I haven’t seen anything and don’t want to,” Phil Doerries says. While Doerries has not seen the specters said to haunt the Excalibur nightclub, he’s seen their home videos.
He’s seen stacks of furniture appear on previously empty stages. He’s seen wine taps pour by themselves. (Blush wine is rumored to have been the favorite of the late owner’s wife.)
“We took the taps out. We were losing something like a box of wine a night,” Doerries says, quick to suggest there may be a logical explanation for this and many other strange happenings on North Dearborn.
Doerries seems out of place among the swank confines of the club.
A self-described square, Doerries easily passes for the quintessential Hollywood soldier with a “shoot to kill” mentality to boot.
After a 21-year tour of duty with the nightclub industry, he’s seen a lot of dark things. Lured by the prospect of pretty girls and fast times in his younger days, Doerries doesn’t even drink anymore. Awash in disheveled casualness, he finishes ordering lunch — a steak sandwich done as rare as possible.
Heading toward the home’s former ballroom, he says he avoids the room as much as his job as a day manager for the nightclub will allow.
The building’s history spanns more than 100 years, and it’s chilling for the most part.
According to one of the club’s owners, vice president of Ala Carte Entertainment Mark Hoffman, the building opened in 1892, the creation of gothic enthusiast and architect Henry Ives Cobb (think University of Chicago).
The building would then house the Chicago Historical Society before becoming a temporary morgue in 1915 after the Eastland steamer disaster.
The ship sank in the Chicago River on July 24, killing 844 people. As the city morgues filled up, bodies were iced and laid out in the ballroom to be claimed by friends and families.
Some of the unclaimed are said to account for a portion of Excalibur’s more permanent residents.
Although it’s 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, the old ballroom is nearly pitch black save a few windows high on the walls. Its vaulted ceilings seem to stretch on forever in the dim light. Only the dome in the center of the ceilings stands illuminated by any real attempt at lighting.
At first visitors see a painting of a Greek god, illuminated by the tiny spotlights.
It’s hard to see, but near the base of the mural, there’s a small discoloration. No big deal, right? Well, it’s been repainted at least six times, and every time the muralist just couldn’t cover it up. No amount of paint seemed to be enough to prevent a sickly green stain from reappearing where the holes used to be.
“When we moved in here, you could still see the holes where he’d hung himself,” said Doerries, describing the rumored fate of the home’s first owner. It’s rumored the owner had been missing nearly a month when they found him.
Above the dome lies dry storage. Doerries’ voice retains its even keel as he as he unlocks he door to one of the most avoided areas in the club.
