An urban haunted house story.
When Hotel New Yorker opened in 1930, it was one of the grandest buildings in Manhattan, its great sign shining red in the night. From gray brick, Sugarman and Berger had built a modern Aztec temple, a sentient fortress channeling the will of unknown gods. For years, the city’s glitterati gathered there to worship and pay tribute. But over time, the city grew greedy, forgetting its legacy. Pennsylvania Station, a beautiful temple of transportation and New Yorker’s lifeline, was allowed to fall into disgrace before finally being torn down, its screams echoing on Eighth Avenue. The city fell into decline.
In the year 1974, New Yorker is a relic of the glories past, artlessly fading into oblivion. The domain surrounding it has turned seedy. Everywhere one looks there is pornography, prostitution, and drugs. New Yorker has been closed for two years, time standing still in the dusty corridors. But it is not asleep.
There was a time when people paid respect, when New Yorker was visited by presidents and stars, when the finest bands played in the lobby. Now they have forgotten; they think New Yorker is just a worthless hulk. They might even want to demolish it all, just as they did with Savoy-Plaza. Unless the hotel destroys them first.
There are strange signs and visions.
The hotel has a storied past.
The hotel knows you.
It’s difficult to harm the hotel.
The hotel wants blood.
Old buildings burn easily.
The hotel wants respect.