The Haunting

Tours take guests to the basement morgue, shown with an autopsy table and a walk-in cooler the hotel says was used during the Baker era. It’s one of the hotel’s most talked-about hotspots with guests and guides repeatedly describing the morgue area as “active,” with temperature drops, heavy-atmosphere moments, and unexplained noises that start as soon as you step into the corridor. Historic Hotels of America describes a nurse pushing a gurney in the old morgue area—complete with the squeak and rattle of wheels—and even notes a maintenance worker witnessing washers and dryers switching on by themselves in the night. The hotel’s own lore points to Room 218, linked to “Michael,” an Irish stonemason said to have died during construction, and Room 419, where “Theodora” is reportedly seen fumbling for keys. Guests also talk about footsteps, knocks and if you’ve heard the bouncing-ball stories, the hotel names that presence too: “Breckie,” a young child said to be seen around the halls, often with a ball.

The Haunting

The haunting of the Jerome Grand is physically anchored by the original 1926 Otis elevator, a heavy iron cage that still serves as a reminder of the building’s life as the United Verde Hospital. This elevator is the site of the hotel’s most documented tragedy: the 1935 death of maintenance man Claude Harvey, whose body was found pinned beneath the car. Rather than just "eerie" vibes, guests report the mechanical rattle of the shaft and the elevator cab moving to floors where no buttons were pushed, as if still operated by a phantom hand. The "gritty" reality of the property is etched into the layout of the floors, where Rooms 23 and 25 (formerly known as "death rooms" during the hospital's peak years) remain the center of activity. In these spaces, the "spookiness" is replaced by specific sensory reports: the drift of phantom cigar smoke through sealed rooms and the distinct sound of heavy, labored breathing in the silence of the night. According to the L.A. Times, Room 32 is the most requested by those seeking the unexplained, with guests documenting furniture that has been visibly dragged across the floor and the persistent sensation of a cold weight at the foot of the bed.

The Haunting

For paranormal tourists, the gravity points to Room 315, the bar, and the basement. In May 2007, a Navy sailor reportedly requested the “haunted room,” screamed from inside, and jumped from the window—an incident covered in local public media. Owner Bettye Adams has described Room 315 as “creepy,” and she’s also blunt that the activity isn’t confined upstairs: “there’s all kinds of haunting in the bar, in the basement.” And then there’s Alice, the hotel’s most persistent resident legend, most often tied to a reported 1917 death and a strong association with Room 219. Details describe a female presence: sightings in mirrors, the impression of someone sitting on the bed, and that unmistakable feeling that the room has company.

The Haunting

While the downstairs area, including a wedding chapel and crypt, is a documented hotspot for security camera anomalies, the hotel’s most persistent "gritty" history is etched into the floorboards of the upper levels. In a town built on sudden fortune and rapid ruin, the resident legend is Rosie, a 19th-century "lady of the night" who reportedly ended her life in the bathtub of Room 11. This is a sensory-heavy haunting where the "spookiness" is replaced by the sharp, rhythmic clicking of high heels on original wood floors and the disturbing sound of fingertips tapping against the exterior of windowpanes in the dead of night. For those booking for activity, enthusiasts typically request Room 11 and Room 13 as a pair, as they are connected and serve as the primary corridor for both Rosie and a second presence known as Annie, who is frequently heard running through the hallways as if repeating a frantic moment from the hotel's boomtown past.

The Haunting

The hotel’s most undeniable link to the unexplained is Room 441, a space so frequently associated with physical disturbances that it remains one of the most requested, and reported, rooms in the city. Activity here is rarely subtle; guests have documented the violent, rhythmic shaking of the bedframe and the sight of a dark, one-legged silhouette—identified in local lore as "Peg-Leg Johnny"—standing motionless at the foot of the bed. However, the hotel’s most somber history resides on the 12th floor, where the air remains heavy with the memory of the Langer family. In 1939, Adele Langer, a refugee fleeing the Nazi regime, threw her two young sons, Karel and Jan Misha, from a window before jumping herself. While the hotel itself seems to try to forget the event, a long-term security guard with over 30 years of service reported multiple encounters with a boy in vintage, torn clothes. The guard described being met with a silent stare and a grin before the figure slowly dissolved into the hallway. These reports of a child running through the corridors are often dismissed as "spooky" until witnesses describe the specific, antiquated dress and the unsettlingly calm presence of the boy, who has even been reported appearing in the peripheral vision of those off-duty.

The sensory reports extend into the Gold Room, where the unvarnished history of Chicago’s elite meets a more ethereal reality; cleaning crews have repeatedly logged the phantom sound of a crowd applauding in a vacant hall and the sight of a "Dancing Lady" reflected in the room's high mirrors. Perhaps the most unsettling evidence of the hotel’s raw past is the "suicide room" in the basement—a North Tower area sealed off behind a wall where a worker was allegedly buried alive during construction. Security guards and staff patrolling the lower levels have reported the faint sound of scratching from behind the masonry and the sight of a gloved hand momentarily emerging from the shadows of the wall.