Page 13 of The Haunted Hotel

“Yes, so you’d better get reading.” He nods. “I’ll return later, once I’ve spoken with Miss Edwina.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he’s gone.

“Help, please,” Roger wheezes.

I glance down at him lying on his back on the library floor, the heavy doorstop of a book pinning him by the chest. His face has turned pink.

I manage to shuffle it off him and it drops to the floor with a thud.

Offering my hand, I help Roger climb to his feet. My brow furrows in worry. How on earth are we supposed to draw in new guests to a haunted hotel if we’re not allowed to actually haunt it? How are we supposed to save our home?

“I say, Roger,” I murmur. “I think we might be in a spot of bother.”

4

Idart down the corridor and around the corner before I let myself collapse back against the wall. With a shaky laugh, I lift my hand to my chest and feel my heart hammering against my rib cage.

Oh my goodness, Morgan Ashton-Drake is so handsome and so strong. He caught me in his arms like I weighed nothing… and those dark dreamy eyes of his. I had to fight to remain professional when all I wanted to do was cling onto him like a koala.

I wonder how old he is. There’s grey at his temples, highlighting his dark hair like a personal accent. There’s a few lines on his face too, especially between his eyebrows, which makes me wonder if he always looks so serious, if he ever smiles. I’d love to see his smile. I’ll bet it’s gorgeous, that it would light up his whole face.

I have to tell Rosie everything immediately. I dart down the stairs, taking them almost two at a time all the way down to the ground floor, but my heel slips on the last few steps and I stumble, flailing my arms to keep my balance.

My hand catches Brad and a painful jolt shoots up my arm. A loud clattering sound fills the air as the suit of armour collapses and the metal parts are sent skittering across the floor.

“Dost thou mind?” an indignant voice snaps, and I turn my head to find Sir Devron Penhalen, a spirit who once dined at King Arthur’s Round Table (or so he says). His short dark hair is cropped closely to his head and he has a neatly trimmed beard. A deep blue velvet surcoat covers his gleaming chain mail.

“Sorry, Br—Sir Devron.” I wince as I look at the pieces of armour on the floor. “I didn’t mean to. I lost my balance.”

“Thou shouldst conduct thyself with a little more decorum, young Sparks. Why, in my day, squires were seen and not heard.”

I don’t know why he insists on referring to me by my surname, but I kind of like it. It may just be a habit of the time period he’s from, but it makes me feel… I don’t know, included? Like the spirits of the house don’t see me as an outsider but instead as someone who loves this place as much as they do, even if I wasn’t born into the Ashton-Drake bloodline like so many of them were. Also, unlike them, I still have a pulse. I feel this strange sense of camaraderie with the ghosts of the house, even though I’ve only been able to actually see them for the past few weeks. It’s all still a bit new to me.

I’ve worked here since I was sixteen and I’ve always believed that the place was haunted, even when I was mocked by former friends and acquaintances. There was just something about this house, something very special. I’m so happy that they’ve finally decided to reveal themselves. I’m still learning all of their names and stories, but every day is now an exciting new adventure.

“Er, yes, sorry, Sir Devron.” I nod, backing away from the intimidating ghost in chain mail and carrying an enormous broadsword strapped to his back. Honestly, I don’t know how he ever lifted the thing when he was alive—it’s bloody huge.

Not that I’m afraid of him, I’m not. Sometimes I have a hard time understanding his archaic speech and idiosyncrasies, and he’s also a little surly, but he tells the best stories. I don’t know how true or overly embellished they actually are, but they are fascinating.

“Very well then, boy, go on about your duties.” He waves his hand toward me absently and walks back towards his plinth. As he climbs up onto it, the scattered pieces of metal slide back across the floor. They reassemble themselves back into a full suit of armour and Sir Devron disappears inside them.

Grinning to myself happily, I turn and dash across the lobby, around the front desk, and towards the office behind.

“Rosie!” I yell as I burst through the door. My best friend jolts in shock, spilling her coffee down her pristine white blouse. “Oops.” I wince.

She simply rolls her eyes and plucks a tissue out of the box on her desk, then dabs at the wet patch with a sigh.

“What’s got you all excited this time?” she says absently as she licks the tissue and scrubs it over the spreading stain a little more viciously. “Has Aggie been baking her toffee cookies again?”

“No,” I grin, although now I’m thinking about those cookies. Maybe I can get Aggie to–

“You look like you’ve drifted off on a tangent again.” Rosie gives up on the stain and tosses the wrecked tissue in the bin. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live inside your head. I imagine it’s a cross between Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory andThe Labyrinth.”

“Is David Bowie at the centre with his skintight pants?”

Rosie snorts. “Knowing you, probably.”

“In all honesty, when I was six, I did want one of those big white floofy dresses that Jennifer Connelly wears.” I murmur.