Midnight at the Barclay Hotel

by Fleur Bradley

  But now Ms. Chelsea had actually won something nice: a weekend away. Only it was at the Barclay Hotel, the last place she should be seen. Because Ms. Chelsea—despite her status as librarian, a most trusted position—was a liar, just like the other invited guests for the weekend. She had a secret to keep.

  A whopper of a secret.

  Ms. Chelsea was nervous. A little scared, you could say, and everyone knows librarians are never scared. It takes nerves of steel to be a librarian.

  She read the letter one last time, sipping her super-sweet tea before picking up the phone to RSVP. There really was no choice: she had to go, if she wanted to make sure her secret was kept. Plus, Ms. Chelsea had a dream—not for herself, of course, but for the library. She hoped for an elaborate extension to the kids’ section, with arcade games where you could win books, a giant slide (who didn’t like whirling down with their hands in the air?), and maybe even a locomotive that looped around the building. It was a bold and crazy plan . . .

  Ms. Chelsea sighed. Aside from her dreams of expanding the library’s children’s department, all she wanted was to share stories with the kids. There was nothing like that spark when a kid read a book and was swept away by the story—just like she was when she was reading. Books were magic to Ms. Chelsea. She wanted to share that with the world.

  But it was an uphill battle, being a librarian.

  Maybe this weekend away would be a nice break, she told herself. Maybe I’ll bring my bowling ball.

  No one could possibly find out her secret if she was bowling.

  RETIRED DENVER METRO area detective Frank Walker received the letter like the other guests, on Tuesday. He’d been in the middle of watching Antiques Roadshow—it was his favorite because Detective Walker loved the stories. Who wouldn’t enjoy finding a hidden treasure in the attic or at a flea market? He went to garage sales every weekend, but so far all he’d been able to pick up were a few trinkets, none worth anything substantial.

  So when the invitation came, Detective Walker felt like a real winner. He rubbed his bald, dark brown head and couldn’t resist a little smile.

  “What’s that?” Penny asked. His granddaughter was visiting from Florida for the week and had a giant stack of books in front of her, waiting to be read. Penny was curled up on the couch, her tiny frame taking up just the smallest corner. Her dark skin made her eyes look extra bright as she tried to see what was on the paper. “That letter looks fancy.” She wrinkled her nose to push her glasses up.

  “It’s an invitation,” Detective Walker said. He handed Penny the letter.

  She grinned as she read it. “You’re a winner, Grandpa! It says so right here.” Penny’s face lit up. “What’s this Barclay Hotel?”

  “It’s famous,” Detective Walker answered. “They say it’s haunted.”

  Penny grabbed her phone and let her fingers dance across the screen. “Sure is. Says here it’s the top haunted location in Colorado. And”—her face lit up even more when she shared this—“it has the largest private library in the state of Colorado.”

  Unlike JJ, Penny loved to read. She could spend hours at the library, getting lost in the stacks like there was a treasure hunt and she was the explorer. In fact, her parents often had to pick her up at her local library after it closed, because Penny would forget about time. She made getting lost in a book an art form.

  Detective Walker took the letter back, and read it again. There had to be a catch somewhere, a kink in the cable . . . You don’t just win a weekend getaway without entering a contest somewhere.

  Penny did read the tiny print, unlike the other invited guests. “Says there’s no cell phone service.”

  “Huh.” Detective Walker considered this. No cell phones. That seemed like a nice break anyway: just peace and quiet.

  But then he hesitated. In the back of the detective’s mind, there was a tiny alarm bell going off—it was his detective’s hunch, telling him that something about this invitation was off. But he also imagined himself having the relaxing spa weekend of his dreams . . .

  “Can we go?” Penny asked.

  Now, Penny didn’t ask for much when she visited. She’d go along on all Detective Walker’s garage sale hunts, she’d watch Antiques Roadshow, and she’d eat whatever he cooked (which wasn’t very fancy) without complaining. Even when her grandpa made broccoli casserole.

