound like fingernails scratching wood coming from the walls. I mentioned it to Epstein, who dismissed it as merely the settling of an old building. But why always at midnight? I found my pocket watch on the desk this morning, though I clearly remember placing it on the side table before sleeping. The hotel seems unusually empty for a Saturday. I have met only one other guest, a pale woman who seems never to leave her room. When I asked Epstein about her, he looked at me strangely and said I must be mistaken, that there are no female guests currently registered."
This entry represents a significant shift in Holloway's perception. He began questioning his observations and his memory, a common response to unexplained events. The mention of a guest Epstein claims does not exist raises a troubling contradiction. Either Holloway was experiencing hallucinations or Epstein was deliberately concealing information.
In a late-night entry, written in noticeably less steady handwriting, Holloway records: "Three or five in the morning. I woke to the sound of whispering directly outside my room. I opened the door to find the hallway empty. As I was about to return to bed, I noticed a figure at the end of the corridor. A woman wearing what appeared to be a white nightgown, standing motionless. When I called to her, she turned slowly toward me, but remained in shadow. I began walking toward her, but she retreated around the corner. By the time I reached the intersection, the hallway was empty. All doors were closed. I checked with Silas in the morning, who again insisted there are no women currently registered at the hotel."
Holloway then reported seeing a dark figure standing at the foot of his bed during the night, which disappeared when he lit the gas lamp. He mentions whispers that seemed to come from inside the walls, speaking words he did not understand but that seemed directed at him. The whispering had a rhythm like chanting or incantation. Not English, nor any language he knew from his travels. Yet he felt he should understand it, as if the meaning hovered just beyond his perception. Most disturbing was his feeling that they were speaking to him directly, calling him by name, though not using it.
On October 17, 1898, his full last day at the hotel, he wrote: "Morning. I found that photograph again at the bottom of my bag, though I am certain I did not pack it. How can this be happening? The photograph looks different now. His eyes seem to follow me around the room. Tomorrow I will burn it, and this time I will scatter the ashes outside the hotel grounds."
The photograph in question was never found, and the diary does not clarify whose image it was. Given that Holloway refers to the person as "He" with a capital letter, Professor Crawford initially assumed it was Epstein. However, later entries cast doubt on this interpretation.
An entry from midday on October 17 shows the continued deterioration of Holloway's mental state. "I tried to send a telegram to the office in St. Louis, but found myself unable to compose a coherent message. The words seemed to rearrange themselves in my mind before reaching the paper. The telegraph operator looked at me strangely when I finally handed him the form. I read it now, and I know why. The message is meaningless. I asked him to disregard it and returned to the hotel. Epstein was waiting on the porch as if expecting me, though I had told no one of my errand."
The final complete entry, written late on October 17, reveals a man on the verge of panic. "Evening. I have not slept again. The sounds inside the walls continue now, louder and more insistent. They no longer seem like scratches but rhythmic knocking, as if someone or something is trying to communicate through a code. I have decided to examine the basement again tomorrow. The small door in the back, which appeared ajar during my first visit. Perhaps there is something there that explains these phenomena. The keys hang beside the basement entrance. Epstein watches me constantly, though he tries to be subtle. His eyes seem never to blink. I have begun keeping this diary with me at all times. If anything happens to me, let it be known that I suspect Montgomery Epstein is not what he appears to be. There is something wrong with this hotel, and something wrong with him. The walls themselves seem alive in some way, as if the building is not merely a structure but a living thing. I fear for my safety, yet I cannot force myself to leave before understanding what is happening here."
This is the last complete entry. The next page contains only a few words written in trembling script. "The door is open, smell, earth, metal. He knows the walls have." The text breaks off mid-sentence, followed by several blank pages.
On the final page of the diary, there is a single sentence written in remarkably clear and firm handwriting, so different from the preceding text that it raised questions about whether the same person wrote it. "I finally understood what he wanted from the beginning."
Professor Crawford spent years trying to construct a clearer timeline of events and determine what really happened to Jeremiah Holloway. In his research notebooks, found after his death in 1978, he posed various hypotheses: from supernatural explanations he himself rejected as the product of a fevered imagination, to more mundane possibilities: an intruder who tortured the businessman, or a local person with an interest in eliminating a potential business rival, or even a case of gradual mental deterioration that ended in escape or suicide.
