Page 32 of The Haunted Hotel
“I’m a horror writer. Well, more of a hybrid writer. My novels are kind of cosy mystery meets horror.” I continue to stare him. “Killer Plague Country Village?” he says as if I should know what he’s talking about. “The Knitting Club Murders? High Tea at the Homicide Café?… The Deadly Vicar?” He trails off. “No?”
“These are… books?” I guess.
“Yes!” His smile widens once more. “I do have a somewhat modest following,” he says coyly.
“And you were lying on the floor because…” I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the blank.
“Oh! Yes, I’m working on my new novel. It’s going to be completely different from anything I’ve written before as I’m venturing rather daringly into the paranormalwith a haunting,” he announces gleefully. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to adapting my pen name. Make it look a bit bolder on the cover and maybe give a little degree of separation from my older novels. Let the readers know they’re getting something new and exciting. I was thinking about using my initials. Alfred Stanford Sebastian Pennington. A.S.S Pennington.”
“Ass Pennington?” I stare at him. “You’re going to print Ass Pennington on your exciting new novel? Well, your readers will certainly be expecting something different.”
“Argh, yes, I see what you mean.” He gives a loud and slightly awkward chuckle. “Maybe not. Perhaps I’ll just drop Sebastian, never liked it much anyway. A.S Pennington.” He muses. “Anyway, in one of the chapters, a character is thrown down the stairs, and as they lay dying, they look up into the eyes of the killer, who happens to be the deceased former owner of the hotel…” He looks thoughtful.
“You don’t say,” I murmur.
“Possibly. It’s still a bit of a work in progress. Anyway, I wanted to really get into the mindset of the character, so I thought, you know?—”
“That you’d pretend to be dead?”
He nods enthusiastically.
“And did it help?” I ask, although I’m not really sure why I’m encouraging the continuation of this ridiculous conversation.
“Oh, yes, very much so.” He beams at me.
“So you’re a guest here?” I ask. Again, I’m not really sure why. I stare at the strange guy with the garishly patterned pants in bright orange paired with a blue argyle knit sweater-vest over a pink checked shirt. Apart from the fact that the clashing colours and patterns are starting to hurt my eyes, there’s a strange kind of surrealism to this whole encounter, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not me who’s prostrate at the foot of the stairs with a head injury, hallucinating this whole conversation.
“Yes, I’m a guest. I came for the murder mystery weekend, hoped it would fuel the old creative tanks.”
“And did it?”
“It most certainly did,” he exclaims with very obvious delight. “Not just the whole dead body slashwas it a murder or was it not a murder, oh my gosh who’s hidden the bodydebacle. No, I mean, that was obviously a huge shock, but then all the ghosts of the house appearing was just so thrilling. Terrifying,obviously.” He waves a hand wildly. “But thrilling. I mean, how often is one invited to look beyond the veil of life and death? I knew then... Well, once I’d come around from passing out due to the shock, I knew that I needed to stay here, that I was destined to write the greatest works of my whole life within these walls,” he says reverently. “This new novel will rival the likes of Charles Dickens’A Christmas Carol.” He stops and looks as if he’s thinking hard. “Or maybeBeetlejuice. I haven’t quite figured it out yet.”
“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes as I watch him, wondering if he’s on some kind of medication or has a drinking problem. After all, ghosts aren’t real. “Okaay,” I say slowly. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”
“You’re absolutely right, of course,” he guffaws. “Must get back to the old grind. This masterpiece is not going to write itself.”
“It certainly isn’t,” I mutter under my breath as he scurries back across the foyer and through an open doorway into another room, closing the door firmly behind him.
I shake my head and turn away from the staircase, wondering which direction the dining room is in when my elbow catches the suit of armour and the whole thing crashes to the ground.
The sound of all that metal hitting the flagstone and then skidding off in all directions is deafening. I wince and tense up as the helmet spins on the stone floor before finally slowing. I glance up, certain that everyone in the hotel must have heard the commotion and would come running, but there’s nothing. Not one single person to witness my embarrassment.
After several long seconds, I breathe a sigh of relief. At least no one was around to witness my abject humiliation; after all, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being the centre of attention. Reaching down to pick up the helmet, I pause, my handoutstretched, as the helmet begins to vibrate, dancing on the spot.
A scraping sound pulls my attention and as I turn to look, the chunks of polished metal that are spread far and wide across the lobby floor also begin to vibrate. I pull my hand back, standing up sharply as one piece of the armour slides across the stone, followed by another, then another. Stumbling back a step, my eyes widen as the pieces of metal lift off the floor and shoot across the room as if attracted by a giant invisible magnet. I watch in disbelief as the parts reassemble themselves, and I find myself once again staring at a pristine, complete suit of armour standing on its plinth.
“What the hell?” I mutter aloud. “How did they do that?”
They really must be taking this haunted hotel theme seriously. I have to admit, it’s very impressive. The parts must be on wires or something. I step closer to the amour and study it closely, but for the life of me, I can’t see how they pulled off such a convincing trick. Maybe it’s some kind of magnets?
I kneel down on the floor to examine the base of the plinth. There must be something, some explanation. I lean in further and stick my head around the back of the armour, conveniently ignoring the fact that I probably look ridiculous on my knees in a thousand-dollar suit with my ass in the air, looking for some sort of concealed ropes or a pulley system.
“Morgan?”
I close my eyes as I recognise the voice behind me. So much for no one witnessing my embarrassing moment. Pulling back, I stand as gracefully as I can and dust the knees of my pants.
“Did you lose something?” Ellis asks.