I Hear Her Echo Through The Night

The plane ride had been long and tiring, but the excitement of finally being in London kept Henry and Gabriel’s energy levels high as they checked into the hotel. Both boys were seventeen and had been best friends for as long as they could remember. This trip was a dream come true for them. Their families were close—practically extended family at this point—and every couple of years, they’d travel together to some far-off place. This time, it was the bustling city of London.

Henry and Gabriel had their own room, separate from their parents. They felt a surge of independence as they hauled their suitcases into the cozy space, setting their sights on the days ahead—tours, museums, and maybe even a football match if they could convince their parents. For now, though, they were exhausted. It was late, and the jet lag was beginning to take its toll.

“I’m beat,” Gabriel mumbled, throwing himself onto one of the twin beds, his face buried in a pillow. “I’m gonna crash for like…a century.”

Henry laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, same here. Tomorrow’s packed.”

They talked a little longer, but soon both boys fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the sound of city traffic muffled by the thick curtains. The room was silent except for the rhythmic breathing of two utterly exhausted teens.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

"Henry!"

Henry’s eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest. The sound was loud and insistent, like someone was pounding on their door. He groggily sat up, blinking in the dark room. His head was foggy with sleep, but he was sure he’d heard his name being called.

“Gabriel… Did you hear that?” Henry whispered hoarsely, nudging his friend awake.

Gabriel groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. “Hear what?” His voice was muffled and irritated. “It’s Saturday. I’m sleeping in.”

“No, seriously… someone’s knocking on the door. And they’re yelling my name,” Henry insisted, already swinging his legs out of bed and planting his feet on the carpet.

Gabriel sighed loudly and peeked out from under his blanket. “Dude, you’re imagining things. We’re jet-lagged. Just go back to bed.” But even as he said it, the pounding grew louder.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

"Henry!"

The voice was clearer this time, a woman’s voice, frantic and desperate.

Henry shot a look at Gabriel, who had finally pushed himself up on his elbows, frowning. “Okay, maybe I did hear that…” he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Henry moved toward the door, his pulse quickening. The sound was getting more urgent by the second. He hesitated, glancing back at Gabriel, who was still half-asleep but watching now with some interest.

“Who would know my name here?” Henry whispered, feeling the hairs on his arms prickle. He reached for the door handle, heart racing.

As soon as his fingers touched the cold metal, everything changed.

The hotel room disappeared.

The soft, carpeted floor vanished beneath his feet, replaced by cold wood. The air grew thick and damp, and the familiar hum of the city faded into an eerie silence. Henry stumbled back, his eyes widening in shock. He wasn’t in the hotel anymore. He was somewhere else entirely.

The dim lighting revealed long, narrow corridors, dark wood paneling stretching out into what seemed like infinity. Gilt-framed portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes staring blankly ahead, unnervingly lifelike. Faintly, the scent of old dust and damp stone lingered in the air.

“Hampton Court…” Henry whispered in disbelief, recognizing the place from photos and brochures he’d studied before the trip. He was standing in the Haunted Gallery, a long hallway infamous for the restless ghost of Katherine Howard, the fifth wife of Henry VIII. Legend had it she had run down this very gallery, screaming and begging for her life after being accused of adultery and treason, only to be dragged back to her prison and eventually beheaded.

“Henry!” The voice cried again, louder now. Henry’s stomach lurched. His name was still being called.

His heart raced as he moved cautiously forward, the gallery stretching on before him. There was no sign of Gabriel or the hotel. He was completely alone, surrounded by centuries-old walls that seemed to pulse with a cold, otherworldly energy.

A shadow flitted at the edge of his vision.

Henry whipped around, his breath catching in his throat. The gallery was empty, but he could feel something—someone—was close. The sense of dread tightened in his chest as he continued down the hall, every footstep echoing unnaturally against the wooden floor.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The sound came again, this time from a door at the far end of the gallery. Henry’s blood ran cold as he recognized it: the Chapel Royal’s door, the very door where Katherine Howard had allegedly banged and screamed for mercy, pleading for her life from Henry VIII.

Instinctively, Henry moved toward the door, every nerve in his body screaming at him to turn around and run. But something else—a strange pull, as if the very walls were urging him forward—drew him closer.

As he neared the door, the banging stopped. Silence fell over the gallery, oppressive and suffocating. Henry hesitated, his hand trembling as he reached out for the door.

Before he could touch it, the door flew open with a deafening crash.

A figure burst through, running straight toward him.

It was a woman, her pale face twisted in terror, dark hair flying wildly behind her. She wore a white gown stained with dirt, her bare feet slapping against the oaken floor as she ran. Her eyes were wide with desperation, fixed on Henry as if he were the only thing that could save her.

“Please! Help me!” she screamed, her voice raw and desperate. “Henry! Don’t let them take me!”

Henry stumbled backward, his breath caught in his throat. He knew who she was—Katherine Howard. Her ghost, just as the legend said.

“I… I can’t…” Henry stammered, but the words felt meaningless. She wasn’t looking at him, not really. She was seeing someone else. She was trapped in her own nightmare, reliving her final moments over and over again.

Suddenly, two shadowy figures appeared at the end of the gallery, moving swiftly toward them. Guards. They were coming for her.

Katherine screamed again, her hands grasping at Henry’s arms. Her touch was ice-cold, sending a jolt of fear through him. “Please! Don’t let them take me!” she begged, her voice breaking.

Before Henry could react, the guards reached her. They grabbed her roughly, dragging her back down the gallery, her screams echoing through the hall. “No! No! Henry, please!” she cried, her voice fading as the shadows pulled her away.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

The gallery was silent once more.

Henry stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The cold air pressed against his skin, and the weight of what he had just witnessed sank in.

Slowly, everything around him began to blur. The walls of Hampton Court dissolved into darkness, the cold stone beneath his feet melting away. He blinked, and suddenly he was back in the hotel room, standing in front of the door.

“Henry?” Gabriel’s voice cut through the haze. “What the hell just happened? You were just… standing there, man. You okay?”

Henry turned, dazed, to see Gabriel sitting up in bed, his expression a mix of concern and confusion.

“I… I don’t know,” Henry muttered, still trying to catch his breath. “I think… I think I just saw something.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, scratching his head. “Dude, what are you talking about? You’ve been standing by the door for like… a minute, tops.”

Henry shook his head, his mind racing. “It felt like hours. I saw her, Gabe. Katherine Howard. The Haunted Gallery… I was there. She was screaming. She… she touched me.”

Gabriel stared at him for a moment before sighing. “Man, you seriously need to get some sleep. This jet lag is messing with your brain.”

Henry wanted to argue, but he couldn’t find the words. His skin still tingled from the cold touch of the ghostly queen, and the memory of her terrified eyes burned in his mind.

As he climbed back into bed, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, he had been part of something much older, something far beyond his understanding.

He pulled the covers up, staring at the ceiling. Maybe Gabriel was right. Maybe it had all been a dream. But as he lay there, the faint echo of her voice still lingered in his ears.

Henry, please...