One aspect that particularly interested him was the synchronization between the recurring time in Holloway's diary, 3:17, and the fact that all clocks in his room were found stopped at that exact time. This synchronization suggests something important happened at that specific moment, perhaps on the night before his disappearance.
Crawford's notes include a detailed analysis of this temporal anomaly. The recurrence of the number 317 in this case cannot be considered mere coincidence. Beyond the stopped clocks in Holloway's room, we have statements from three independent witnesses who all reported unnatural events between three and three-seventeen in the morning on the night of October 16. Moreover, Holloway himself mentions waking at three-fifteen in the morning to investigate strange sounds. What makes this time significant? In Christian numerology, the number 317 might refer to John 3:17, a verse about salvation. In more obscure contexts, some spiritual traditions consider 3:17 a time when barriers between worlds dissolve. Realistically, it represents the deepest hours of the night when human alertness reaches its lowest levels and the mind is most susceptible to suggestion or manipulation.
Another troubling element was the final sentence in the diary. Crawford arranged for handwriting analysis by Dr. Elias Mercer, a leading expert in the field. Dr. Mercer's report provides a professional assessment. The final entry shows significant deviations from the writer's usual patterns. The pressure, slant, and formation of key letters differ markedly from earlier entries. While stress or altered mental states can affect handwriting, the degree of difference here suggests two possibilities. Either the writer was experiencing an extreme psychological state unlike anything appearing in previous entries, or this entry was written by someone else attempting to imitate the original writer's style.
One of the most interesting aspects Crawford discovered was the records of Millicent Epstein's death. While examining the archives of the old Springfield Medical College, the professor found a medical report that provided additional details about Mrs. Epstein's mysterious illness. The report includes observations Crawford considered particularly relevant.
The patient alternates between periods of full consciousness and episodes of extreme agitation. During moments of mental clarity, she expresses a rational and consistent fear regarding an agreement her husband allegedly made during his trip to New Orleans in 1895. Despite her reluctance to provide specific details, she mentioned he obtained an antique object from a dealer in the French Quarter, an item he now keeps in a private compartment in their hotel. More disturbingly, she insists this object is not inanimate. Mrs. Epstein, an educated woman of prominent social standing, does not appear prone to superstition. Yet she describes with troubling conviction that the object changed after being brought to the hotel and now communicates with her through the walls. When asked about the nature of these communications, the patient becomes severely agitated and refuses to elaborate.
Over the past forty-eight hours, her physical condition has deteriorated significantly. The patient exhibits persistent dilation of both pupils even under strong light, an unnatural decrease in body temperature, and a strange odor emanating from her skin that does not correspond to any medical condition known to this doctor. There are also unexplained marks on her forearms and neck, resembling bruises, but in a regular pattern suggesting deliberate infliction rather than accidental injury. As a physician, I must record only observed facts. But I admit this case defies my scientific understanding. Were I a less educated man, I might suggest Mrs. Epstein is under some evil influence. Since I am not, I confine myself to documenting her condition and administering prescribed sedatives to ease her suffering, though I fear the end is inevitable and fatal.
A strange appendix to this report, written in Dr. Wells's handwriting but on a separate sheet not officially recorded at the medical college, states: "The patient died at exactly 3:17 in the morning. At the moment of death, all electric lamps in the ward flickered simultaneously." Nurse Callaway reported hearing what she described as whispering in a strange language, though no other persons were in the room. The body exhibits unusual post-mortem characteristics. Rigor mortis has not occurred after six hours. The skin is unnaturally pliable. The eyes remained dilated. Mr. Epstein arrived within thirty minutes of death despite no telegram being sent. He insisted on immediate release of the body without the customary examination. Given his standing in the community, his request was granted against my professional judgment.
Millicent Epstein died two days after this report was written. The death certificate signed by Dr. Harrison Wells himself lists cardiac arrest as the cause of death, ignoring all the troubling details documented in the hospital report.
