Page 2 of The Haunted Hotel
It’s pretty thrilling—proof that life after death exists and that it exists here right in these walls. And I do mean literally in the walls. One of the other things we discovered during the murder mystery weekend was a whole host of hidden cupboards, bolt holes, and concealed passageways.
I just need to figure out how to make this all work to the hotel’s advantage. There’s got to be a way to turn this into a selling point enticing enough to make potential visitors ignore all the negative reviews.
Unfortunately, there’s been so much to do over the past week, what with investigations and police coming and going, that I haven’t really had a moment to think. We also needed totake care of the remaining guests, making sure they departed safely and weren’t going to sue us for mental distress or something equally unpleasant and costly. It all led to a rather packed few days.
Things have finally settled down—other than the constant barrage of phone calls from reporters—but now we’re now left with an empty hotel and no idea where to go from here.
I hear Rosie sigh next to me and glance over at her. She’s leaning on the reception desk, her chin propped on one hand and the fingers of her other hand tapping out a mindless staccato as she stares forlornly at the deserted foyer.
“I suppose we should take the tree down since we’re past New Year’s now,” she says without much enthusiasm as she glances at the rather sad looking Christmas tree.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do that,” I offer. “Why don’t you finish up the paperwork in the office? I’ll keep an eye on reception while I start boxing up the decorations.”
“Great,” she mutters sourly, pushing her round glasses up from where they’ve slid slightly down her nose. “I can dodge phone calls from the debt collectors and the bank instead of the press.”
I give her a small smile. “It’ll be okay, Rosie. You’ll see.”
She sighs again and nods before disappearing through the doorway behind the reception desk and into the office.
“Ah, there you are, Ellis,” a voice calls out, and I look across the lobby to see our one and only remaining guest from the murder mystery weekend.
“Good morning, Mr Pennington.” I give a professional smile. “Checking out?”
“What?” He shakes his head as he scurries across the large space and stops in front me. “No, no. Actually, I’d like to extend my stay.”
“That’s wonderful.” I beam at the small, skinny man. He’s in his thirties, with sandy-coloured hair and a quirky dress sense. My eyes skim over his yellow-checked trousers and bright purple shirt.
Mr Pennington is a horror fiction writer, quite a successful one too, although from what I hear, he hasn’t published anything in the last couple of years. When he first arrived at the hotel just before Christmas, it was with an old-fashioned typewriter tucked under one arm, several suitcases, and a raging case of writer’s block.
He’d seemed subdued and a little deflated if I’m honest. Dressed in much more sombre colours—still with garish patterns, but definitely a more monochrome colour palette—he’d dramatically moped about the hotel like he was Lord Byron. But ever since the whole “murder” incident, he’s perked up enormously. He’s even stopped fainting every time he sees one of the ghosts now.
“I’m writing again, Ellis,” he gushes excitedly, waving his hands about. “The stormy skies have cleared, and I can finally see clearly again. The words and ideas are overflowing in my mind. I need to work, and this is just the place to get those creative juices flowing. It must have been serendipity that brought me here.”
“I thought it was the winter getaway discount.”
Mr Pennington laughs and slaps his hand down on the reception desk. “Ellis, you’re so funny. Anyway, in addition to my own room, I’d like somewhere I can write. I don’t like to work and sleep in the same place. I was thinking maybe the study,” he says.
“You want to work in the room where Professor Plume died?” I reply.
Hmmm, maybe we could host a horror writers retreat or something I think to myself. In fact, if it’s stimulating andcreepy ambiance writers want to get their creative juices flowing, perhaps we could pinpoint all the places on the estate bodies have been discovered. I mean, there’s the orchard where Edwina Ashton-Drake froze to death protesting woman’s rights to vote. The window the punk rocker Skid fell out of. The grand ballroom where Leona Falberg-Black died, crushed by a falling stage light when they tried to set up a temporary film studio back in the thirties. I grab a pen and, not seeing a spare piece of paper, scribble a note to myself across my palm, feeling a surge of excitement. Things are looking up already.
Mr Pennington, seeing that I’m lost in a thought tangent, clears his throat. “So, may I? Use the study, that is? I have a feeling that it’s just the place to create my next bestseller.”
Rosie pokes her head through the doorway and fixes her gaze on Mr Pennington. “It’ll cost you extra. The study is part of the private areas and is off-limits to guests. But if you’d like to hire the space to work in, I’m sure Mr Ashton-Drake wouldn’t object.”
“But of course, dear lady,” he declares expansively. “I would be more than happy to compensate–”
“Excellent.” Rosie emerges fully from the office and claps her hands in delight. “Then, if you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you the section of the study you can work in, and we can discuss the price. Although, as it’s technically still a private part of the house, there will be things in there we’d prefer you didn’t touch or move.”
He throws his arm out flamboyantly and almost bows as Rosie passes by. “Absolutely. Please, lead the way.”
He really is a very odd man. It’s like someone’s turned up a dial on him somewhere. He’s gone from mopey greyscale to ostentatious clashing colour, and his personality’s been cranked up to match. Still, if he’s happy and a paying guest, I’m certainlynot going to complain. I wonder if he knows any other writers he might want to recommend the hotel to.
After watching them cross the lobby and head through one of the doors towards the study, I turn back to the desk, trying to remember what it was I was supposed to be doing.
Oh, yes, the Christmas decorations.
“Ellis!” another loud voice bellows.