Page 61 of The Haunted Hotel

Not that I don’t want to though. I’m desperate to bury myself inside him, to have him under me making those sweet sounds when I make him come, but every time we get close, I pull away. I see the disappointment in those pretty blue eyes, but also an understanding. He doesn’t push for anything more than I’m willing to give, which is more than I’ve ever had from any of the other men who temporarily ran through my life in the past. They’d all wanted something from me: money, connections, favours, you name it. But Ellis doesn’t ask for anything at all, not even my help trying to figure out how to save his beloved hotel.

He’s everything I never knew I needed and the one thing I can’t keep. I can’t take him to bed knowing that I’ll be leavinghim. And I will leave him. I have a whole life and a company to help run back in New York. I can’t dump everything on Warren; in fact, I don’t even want to think about the pile of problems that will be waiting for me when I return.

The thought of returning has my belly churning uncomfortably. Pushing the thought from my mind, I return to my fascinated perusal of the pictures lining the walls. Ellis had spent the first few days showing me the whole hotel from top to bottom, then he’d returned to his duties, leaving me to explore on my own. According to him, this entire floor housed the family apartments before it was renovated as a hotel. Most of the family rooms were converted to guest rooms with the exception of my grandfather’s suite, which is at the other end of the east wing and far away from the guest rooms where I’m staying, but it doesn’t stop me wandering the floor curiously.

I turn down an unfamiliar corridor and pause. This isn’t one of the places Ellis showed me, I’m sure of it. Even though all the corridors and rooms look the same, they’re not. It’s like my subconscious knows every corner of this building, and it’s trying to direct where I go next. Everywhere I look, I have this feeling of déjà vu, but I can’t seem to access the memories to match.

I’m about to turn around and go back the way I came when I hear a creaking. When I look up, there’s a door swinging slowly open.

“Ghosts aren’t real,”I mutter to myself. Yet I still walk tentatively towards the open door. Jesus, I’m like one of the dumb teenagers in every horror movie ever, going down into the basement or walking into the abandoned shack in the middle of the woods.

As I reach the door, I press my hand against the wood and push it open further. I’m not sure what I expect, but it’s certainly not the sight that greets me. It’s a child’s room, butwhat immediately has me drawing in a sharp breath is the name painted in brightly coloured letters above the small twin bed.

Morgan.

This was my room. I drop my hand to my side and step into the room. Beside the bed is a nightstand holding a night light in the shape of a small blue train. Thomas, I think with a smile, the memory floating to the surface. Thomas the Tank Engine. I loved trains. How could I have forgotten?

I turn to look at the walls that are covered with pictures of trains, steam engines, and various others, including the Flying Scotsman. Then there are posters of the rest of the characters from theThomas the Tank Enginechildren’s series, and a bookcase pushed up against one wall is filled with books from the series too.

I also see dozens of other children’s books, including what looks to be a series for much younger children about a white bunny named Miffy. On higher shelves are classics: the Narnia books, Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan.

I turn away from my perusal of the books and towards the armoire. The doors are open, revealing empty wire hangers. I glance down and see a small heap of light-coloured material. Picking it up, I shake the thick layer of dust from it, then pull it out of the piece of furniture. It’s a child’s T-shirt, one of mine. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and a strange, unsettled feeling rises in my belly when I hold it up to look at the illustration on the front. My gaze takes in the old-fashioned green steam engine and the little red Welsh dragon sitting on its funnel. Iver the Engine, I remember, and the dragon’s name is Idris.

Like the information was just waiting in some long-forgotten corner of my mind.

I lay the T-shirt carefully on the bed. The dresser drawers are open too, and empty except for several mismatched socks withholes in them and a pair of pyjamas. Toy boxes filled with balls and stuffed animals line the walls, and a bow and arrow set leans next to one of them. Tucked into one corner is an old-fashioned rocking horse with a cowboy hat hooked over one ear and on the floor in front of it is a huge train track set up with stations and tunnels, and several engines with burgundy and cream-coloured passenger carriages.

I came here on a train… a really big one. It had lots of steam coming out of it and there were loads of other kids on board. They said they was takin’ us somewhere safe where the doodlebugs couldn’t get us.

I’m really glad you’re here. You’re my best friend, Artie.

I stumble back at the vivid memory of me lying on this very floor, watching the little electric trains running along the track, my friend lying beside me. Dropping heavily onto the bed, I stare at the train set for I’m not sure how long.

Finally, I reach into my pocket and retrieve my phone. It only takes me a moment to scroll through to the right number and for it to start ringing at the other end of the line.

“Morgan, darling! How lovely to hear from you. This is unexpected. How’s Chicago? Cold, I bet. I don’t envy you at all. Your Aunt Sylvie and I are sipping mai tais by the edge of the ocean.” She sighs happily. “I do love the Bahamas. You and Warren should fly out and join us. I can’t remember the last time the three of us spent any time together.”

I can. It was my stepfather’s funeral, but I don’t remind her of that.

“Mom, I’m not in Chicago.”

“Oh, are you back in New York, then? Warren didn’t mention it. Or are you off to one of the other hotels? You’ve always been like that. Itchy feet, my mother used to call it. You never could settle in one place for long. It’s like you have a restless soul.”

“No, I’m not in New York either.” I take a deep breath, not sure how she’s going to take the next words out of my mouth. “Mom, I’m in England. I’m in Yorkshire.”

There’s nothing but silence on the other end of the line. If I couldn’t hear my Aunt Sylvie’s voice chatting away to someone faintly in the background, I’d have thought the call had disconnected.

“Mom?”

“What are you doing there?” she says quietly.

I breathe out slowly. “You know what I’m doing here.”

“You’re at Ashton House,” she says, and there’s a note of sadness in her voice.

“We’ve never talked about our life here, never talked about…” I brace myself. “We’ve never talked about my dad. You never brought it up, and I didn’t want to make you sad by asking questions, but maybe I should have. I’m only just starting to understand that the reason I could never settle anywhere, the reason I was always trying to prove myself, is because there’s a big part of me missing. I lived here for the first six years of my early life, the most formative, and I have no memory of it, of my dad, of my grandfather. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be surrounded by things and people who seem so familiar, yet I don’t remember them? It’s like there’s this black hole in my memories, and you’re the only one who can fill in the blanks for me.”

“What about your grandfather? Where is he?”