During his research, Professor Crawford interviewed several former area residents, including Luella Pierce, who in 1898 lived in a boarding house adjacent to the Epstein Hotel. According to her testimony, in those days, no one spoke openly about that hotel, but everyone knew there was something strange. Her mother forbade her from passing in front of that building alone. On nights when the moon was full, they sometimes heard sounds coming from there. Not screams, not entirely human sounds, but a kind of faint wailing, like someone humming a sad tune.
On the morning they discovered the salesman's disappearance, she was returning from the general store and saw something she never told the authorities. She saw a man leaving the hotel very early, before the sun had even risen. He wore a hat covering his face and carried something in his arms wrapped in dark cloth. At the time she thought he might be a doctor called during the night. But thinking about it now, why would a doctor leave carrying something like that instead of just performing his work and leaving?
When pressed for more details about this mysterious figure, Luella's answer was: "It was still dark, just before dawn. He was tall, certainly taller than most men in Thorn Creek, very thin, almost gaunt. The hat had a wide brim, pulled down. His coat was dark, perhaps black, reaching almost to his ankles. What struck me most was the way he moved. It was fluid, yet awkward in some way, as if his joints bent differently than they should. I remember thinking it reminded me of a spider."
This testimony raises troubling questions about the events of that morning. Who was the man Luella saw? What was he carrying? And why did this information never reach the official authorities? When asked why she did not report this sighting, Luella's answer was telling. "Sheriff Quinn was in Mr. Epstein's pocket. Everyone knew that. And there was something about that figure that frightened me deeply. I told my mother, who advised me to stay silent. She said some things are better left unnoticed."
This was how people in Thorn Creek dealt with the strangeness of Epstein's place, by looking away and pretending not to see.
In a later note on the interview with Luella, Professor Crawford wrote: "The description of the man L.P. saw corresponds curiously with reports of a stranger sometimes seen visiting Montgomery Epstein in the months before his wife's death. According to Silas Merritt, this visitor never revealed his identity, always arrived after dark, and Epstein insisted on receiving him alone in his office or in the basement. The porter described him as a thin man, very pale, of towering height, always dressed in dark clothing, with a wide-brimmed hat shading his face. Is it coincidence? Or could the same person be connected in some way to both Millicent's death and Holloway's disappearance more than two years apart?"
Crawford's investigation led him to examine Montgomery Epstein's background more closely. Birth records confirmed his origins in Philadelphia, but there were strange gaps in his history. Between 1865 and 1877, Epstein seemed to have vanished from all public records. No tax files, property deeds, business licenses, or newspaper references could be found. His reappearance in 1877 as a wealthy textile merchant in St. Louis was sudden and unexplained. His marriage to Millicent Gardner, daughter of a prominent banking family, took place in 1878, only a year before their move to the Ozarks.
Most interesting was Crawford's discovery of the passenger list for the steamship Minon, arriving in New Orleans from Port-au-Prince, Haiti, in February 1895. The name M. Epstein of Missouri was listed among the first-class passengers. This perfectly matched Millicent's claim that her husband made a trip to New Orleans in 1895 and returned with an unusual artifact. The reason for an Ozark hotel owner's presence in Haiti in the 1890s remains unknown.
The Epstein Hotel remained open for several years after Holloway's disappearance. In 1905, it was acquired by Randolph Sullivan, a banker from Kansas City, who undertook extensive renovations before reopening it as Sullivan's Ozark Inn. Strangely, Sullivan and his family occupied the property for only five months before departing suddenly, selling the hotel at a price far below its market value. When asked about the reasons for leaving, Randolph Sullivan was said to have remarked only that the building was not suitable for a family seeking peace of mind.
Real estate records from the county clerk's office confirm this unusual transaction. Sullivan purchased the hotel from the Epstein estate, after the owner's death in 1904, for $1,500 in January 1905. After investing approximately $7,200 in renovations according to building permits and contractor invoices, he sold the property in June of the same year for only $11. A significant financial loss that makes no commercial sense without a compelling reason.