  These trips to Colorado were a much-needed break for Penny. Her parents owned a scuba diving school, and while that may sound super fun to everyone else, Penny would rather spend her time reading and drawing (she was getting quite good) than swimming underwater. She was afraid of a lot of things; being underwater was somewhere near the top of her fear list. But a giant library? Now, that sounded amazing. . . .

  “Please . . . ?” Penny asked again.

  The detective hesitated. His daughter had told him specifically to keep things quiet. Apparently, Penny was prone to panicking lately. But Detective Walker really wanted to go too. He was a winner, finally.

  He paused to ponder the decision for a moment longer.

  “I like this ‘no cell phone reception’ business,” Detective Walker mumbled. “Says here there’s a hot tub.”

  Secretly (or not so secretly, because Penny knew all about it) he really wanted a pampered getaway. Being a detective for several decades had given Detective Walker a crick in his neck, and a good massage sounded like a dream.

  “I’ll bet there’s a spa too, with salt scrubs and massages and mud facials,” Penny said, basically reading his mind. She had no idea if this was actually true (for the record, it wasn’t), but she really wanted to go to the Barclay Hotel, so she went along with the dream.

  Detective Walker smiled. “You think they’ll put those little cucumber slices on my eyes?” he asked. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”

  “Of course,” Penny said, nodding. “And we can take nice long walks around the grounds, eat some fancy food.”

  The detective was silent. Penny knew he just needed a little nudge to say yes.

  “Can we go, please, Grandpa?” Penny gave him her best pleading face. It was a good one, with sad-dog eyes.

  “You’re not afraid of the ghosts at the Barclay Hotel?” he asked her.

  “Poppycock,” Penny said with a smile. That means “nonsense.” It was their word—Grandpa and Penny’s. They’d heard it on Antiques Roadshow and laughed at the sound. Then it became their thing. Grandpa and Penny were both just-the-facts kind of people.

  He glanced at the invitation one more time. “Oh, why not,” he said, and made the call to RSVP. Penny cheered and rushed off to start packing her bags, imagining the hours she was going to spend in the Barclay Hotel library.

  Detective Walker was the only guest with no secrets. Later, he would realize why he was at the Barclay Hotel and why he’d been chosen. It was exactly because he had no secrets. And because everyone else on the guest list had secrets to spare.

  Even Penny had a secret, something she hadn’t told even her grandpa, and she pretty much told him everything. They were two peas in a pod, her mom liked to say. When she wasn’t visiting, Penny called her grandpa at least once a week, to talk books, detective TV shows, and yard sale hunting.

  But this secret she kept in her heart, like the twist in a good mystery book. Maybe someday she’d share it—but for now, she had a trip to prepare for!

  IT WAS FRIDAY morning at the Barclay Hotel, and Emma had just gotten the saddest news you can possibly imagine. Emma had been moping around the hotel for days. As amazing as the hotel was, she’d been just too upset (more on why later). And now she was getting tired of her own sadness.

  On top of that, Emma was extra bored that Friday. Sure, the Barclay Hotel had plenty to do for a twelve-year-old girl: there was the pool, the movie theater, the carousel, the Cupcake Shoppe, and the bowling alley. And the elevator had this great game that—well, tha
t was kind of a Barclay Hotel secret.

  But Emma didn’t want any of those things. Really, she just wanted another kid to hang out with.

  Emma spent most of her downtime roaming the hotel. Her parents had other things to do, so she hung out in the kitchen with her uncle, Chef Pierre. But even he couldn’t talk to her.

  That Friday morning, she’d already roamed the halls and watched Chef Pierre cook oatmeal for breakfast (with raisins, very grown-up and dull). And now she was sitting on a porch rocker, pushing her feet against the squeaky old floorboards.

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  Squeak, squeak. So boring!

  Emma twisted a strand of long dark hair around her finger, and faced the sun. She could use a little daylight. Too much time in the hotel this winter had made her kind of pale.

  Mr. Clark, the butler, stepped outside, followed by her uncle. Both men had their eyes on the blue sky and hadn’t seen Emma outside.

