Page 56 of The Haunted Hotel

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ve got this.” Roger winks.

Just as Morgan reaches the door, Roger points towards the carpet at Morgan’s feet. The man stumbles, like he’s tripped over something, and crashes against the door.

Roger smugly blows the tip of his finger like it’s a gun and grins. “Bullseye.”

“I say, jolly good show,” I commend him.

We watch as Morgan straightens up and checks the floor in front of him, presumably to see what it was he tripped on. When he doesn’t find anything, he glances up and does a double take at the room number. Looking up and down the corridor like he’s lost his bearings, he finally gives up with a little shrug and opens the door, once again giving his attention to the phone in his hand.

Blasted things.

Roger and I hurry forward. I reach up and turn the 9 back to a 6, then we both slip through the wall into the room. Morgan is about to start typing something again when he notices the bathroom door ajar, a wispy curl of steam escaping through the crack. The sounds of splashing and happy humming come from the bathroom and Morgan, once again scowling, strides towards the doorway.

I remain in the bedroom since Ellis is most likely naked. Roger, on the other hand, has no such compunction. He skips merrily across the room and disappears into the bathroom right after Morgan. It’s pointless to try and stop him; Roger can’t help it. He loves drama and if meddling were a competitive sport… well, what can I say? He’d be on a podium with a wreath of flowers around his neck, clutching a giant trophy like he’d just won Silverstone.

There’s a loud exclamation, followed by an alarming crashing sound, followed by splashing water, followed by… well, a lot of splashing water, and a few minutes later, Morgan comes striding back out, red-faced and limping. His suit is soaked and covered in bubbles, streaks of shampoo, and soap. He crosses the room and yanks the suite door open, then stares up at the room number in horror.

“Oh dear,” I mutter as he storms out into the hallway. Well, that didn’t quite go as I intended.

My attention is diverted as Ellis exits the bathroom a moment later in nothing but a towel with unicorns printed all over it wrapped around his hips. He rushes past me, his skin wet and soapy with clumps of bubbles up his back and neck, all the way into the back of his hair, as if he’d been lying back in the bath relaxing.

I almost feel bad.

Almost.

Then I remember why we’re doing this. As Ellis scampers out into the hallway after Morgan, barefoot and wet, Roger comes out of the bathroom, cackling loudly.

“Oh, I wish I had that on film so I could watch it over and over again.” He holds his flat belly and laughs so hard that tears spring to his eyes. “That couldn’t have gone more perfectly if I’d scripted it.”

“What couldn’t have gone more perfectly?” We both jump and spin around to face the stern voice.

Stanley Fitzblossom Longtentacle is sitting on the edge of the bed, his beloved clipboard in one hand and his pen in the other. He raises one brow as he waits for our response.

“I’ve got this, Bertie,” Roger whispers out of the side of his mouth. “I’ll distract him.” I watch in mute admiration as Roger flings himself brazenly over Stanley’s lap. “Oh no!” he wails, his eyes large and his expression innocent. “I fell over, whatever shall I do!” He wiggles his pert little bottom in his tiny white shorts, which looks ripe for a spanking.

Stanley stares down at that wiggling posterior, and I have to admit, although I don’t go for chaps myself, Roger’s derriere is a peach. It’s like two Fabergé eggs wrapped in a silken handkerchief.

Roger gazes over his shoulder coyly at Stanley and wiggles his bum again, looking hopeful. “Oops.” He bats his eyelashes. “I don’t seem able to get up. I do hope I haven’t sprained anything.”

Stanley continues to stare at him, his expression dry. Finally, he lifts his clipboard.

“Aaa-tempt-ed frat-er-nis-ation,” he says slowly as his pen scribbles across the page.

He stands up and Roger rolls off his lap, hitting the floor with a smalloof. Stanley looks down at Roger, who, unperturbed at being dumped unceremoniously onto the antique Persian rug, has simply rolled onto his side, one leg coiled underneath the other, his head propped up on his hand. From that position, he runs an enticing palm over his hip and licks his lips slowly.

I have to hand it to him, no one can brazen it out with such effortless style as Roger. He winks at Stanley and puckers his lips, blowing the straitlaced bureaucrat a kiss.

Stanley turns to me and, with a reproving shake of his head, scribbles something else on his clipboard, then dematerialises in a swirl of mist.

“Oh, bugger,” I mutter under my breath.

17

“Morgan!” I call out as I hurry down the corridor in nothing but my hastily grabbed towel. “Morgan, wait!”

My nipples pebble and tiny bumps rise on my skin as the cool air hits my wet body. Morgan is just up ahead of me, squelching across the carpet in his soaked shoes and drenched clothes. He’s deliberately ignoring my shouting, and I can’t blame him. I’m pretty certain he’s beyond embarrassed right now, but he doesn’t need to be. None of what just happened was his doing, I’m certain of it.

In fact, I’m a thousand percent certain the blame lies with a certain ghostly duo that were doing a very poor job of hiding in the room I’ve just exited.