According to Crawford's notes, Sullivan reported that after about a month of living in the hotel, unexplainable events began occurring. Sullivan said it started with small things at first. Objects disappearing and appearing in different places, strange sounds in the walls like scratching or rhythmic knocking. His wife complained of a persistent smell in the master bedroom, a smell of damp earth and something metallic that no amount of cleaning could remove. They replaced the flooring, inspected the plumbing, and even removed part of the wallpaper, but the smell always returned.
Mrs. Sullivan began talking about voices in the walls whispering at night. At first, her husband dismissed it as mere stress or imagination, but her claims became more disturbing when she began reciting phrases in her sleep that the governess, educated at Vassar, recognized as Haitian Creole, a language Mrs. Sullivan had no knowledge of or exposure to.
Sullivan continued that construction workers who renovated the basement reported finding unusual objects embedded in the walls. Small bundles of herbs tied with human hair, animal bones arranged in geometric patterns inside sealed cavities, and most disturbingly, a collection of old photographs, daguerreotypes, showing the same man, presumably Epstein, at different ages, but always with the same tall, thin person standing behind him, face obscured by shadow.
The incident that finally drove them to leave occurred on a June night in 1905. Mrs. Sullivan woke screaming, claiming she saw a dark entity standing at the foot of the bed. When Sullivan lit the lamp, no one was there. But on the wardrobe, they found an object that did not belong to them, a small carved wooden box containing a single photograph. Sullivan said: "It was a photograph of a man sitting at a desk. Behind him, there was what appeared to be a shadow, but with a vague human form. Most troubling were the man's eyes. They were completely black, like holes in the photograph. I recognized him immediately as Jeremiah Holloway, whose picture I had seen in the newspaper archives. On the back of the photograph was written: 'He lives in the walls and wants companions.'"
Crawford pressed Sullivan about what happened to this photograph. The old man's response was telling: "I burned it immediately, but the next morning it had returned to the wardrobe intact. We burned it again, and this time buried the ashes in the garden. On the third morning, when it appeared again, I realized we had to leave. Some things cannot be destroyed by ordinary means."
The next morning, Sullivan hired workers to pour cement over the entire basement. A week later, the family left the hotel and never returned, not even to retrieve many of their personal belongings.
In the years that followed, the property passed through several owners, none of whom stayed more than two years. In 1952, after remaining vacant for about a decade, it was finally demolished to make way for a small commercial building. During the demolition, as reported in the Thorn Creek Gazette on July 17, 1952, workers discovered something horrifying.
While removing the concrete basement floor, they found a small wooden door sealed with what appeared to be black wax. The foreman, Harold Jenkins, decided to open the door, revealing a small chamber. Inside were only three objects: an old matchbox, a broken perfume bottle, and a faded photograph.
The newspaper article written by local reporter Calvin Finch describes the discovery in the restrained terms customary for the era. Workers involved in the demolition of the former Epstein Hotel made an unusual discovery yesterday when breaking up the basement floor. There was a small hidden room, apparently sealed for decades, containing several artifacts of little material value but considerable historical interest. These artifacts were handed over to Sheriff Donovan for possible inclusion in the county historical society's collection.
The only evidence of the photograph's content comes from an interview Jenkins himself gave to Professor Crawford in 1968. "I will never forget that photograph as long as I live. It was a picture of an elderly man, most likely the hotel owner Epstein, sitting in a chair. Behind him, there was a vague form resembling a shadow with a human shape. Most troubling were the old man's eyes in the photograph. They were completely black, as if someone had covered them with ink. There was a message written on the back of the photograph, but it was so faded I could only make out a few words. A promise fulfilled. Inside the walls."
Jenkins, a rough and practical man who had spent more than forty years in construction, became visibly uncomfortable when discussing the photograph. He said: "I am not a superstitious man, Professor. I have worked demolition jobs all over Missouri and seen many strange things hidden in old buildings. But that photograph, I felt there was something wrong with it in some way. When you look at it, you get the feeling it is looking back at you."