  “Do you think it will snow?” Mr. Clark asked.

  “Je ne sais pas,” her uncle replied. He was French, and often forgot that other people were not. He quickly switched to English. “I don’t know. The weather forecast said only ten percent chance.”

  Mr. Clark nodded. “That’s acceptable. Plus, no one can control the weather.”

  “Mais oui—that’s right, monsieur.”

  “Before I forget: it appears we have a straggler. Two stragglers, in fact. Kids, to make matters worse.”

  The chef’s face was like a giant question mark.

  “A straggler is someone who tags along and hangs behind the real invited guest, an extra person . . .”

  “Ah, oui.”

  “A boy, aged twelve,” Mr. Clark said. “And a girl—she’s eleven. Two of our guests RSVP’d asking to bring their kids.”

  “I’ll count it into the food preparations,” the chef said. “Perhaps pancakes for dinner?” Emma’s uncle specialized in pancakes, pizza, hot dogs, and burgers—food kids like.

  “No more children’s food, Pierre,” Mr. Clark said with a sigh. “Please.”

  The chef nodded but couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “It’s important that this weekend goes off without a hitch, you understand, Pierre?” Mr. Clark said to the chef. “We have to keep our plan on track.”

  “Oui.” His voice was small.

  Emma’s ears perked up, but she didn’t say anything. What plan could they be talking about? When you’re eavesdropping on grown-ups, it’s better to keep your lips zipped. Any kid knows that.

  “Back to work, then.” The butler turned, and went back inside the mansion.

  The chef let out a big sigh. Emma didn’t want to call attention to herself, so she sat very still in her rocker until her uncle followed Mr. Clark inside.

  Emma was so excited—there were stragglers coming! A twelve-year-old boy and an eleven-year-old girl, Mr. Clark had said. And Emma knew what that meant.

  Friends.

  All the plans Mr. Barclay had made, everything that had been set in motion, the whole invitation business—Emma didn’t know and couldn’t care less about it all. There were two kids her age coming to the Barclay Hotel.

  Things were about to be so much less boring. Maybe not boring at all.

  JJ MADE SURE his mom RSVP’d. Every day, he reminded her of the trip they were taking on Friday. On Wednesday, he placed her small suitcase by the closet. On Thursday, he left sticky notes on her mirror, on the fridge, and by her phone.

  THREE P.M. FRIDAY

  BARCLAY HOTEL

  BRING JJ

  Once upon a time, before JJ’s mom became a big-shot CEO of her own company, she would help JJ with his sight words for school. They were a list of words sent home every week that he was supposed to remember just by looking at them, so reading went faster. This was hard for JJ.

  So his mom came up with a game where they would take three words from the list and turn them into a story every day. By the end of the week, they usually had the word list used up, and JJ had an easier time remembering them. Mostly because of all the crazy stories.

  Like SUDDENLY, PINK, and CAPTAIN.

  Or BREAKFAST, CIRCUS, and UMBRELLA. These words made for some fun stories.

  That Friday, JJ was packed and ready to go at two o’clock. JJ’s secret was still safe, and his dad had left him a book for the weekend. The History of the Barclay Hotel. It was fat (four hundred pages!) and looked super boring. He stuffed it in the bottom of his backpack.

  JJ also packed his basic ghost hunting kit: the voice recorder, the EMF detector, his infrared camera, a logbook, and a flashlight. He was ready to catch some ghosts.

  JJ even packed some extra gear—you can never be too prepared. He had three tripods, which he borrowed from his friend and fellow ghost hunter Tristan, because if he did see a ghost, he wanted to make sure he got the best angle. JJ brought three reels of power cables, just in case the nearest outlet was far away from the ghost. He couldn’t expect the ghost to cater to the needs of his camera. He brought his laptop, a pad of sticky notes, four extra notebooks, and five pens, because—

  Well, the ghost hunting life is unpredictable. He fit all his ghost hunting gear into two giant suitcases he found in the attic.

