Page 12 of The Haunted Hotel
“Then all the spirits will be banished from the house and sent directly to the afterlife. The house and its grounds will remain an inactive black zone, which means no further hauntings within its boundaries will be permitted for a period of no less than one hundred years, after which time a review may be requested but not necessarily granted.”
“I say, hang it all. That’s jolly unfair,” I protest.
“Then I suggest you cooperate with my investigation and stay out of any further trouble.”
“When you say trouble…” Roger smiles.
“Roger,” I hiss, sending him a warning glare before turning back to Stanley Gerald Fitzbottom or whatever his name is. “What exactly does this investigation entail?” I ask suspiciously.
“I shall be residing within the house for the duration. I shall also be interviewing all the resident ghosts and reviewing all interactions with the living.”
“Until when?” I narrow my eyes.
“Until I’m satisfied I have the full picture of just what is going on within these walls,” he answers. “Then I shall bewriting a report and submitting it to my superiors. Whether it recommends that you be allowed to remain here or be relocated to the afterlife is entirely up to you.”
“Fine,” I say with a grudging huff. “Roger?”
Roger flicks his cigarette and before it can hit the floor, it winks out of existence. He hops nimbly down from the desk and skips over to my side.
“You know me, Bertie darling. I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.” He gives Stanley a slow sultry smile. “I’m always a good boy.”
“Good lord.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m glad that’s settled,” Stanley says. “Now, then.” He returns his attention to his clipboard. “I’ll need to see a copy of your license.”
“License?” I blink.
“Your license to haunt?” His pen is poised above the paper as he stares at me. “All properties must have the correct licensing before any ghosts take residence.”
I stare blankly at him and he tuts again.
“No license,” he mutters and writes something on his clipboard, then looks back up at me. “Who is your union rep?”
“Our what?”
He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “No Union rep-re-sent-a-tive.” He mouths the words as he writes slowly.
I glance across at Roger.
“Right.” Stanley flips the page over and scans down his list. “Could you tell me where I can find a… Miss Edwina Ashton-Drake?”
“The orchard,” both Roger and I chorus.
It was, after all, where my aunt Edwina died back in 1902. Fired up by news of Emmaline Pankhurst and the suffragette movement, she decided she too was going to protest women’s rights to vote and whilst an admirable sentiment, her executionof her convictions lacked a degree of planning and common sense.
She embroidered herself a sash and took herself off the orchard where she chained herself to a tree on the farthest side of the property. However, it was, in fact, the dead of winter and rather unfortunately for her, she neglected to tell anyone she was protesting. They found her two days later frozen to death. Back when I was alive and ran the estate, she had an awful habit of constantly turning the heating up.
“Excellent.” Stanley nods, clicking his pen closed and tucking it back in his breast pocket. Pinning the clipboard under one arm, he reaches into his satchel and withdraws an absolutely bloody enormous leather-bound tome. This, he hands to Roger, who stumbles under its weight, collapsing to the floor like my mother after a few too many sherries.
“There must be over a thousand pages in that thing,” I mutter as I turn to look at Stanley.
“Ten thousand, four hundred and seventy-six, to be precise,” he informs me.
“Is that Mary Poppins’ bag you’ve got there?” I eye his satchel, wondering how on earth he managed to fill that impossibly thick volume inside. Honestly, the book is the size of three doorsteps stacked atop each other.
“That is the complete volume of laws and guidelines regarding the conduct of spirits and their interaction with the living world.”
I gape at him. “All ten thousand, four hundred and seventy-six pages?”