Page 4 of The Haunted Hotel
“As awesome as that sounds—and seriously, it sounds epic—I’m not sure, Bertie,” I muse. “I mean, isn’t there a reason you’re not supposed to show yourselves to the living? Won’t you get into trouble?”
“Pfft,” Bertie sniffs. “No…” She pauses and frowns. “At least, I don’t think so. Besides, we’re not planning on showing ourselves to just anyone willy-nilly. I mean much more subtle stuff. Flying crockery, rattling chains–”
“Ghostly moans.” Roger winks.
“Ghostly moans.” Bertie nods. “Roger’s been practicing.”
“I’m sure he has.” I snort, then chew my lip thoughtfully as I study the mismatched spectral duo. “I suppose we could, itisa good idea, but it’s a bit of a fine line.”
“What is?”
“Well,” I shrug. “I get the whole ‘titillate them with a whiff of the paranormal,’ but we don’t actually want anyone to have a heart attack or leave here fully traumatised and ready to sue.”
“Killjoy.”
“Also, we have to actually get guests here in the first place,” I murmur to myself as I start churning over various ideas in my head.
“That’s where you come in, Mr Liaison.” Bertie beams. “You get them here, lad, and leave the rest to us.”
“You won’t scare them too badly though, will you?”
“Pay attention, lad,” Bertie huffs. “We want them to be talking about their stay. You know, spreading the word.”
“Hmm,” I hum a little worriedly at the level of Bertie’s zeal.
“I thought you were supposed to be the optimistic one?” Bertie huffs loudly and rolls her eyes. “Maybe we should’ve chosen the chubby girl.”
“Don’t call her that,” I admonish her. “That’s really rude, and Rosie’s beautiful just the way she is.”
“I know that,” Bertie replies with a wink. “Trust me, I like a girl with an ample backside to grasp onto.”
“Uh, I think we’re getting a little off track here.” I shake my head. “Bertie, Iaman optimist. I’m certain we’ll figure out a plan to save the hotel, but right now, I can’t just magic fresh guests out of thin air for you to scare. We can barely afford to keep the electricity running. There’s no money for a marketing campaign to bring in new visitors.”
“Well, that’s up to you to figure out. I have the utmost confidence in you.”
“But I–”
Bertie and Roger wink out of sight before I’ve managed to complete my sentence, and I find myself talking to an empty lobby.
I blow out a breath. Okay, then. I shake my head and laugh; I guess I might as well busy myself with taking down the Christmas tree and giving the lobby a good clean. Hopefully, the distraction will help me think up some new ideas for filling the rooms because we really are running out of time. With the creditors practically banging down the door, I need to come up with a plan.
I mean, it’s not like the solution to all our problems is just going to come strolling through the front door.
2
The cab—or rather, taxi—pulls up to my destination and I lean forward in my seat to hand over a few bills, notes, whatever the Brits call them. The driver thanks me and launches into yet another convoluted story involving a previous passenger, and I can’t get the handle on the door open fast enough. If I have to sit through one more inane conversation with the man, I may lose the will to live.
Flinging open the door, I hustle out as quickly as possible. My foot is immediately submerged in freezing wetness. Looking down, I grimace at a pothole in the driveway that is filled with a muddy, snowy slush—and that I’m now standing in. My teeth grind as I clench my jaw against a fresh wave of irritation. I don’t need a mirror to know the glower that has cowered entire boardrooms has once again graced my features.
Annoyed that my favourite Ferragamos are now ruined thanks to the poorly maintained driveway, I reach back into the cab and retrieve my suitcase, garment bag, and laptop case. Shutting the door, I cut off the driver, who is still mid-sentence and doesn’t seem to require my input in the conversation. I turn toward the entrance and look up at the hotel.
The cab pulls away and I suck in a sharp breath at the sudden chilly slush splattering the back of my pants and cashmere overcoat. Momentarily closing my eyes, I draw in a slow breath and search for the little patience I had which I seem to have left behind when I boarded my flight at JFK.
The wind tugs at my coat and my feet are damp inside my ruined shoes, but I don’t head inside, not yet. Instead, I take a moment to look around. The hotel is surrounded by fields and edged in the distance by towering trees and woodland. A thick, pristine blanket of snow covers the grounds, creating a picturesque view.
Everything is so still and silent.
For a moment, I wonder idly when I last stopped and took a breath. The truth is, I can’t remember. Eighteen-hour workdays seven days a week have been my norm since my twenties, a work ethic deeply ingrained in me by my late stepfather. He’d been a good man—a workaholic, sure, but a good man, nonetheless.