Page 3 of The Haunted Hotel

I jolt in surprise; for an almost empty hotel, it certainly does seem to be busy this morning. Spinning around, I find two of the resident spirits looking at me eagerly. A little thrill runs through me, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to not only knowing ghosts are real but also having them just manifest whenever and wherever.

“Beatrice.” I grin at the short, plump woman wearing tweed plus twos with knee-high checked woollen socks and sensible lace-up shoes. Her rather ample chest is barely constrained by a beige knitted sweater, a white shirt collar folded neatly over the neck. She’s also wearing a tweed jacket with brown leather elbow pads.

Her short, wiry grey hair is sticking up all over the place, making it look as if she’d been electrocuted, which I know for a fact she wasn’t. Beatrice Ashton-Drake died in 1972 from a heart attack; in fact, her portrait hangs along the east stairwell.

“I told you to call me Bertie, lad,” she booms heartily.

“Bertie.” I nod, my mouth a permanent smile by now. Seriously, I must look like The Joker, but I can’t help it. I’m talking to a real live ghost in her ancestral home. An ancestral home where I live and work. It’s so exciting!

“Oh, look. The twinkly little ray of sunshine is almost speechless, Bertie.” Roger cackles in delight. “Fleshies are such fun! Who knew?”

“Why do you call us fleshies?” I ask curiously.

The ghost known as Roger lights a long, slim cigarette and inhales, then exhales an elegant stream of smoke and says in a soft, posh accent, “well, it’s pretty self-explanatory, darling.”

He hops up and perches on the edge of the reception desk, one leg crossed demurely across the other. Although there is nothing demure about Roger. He’s wearing tiny white shorts, which are barely more than hot pants, and his white socks, matching his white tennis shoes, are folded neatly just beneath his knees. He has a lemon-coloured sweater wrapped around his shoulders and its arms are knotted in front, over a white collared short-sleeved shirt.

He’s a very pretty man, his pristine short blond hair parted neatly to the side and a matching blonde moustache gracing his upper lip. He also has a tennis racket in one hand, propped against his shoulder.

Roger had been a tennis instructor at the estate, and had died back in 1954 when he choked to death on a Swedish meatball.

“What can I do for you both?” I ask politely.

“We have an announcement to make.” Roger waves the hand holding his cigarette airily. I’m glad the cigarette ash is as incorporeal as he is. “Bertie, do you want to do the honours?”

“Why, thank you, Roger. I would rather.” Bertie grins at the skinny man before turning to me. “Ellis, as Roger and I are the self-appointed representatives of the resident ghosts here at Ashton House,” Bertie begins.

“The Ashton-Drake,” I correct.

“Pfft.” Bertie scoffs. “That may be what my nephew called it when he opened it as a hotel, but it’s always been Ashton House… and don’t interrupt, lad.”

“Sorry,” I say contritely.

“Now where was I?” Bertie frowns.

“Self-appointed representatives.”

“Ah yes, marvellous. Thank you, Roger.”

“You’re welcome, Bertie.”

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Bertie continues, “as the self-appointed representatives of the spirits and spectres of Ashton House, Roger and I have designated you as our living liaison to the spirit community here in the house and grounds.”

“Really?” I reply, the exhilaration bubbling over and making me want to dance on the spot like an over-excited two-year-old. “And what exactly does a living liaison to the spectres and spirits of the house and grounds actually do?”

“Oh, um.” She turns to Roger, who shrugs and looks a bit bewildered, as if they hadn’t quite planned that far ahead. From what I’ve seen and heard recently, this seems to be on par for this spectral double act. “Yes, well.” She waves one hand nonchalantly. “We’ll figure that all out. What do you say?”

“Uh, yes? I guess?” Although I’m not really sure what I’m agreeing to, it’s so cool. I mean, how many people can say they are the living liaison to an estate full of ghosts?

“Splendid.” Bertie slaps her thigh. “Now, first order of business on today’s agenda. Save the hotel. It has been brought to our attention that this place may not be doing too well. Financially, that is. Having run this estate myself while I was alive, I am well aware of the cost of keeping up a property of this age, size, and historical significance. However, it cannot be allowed to fall to rack and ruin. Therefore, we need a plan posthaste.”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to do, Bertie,” I reply with a sigh. “It’s easier said than done.”

“Nonsense, boy.” Bertie’s tone is brusque as she rubs her hands together. “Now, Roger and I have come up with a plan.”

“A brilliant plan,” Roger emphasises with an eager nod.

“A brilliant plan,” Bertie agrees. “We need something to draw in guests, and what’s more exciting than the idea of staying at a real haunted hotel?”