Jenkins also revealed a detail he omitted from the press. Next to the photograph, they found what appeared to be a small box carved from bone. The box was empty except for a thin layer of dark powder at the bottom. When asked what happened to this object, Jenkins admitted he burned it that same night along with the matchbox. The box had carvings on it, Jenkins added reluctantly when pressed for details. "Not any language I recognized. Symbols, spirals, and what appeared to be stylized insects or spiders. When I picked it up, it was warm to the touch, though that chamber was cold as a meat locker. The powder inside was fine, almost like soot, but with small reflective particles. I did not look too closely, to be honest. Some things are better left unexamined."
Professor Abernathy Crawford died in September 1978 before completing his research on the Epstein Hotel case. His notes and collected materials were donated to the university library, but inexplicably, a large portion of this collection disappeared during an archive reorganization in 1972, leaving only a few field notebooks and correspondence. The university's official explanation for this loss, as stated in a memo from the chief librarian to the head of the history department, cited space constraints and prioritization of materials of broader historical significance. However, this explanation fails to justify the targeted nature of the disappearance. Only Crawford's materials relating to the Epstein case vanished, while his other research remained intact and available.
In one of the remaining notebooks dated August 1970, Crawford records a disturbing personal experience. After months of investigating the case, he began suffering from insomnia and hearing strange sounds in his home. Scratching on the walls, footsteps in the hallway when he was alone, and the sound of a rocking chair creaking in his study, though he owned no such furniture. Crawford recorded this experience in his usual precise handwriting, but with signs of slight tension, heavier pen pressure, and more pronounced punctuation.
"Third night of unusual phenomena. The scratching in the walls begins at exactly midnight and continues until three-seventeen in the morning, when it stops abruptly. The pattern is identical each night. Three slow scratches, three quick ones, then a pause, then repetition. My rational mind suggests mice, but the precision of timing and pattern defies any scientific explanation. More disturbing is the recurring dream, a long corridor with numbered doors matching Holloway's description, with Room 217 at the end. In the dream, I know I should not open that door, but I find myself walking toward it anyway, the key in my hand."
In his last known entry about the case, he wrote: "I dreamed of him last night. Montgomery Epstein was standing in the hotel basement in front of that door. He looked directly at me and said, 'You made a promise, Professor.' When I woke, I found a matchbox exactly matching the one described in the demolition report on my desk. I do not know how it got there. My house was locked. Tomorrow, I will end this research. There are questions that should not be answered, and mysteries that should remain buried. Holloway realized this too late. I still have time."
The matchbox described in detail in a separate entry was manufactured before 1900 and bears a label with the logo of the Minon Steamship Company, the same ship on which Epstein returned from Haiti in 1895. The wood appeared old but undamaged, and the striking surface had never been used. Inside was a single match and a small scrap of yellowed paper with the words: "The walls have eyes." Written in what preliminary comparison indicates is the handwriting of Jeremiah Holloway.
Professor Crawford officially abandoned his research on the Epstein Hotel case shortly after this incident. Curiously, he insisted on burning all his notebooks relating to the case that were still in his personal possession. He began avoiding work after dark, installed additional lighting in his home, and developed a near-pathological fear of enclosed spaces like basements and attics. His assistant Diana noted in a personal letter that the most obvious change in his behavior was his relationship with walls. He refused to sit with his back to any wall, often stopped mid-sentence to stare at a wall as if hearing something, and repeatedly called contractors to inspect his home's walls for any structural defects. He also removed all photographs from his home, family pictures, academic group photos, everything, preferring to store them in his university office instead. When asked about this, he said only that photographs retain impressions of what they have witnessed.
The truth about what happened to Jeremiah Holloway in October 1898 remains an enduring mystery. His body was never found. Official records still classify his case as a disappearance.
In 1960, a journalist from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch named Richard Newton attempted to reopen the investigation. He managed to locate Silas Merritt, the hotel porter who found the empty room in 1898, and interviewed him. Silas, who was 85 years old at the time, told Newton something he had never officially mentioned.
"When I entered that room in the hotel, I immediately felt something was wrong. It was not just the silence or the absence of that man. It was as if the room was breathing. The walls seemed to pulse faintly, like a heart beating very slowly, and there was a smell, not of decay or sickness, but of freshly dug earth and candle wax. The strangest thing was what I found on his bed. The bed was perfectly made, as if no one had slept in it. On the pillow was a single object, a large old key, perhaps for the basement, and beside the key, small spots of a dark liquid I preferred to believe was ink."