  JJ was ready.

  When his mom had called to RSVP, the estate manager told her that the Barclay Hotel would send a car to the house to pick them up. This made the whole thing even fancier, and JJ was extra excited.

  Now it was Friday, two thirty, and JJ began to worry. At two forty, JJ texted her.

  THREE P.M.! BARCLAY HOTEL! BRING JJ!

  No reply. And at three o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang. This was the car service, and his mom still wasn’t here.

  He rushed downstairs, with his backpack and the invitation in hand. The suitcases were parked neatly by the front door.

  The driver, dressed in black and wearing dark sunglasses, looked very serious. “Are you JJ Jacobson?”

  JJ gulped and then gave a quick nod. How was he going to stall this serious-looking man until his mom was there?

  The suitcases. “Hang on, I have more,” he told the driver. JJ darted back into the house and rolled the last piece of luggage outside.

  The driver looked at JJ and then back at the car.

  “Hold up, kid,” the driver said with a frown. “I can’t fit that in there. Small luggage only.”

  JJ looked back at his two giant suitcases. “Are you sure?” he asked the driver. “I was thinking we could tie them to the roof . . . ?”

  The man gave one stern shake of the head.

  “Okay.” Now JJ frantically racked his brain for ways to stall the driver until his mom got there. “My mom isn’t here yet, but she should be here any second.”

  The driver looked over his shoulder at the car.

  The back window lowered and his mom waved. “Three p.m., right? I got your notes.”

  JJ smiled. This weekend was going to be great!

  IN THE MIDDLE of Aspen Springs, off Patterson Avenue, our fifth and last invited guest, Ms. Fiona Fleming, was only just opening up her invitation. She was a young actress and part-time spiritual medium, very busy busy busy (with what, no one was entirely sure), so after she signed for the letter on Tuesday, she just dropped it on her desk. Despite being only twenty-four years old, Fiona was overwhelmed by life.

  And Fiona was too busy worrying about her secret. It was paralyzing her, honestly, and that was not a good thing for an actress. She just had to snap out of it.

  It was now Friday, and Fiona was finally taking a step back from her long week.

  Just thinking about the horrible, horrible drama she was dealing with (and not the drama of the theater or spiritual medium kind) made her heart race. This weekend at the Barclay Hotel might be just the thing she needed to take care of her probl
ems.

  Plus, it would give her an in. A front-row seat, if you will, to find out if her secret was still safe. Fiona couldn’t resist a good theater pun.

  How Fiona loved the theater! She could be anyone she wanted on the stage, but theater had cost her a lot. Too much. She hadn’t been there when her father died, because she was in the middle of a tour. By the time she’d learned of his passing, she was somewhere in Iowa and had to rush home to even make it to the funeral.

  Sad, to say the least. Fiona missed her father.

  Now there was this trip, an invitation to cover her tracks, perhaps. It practically fell into her lap (well, it was delivered to her door, to be more precise).

  She frantically dialed the number on the invitation and crossed her fingers and her toes (while sitting down, otherwise she might topple over) as the phone rang.

  Twice. Three times.

  “Barclay Hotel, this is Gregory Clark, the butler.”

  “Really? Mr. Clark?” Fiona was confused. It will become clear why later.

  “Yes, really.” The man cleared his throat. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “Um, okay then.” Fiona fumbled with the letter, dropping it and looking at the name again—it was indeed Mr. Clark she was to RSVP to. “I apologize for being so tardy in my response. This is Fiona Fleming.” When there was a silence, she added, “Of Voilà! On Stage Productions. And spiritual medium to the wealthy.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line, and it was making her anxious.

  “You invited me. ‘You are a winner.’ It says so. Right here in the letter.” Fiona tried her best not to seem out of breath, but she really was quite desperate.

  The man on the other end cleared his throat again. “You are late.”

  “I know.”

  There was more silence, and Fiona almost gave in to the urge to fill it when Gregory Clark said, “Very well. Mr. Barclay is eager for you to join us, and I would not want to disappoint him.”