Page 5 of The Haunted Hotel

My body shivers and I frown. It’s not even that cold here. After all, living in New York City most of my life, I’m used to winters a helluva lot colder. I may not have been born there, but my mom was and it’s the city where I grew up.

Speaking of where I was born…

I tear my gaze away from the scenery and once again stare up at the hotel. It looks a bit like a castle. Directly in front of me is a set of stairs that lead up to a huge oak door surrounded by a stone archway. To the right of the stairs is a statue of a knight riding a horse. His sword is raised high, although it’s difficult to make out the details as, like everything else, he’s covered in a deep layer of snow.

To the left of the stairs is a lamppost that looks like it’s been pulled from the pages of a Dickens novel. Not that I’ve ever actually read one. The hotel—and I use that word very loosely—is at least five storeys high with square turrets at either side.

So this is the place I came into the world.

It’s strange knowing that I was born and lived the first six years of my life here. I have no memory of it at all. Although, it’s no great loss. I can’t imagine anything profound happened to me in those early years. Sometimes I wish I could remember my birth father and the time I spent here with him and my mom, but there’s nothing. My earliest memories are of my life back in the States.

After my dad died, Mom moved us back to New York where she was from. A year later, she met and married my stepfather, and two years later, my brother Warren was born. I’d thought maybe being here would jolt some kind of memory but apparently not. There’s nothing, not even a hint of familiarity or a vague sense of déjà vu.

Shaking the thoughts from my mind, I reach for the handle on my suitcase and remind myself I’m not here to take a stroll down memory lane or rekindle a nonexistent love for a drafty old wreck of a house and the bleak English countryside. This is not the opener of a Hallmark movie. I’m here for one purpose alone: to see my grandfather and find out what the hell is going on in this place.

To be honest, I’d rather just ignore this side of my family tree as I have done for the past thirty three years. They’ve shown no interest in me and the feeling was entirely reciprocal until now. Why couldn’t my grandfather just retire quietly and hunt some foxes or whatever the eccentric British upper classes do instead of causing scandals that manage to travel across the Atlantic and have the press knocking down my door for a juicy scoop?

I don’t know how the hell they managed to connect the dots and put my name together with a failing hotel, a notoriously eccentric family, and a run of scandals and suspicious deaths that date back decades, but they did. Not good publicity forthe hotel empire that my brother and I inherited from my stepfather.

I’m really not a sentimental person, and I feel no responsibility towards a family I may be descended from but have no real ties to. In fact, I’d rather not be here at all. God, I can’t think of anything worse than rattling around in an old castle with nothing but the nearby grazing sheep and horses for company.

I shudder at the thought.

At the very least, I require a hint of civilisation, and this place? Looks and feels like the back of nowhere. Sighing heavily, I grab my suitcase and bags. Heading up the stairs, I try not to grimace as my soaked feet squelch inside my ruined shoes. When I open the door and step inside, it’s to find the foyer surprisingly warm. I’d expected it to be cold and drafty. It looks as run-down as the outside of the building and has a slightly musty scent to the air like all old buildings in the UK seem to.

The foyer is huge, more like an entrance hall, with vaulted ceilings and wooden beams from which hang rather dusty… well, I can’t call them chandeliers since there’s not a single crystal in sight nor do they in any way have the elegance you’d expect in a hotel lobby. These look like they’ve been transplanted from a medieval hall. Huge circular frames made of heavy black metal with fake candles sitting atop them, strung from the high ceilings and beams by thick chains.

Tied between two beams and drooping slightly in one corner is a large banner that reads “Welcome To The Ashton-Drake Manor House Hotel’s First Annual Murder Mystery Weekend!” I scowl at the reminder of the latest scandal.

Still, I’m not here to critique the décor. I’m here to see my estranged grandfather.

The floor is flagstone and covered by fraying rugs so worn that the pattern is no longer discernible. Directly up ahead, somedistance from me, a rather grand-looking staircase leads to a small landing where an enormous Tudor-era portrait hangs on the wall. The staircase then splits in two, curving to the left and right and out of sight, and a tall, gleaming suit of armour stands on a wooden plinth tucked into the corner at the right-hand side.

To my immediate left is a reception desk. I’m about to head in that direction when I hear someone humming a Christmas song, which is weird and kind of annoying considering it’s now the second week of January. I turn in the direction of the happy humming and find a sofa and chairs littered with open boxes spilling over with Christmas decorations. Beside the mess is a large Christmas tree, and propped in front of that is a tall ladder with a rather slim person in a white shirt and black pants and vest—who I’m assuming is a member of staff—standing at the very top. My shoulders stiffen when they teeter rather precariously while attempting to unwrap a string of fairy lights from the tree’s spindly upper branches.

Dropping my bags beside the front desk, I cross the floor quickly to the foot of the ladder. Now that I’m closer, I can see that the person is, in fact, a young man with very curly blonde hair. He’s balanced on the very top rung of the rickety old ladder, his arms full of twinkling fairy lights. My stomach clenches as I watch him reach up even further and attempt to untangle more wire from the tree.

“Hey!” I call up at him.

He glances over his shoulder and I just have time to register the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen when the ladder sways alarmingly. The pretty man yelps as he windmills his arms sending the winding loops of fairy lights flying haphazardly into the air.

Instinctively, I stumble forward, holding my arms out as he falls backwards. The ladder shoots in the opposite direction and crashes into the tree right when he lands in my arms.

I look down, and register that he’s even prettier close up.

He’s somewhere in his twenties, I’d guess. Too young for me.Shame, I think to myself. Those deep ocean-blue siren eyes, framed by darker blonde lashes, are wide as he stares at me. His skin is fair and he has high cheekbones and a full, pouty mouth just begging to be kissed.

“Wow, you’re really strong,” he says brightly and those sinful lips curve into a wide smile.

I blink slowly. It’s like being blinded by the sun.

“I… er.” My brain seems to have short-circuited.

“Welcome to the Ashton-Drake Manor House Hotel.” He continues to beam from my arms. “How may I help you?”

“Looks like you’re the one who needs help.” I scowl at the few flashing fairy light strands that somehow ended up wrapped around him.

“Thank you for catching me,” he says happily. “That was very kind.”