According to Newton's notes, Merritt approached him after the formal interview and whispered: "Epstein was not human, you know, not at the end. Whatever was inside those walls had gotten into him too. His eyes changed. I saw him once late at night when he thought no one was watching. He was standing in front of a mirror in the hallway, just standing there, not moving, not blinking, for over an hour. And when he finally moved, his movement was not like that of humans. It was more like something wearing a human body, learning how its parts work."
Silas also revealed to the journalist a detail he had omitted from his 1898 police statement, fearing he would be considered superstitious or mentally unstable. "When I went down to the basement to check whether Mr. Holloway was there, I noticed that the small door in the back, which Mr. Epstein always kept locked, was ajar. The strong smell of damp earth emanated from there. I approached with fear, but something compelled me to look. The chamber behind the door was small, like a closet built into the wall, but it seemed deeper than the hotel's structure should allow. The inner walls were of compressed earth, not stone like the rest of the basement. In the center was something I could not immediately identify. It looked like a small box carved from a material that was neither wood nor metal. Beside it, a photograph turned face down. I touched nothing. There was something in that place that stirred instinctive terror in me, something I cannot explain. I closed the door, ran up the stairs, and never returned to that part of the hotel."
Richard Newton's article about the case was published in July 1960, but it did not generate the interest he had hoped for. The troubling coincidence was Newton's sudden death only three months after his article was published. According to the death certificate, he died in his sleep from a heart attack at the age of forty-three. But a colleague in the newsroom confided to Professor Crawford that Newton had become increasingly paranoid in the weeks before his death, claiming he heard strange sounds in his apartment and felt constantly watched.
This colleague, James Harrison, elaborated on those details during his interview with Crawford. "Rick changed after that trip to Thorn Creek. He had always been a cheerful man, quick with a joke, but he came back different, more subdued. He started covering the mirrors in his office with paper, saying the light reflections bothered his eyes. He would flinch at any faint sound. About a week before he died, he showed me something he had been keeping in his desk drawer. An old photograph he claimed appeared among his research notes, though he did not remember collecting it. It showed a man sitting behind a desk, his face partially obscured, but recognizable as the salesman from his article. Behind him stood a tall, thin shadow. Well, it did not look entirely natural. The proportions were wrong in some way. Rick had sealed it in an envelope, which he then placed inside a metal box. 'It keeps coming out,' he told me."
Today, the site where the Epstein Hotel once stood is occupied by a small shop. Older employees occasionally comment on strange nighttime occurrences. Merchandise that changes position, footsteps on the upper floor when the place is empty, and sometimes a persistent smell of old perfume that seems to emanate from the walls.
The current manager, Margaret Reynolds, reports that these events intensify during certain periods of the year, particularly in October, the month of Holloway's disappearance. "It is something everyone who works here for a while eventually notices. It is not frightening. It is more unsettling. As if you are not truly alone in the building, even when you clearly are. Some employees refuse to close the shop alone, especially on Mondays. The air becomes heavier, like before a storm, and the smell of old perfume appears. A sweet smell, but with a subtle touch of damp earth. And sometimes, just for a moment, you get the feeling of seeing someone from the corner of your eye, usually near the staircase that once led to the basement. When you turn, there is no one there."
Reynolds, a practical woman with no patience for supernatural speculation, has nonetheless implemented some unwritten policies. No employee works alone after sunset. The shop room occupying the space above the old basement is used only during daylight hours. "We do not discuss these rules with customers until they have spent enough time here to understand why they exist."
Recently, during a renovation of the shop floor, workers found a small silver medal embedded in the concrete, engraved with ME1898. The piece was donated to the city historical museum, where it remains on display. Curiously, the museum staff member responsible for cataloging the piece, Howard Matthews, reported a strange incident involving the medal. According to him, on the first night after the piece was placed in the exhibit, the museum's surveillance cameras recorded an unexplained malfunction at exactly 3:17 a.m., lasting seven minutes. When the system came back online, the medal had moved within its display case, rotating 180 degrees. Technicians found no explanation for the malfunction.
Matthews explained: "We initially suspected vandalism, but the case was locked. The alarm system showed no entries, and no other exhibits were tampered with. More strangely, the surveillance camera showed no evidence of tampering. Yet during those seven minutes, the image showed only static, as if something was interfering with the signal."
Most disturbing was Matthews's personal experience the following morning. When he arrived to open the museum, he immediately noticed the medal had changed position. As he approached the case, he clearly heard what sounded like scratching coming from inside the wall behind the exhibit. The maintenance department found nothing. No rodents, no wiring problems, no structural issues. But for several weeks afterward, staff reported hearing the same sound, always beginning at opening time and continuing until exactly 3:17 in the afternoon.
What really happened at the Epstein Hotel in October 1898? Was Jeremiah Holloway the victim of an ordinary crime? Did he succumb to madness and isolation? Or is there something darker in the story, something that official records and rational explanations cannot fully contain?
Professor Crawford, in his final notes on the case, offers an interesting perspective. After months of investigation, he found himself contemplating possibilities his academic training was reluctant to accept. The patterns are undeniable. The black eyes in the photographs, the persistent smell of damp earth and metal, the sounds in the walls, the specific time 317 appearing repeatedly, the feeling of being watched, and most disturbingly, the mysterious figure described by witnesses separated by decades.
There is an element in this case that resists conventional explanations. Something that seems to persist after the hotel's demolition, after the death of the original witnesses, and even beyond time itself, like an echo that refuses to fade, or a presence that has found a way to transcend the physical boundaries meant to contain it.
He did not dare clarify exactly what he suspected, but the final sentence in Holloway's diary, "I finally understood what he wanted from the beginning," still echoed in his mind. What did he realize, and why did this realization coincide with his disappearance?
There is an old concept in Ozark folklore, rarely discussed openly, called the "spirit intermediary." An entity not entirely human, which makes agreements and grants wishes, but ultimately returns to collect a price far greater than the beneficiary initially realizes. Could Montgomery Epstein, during his mysterious trip to New Orleans, have encountered something of this kind?
His research into Haitian folk traditions indicates parallels with certain concepts in Vodou, particularly the concept of the "Gap," not the simplified devil of Western interpretation, but a complex entity capable of granting wealth and power in exchange for service and ultimate possession. The timing of Epstein's visit to Haiti, followed by his wife's illness and death, then Holloway's disappearance. The pattern suggests a sequence, mere speculation of course.
Yet he could not ignore the chill he felt when rereading the accounts, nor the persistent feeling that by investigating this mystery, he had attracted a kind of unwanted attention. Some knowledge is more dangerous to pursue, and some entities should not be acknowledged, because attention is a form of invitation.
He left this final note as a warning to anyone who might continue this research. There are mysteries that, once you notice them, begin to notice you in return. Some stories have no final ending, only echoes that reverberate across decades, reminding us that not all mysteries exist to be solved.
The Epstein Hotel case is one of those echoes, a whisper from the past that, even after more than a century, still makes us look with suspicion at old walls and dark basements, wondering what might be hidden behind appearances. And if you find yourself by chance wandering the historic streets of the Ozarks at dusk, and feel a sudden chill, as if someone is watching you. And if you smell a faint scent of old perfume in the air, perhaps it is just a coincidence. Or perhaps it is a reminder that some presences never truly leave. Some promises, once made, are impossible to take back.
There is an old saying in the Ozarks: not all stories end with the death of their subjects. In the case of the Epstein Hotel, the story seems to have only begun with the disappearance of Jeremiah Holloway. And perhaps in a sense we do not fully understand, it continues to this day.
And you, who now know this story, have you checked the walls of your home today? Have you noticed the sounds they make when silence falls? And if you happen to wake at 3:17 in the morning, perhaps it is wise not to look into the dark corners of your room. Some things, once seen, cannot be forgotten. Some stories, once known, become part of you. As the old ones used to say: "Knowledge is power, but some knowledge is also a burden." And some doors, once opened, cannot truly be closed.