Room 9 and Other Ghost Stories

by Amy Cross

  Copyright 2018 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published in May 2018

  A girl checks into a haunted motel room, determined to prove that ghosts exist. But what's really waiting for her in the notorious room 9?

  A man meets an old friend who claims to be haunted by a figure from their past. But when that friend does, who will the ghost haunt next?

  A town struggles to face the horrors of its past. But no matter how hard the local people try to forget, the victim of a terrible crime is determined to avenge her own death.

  Room 9 and Other Stories contains the new short stories Room 9, The Ghost of Daniel Dowd and The Horror of Blackforke House, as well as revised versions of The Disappearance of Rose Hillard and The Fan.

  Table of Contents

  Room 9

  New

  The Ghost of Daniel Dowd

  New

  The Disappearance of Rose Hillard

  First published: November 2014

  The Fan

  First published: November 2014

  The Horror of Blackforke House

  New

  Room 9

  and Other Ghost Stories

  Room 9

  9:01pm

  Nobody believes that death is the end. Not really. We all think that there's something beyond that final breath, some state of being. Even if we try to tell ourselves that there's nothing, that there's just a void, we still fear that void. And if the void is truly so awful, then our awareness of that horror means we still persist. We can no more contemplate death than we can imagine what lies beyond the end of the universe. And if somebody could imagine that kind of nothingness, then they'd instantly be gone, because there'd be no way back from that sort of oblivion. So despite what people said last time I mentioned this theory, I still think I'm right when I say that nobody truly believes in death.

  Okay.

  It's getting late and I've been sitting here at the bus stop for long enough.

  Time to go inside.

  ***

  “So what's a nice young thing like you doing in a rundown old hotel like this?”

  I don't know what to tell him, so I just keep following him along the corridor. Just when I think he's not going to want an answer, he turns and smiles a toothless smile.

  “Eh?” he adds.

  “I'm just passing through,” I manage.

  Well, it's true.

  Sort of.

  “Passing through?”

  I nod.

  “Huh.”

  He turns and continues to lead me to my room, although after a moment he glances back at me again. It's clear that he's not entirely convinced, and he seems to be chewing the question over in his mind.

  “On your way somewhere?”

  I nod.

  “Somewhere fun?”

  Another nod.

  “Going to meet your boyfriend, are you?”

  “No, I don't have a -”

  I catch myself just in time.

  “I'm just traveling,” I continue. “Just... seeing some places I've never seen before.”

  “Is that right?”

  I force a smile.

  He turns away for a moment, but he quickly looks back at me again.

  “All by yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh.”

  Again he turns away, just as we reach a junction. He takes the left turn, along yet another corridor lined with rich red wallpaper and mottled bronze light fittings. As we pass the doors to rooms five and six, I can't help hoping that we get to room nine soon.

  “You don't get lonely?” he asks suddenly, turning to me again.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Traveling by yourself. Don't you ever get lonely?”

  “Not really.”

  “You call people, do you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “On the phone.”

  “Oh. No, not really.”

  “Never.”

  “Um, well... Sometimes.”

  “You call your parents?”

  “No.”

  “Or a boyfriend, maybe?”

  “No, I don't... I mean, no, I just... I really don't mind traveling alone.”

  “You don't, huh?”

  We pass the doors to rooms nine and ten.

  “And you just want the one night?”

  “Just the one. But I think we -”

  “Just passing through, are you?”

  “That's right, but -”

  “And if -”

  Suddenly he stops, so abruptly that I almost bump straight into him. Holding the key up, he squints as he looks at the fob, and then he looks past me.

  “We overshot,” he mutters.

  “I know,” I reply, looking at the fob and seeing the bronze number nine glinting in the low electric light.

  After a moment, the old man shuffles past me and heads over to one of the doors we just passed.

  “Are you sure you want room nine?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “We're not exactly heaving tonight, so I could give you a free upgrade to one of the fancy rooms. All the ones down on the ground floor are kinda -”

  “This is fine.”

  “You really want room nine, huh?”

  “It's my lucky number.”

  “It is?”

  I nod.

  He eyes me with a hint of caution, before reaching down with a trembling, arthritic hand and struggling for a moment to slip the key into the lock.

  “Never met anyone whose lucky number was nine before,” he mutters.

  “It's a long story.”

  I watch as he turns the key, and I feel a flicker of anticipation as he finally unlocks the door and turns the handle. I've been waiting so long for this night, I've been planning so carefully, and all my work has led to this moment. As the door swings open to reveal the darkness of the room, I swear something reaches out to me and presses against my chest. To warn me away, or to welcome me?

  “Been a while since anyone stayed in here,” the old man says, as we stand side-by-side and stare into the dark room. Finally, he turns to me. “In fact, I don't think I can remember the last time room nine was occupied. Most people sorta avoid it, on account of stories that have gone around over the years.”

  “That's fine,” I whisper, barely able to speak as my chest tightens another notch.

  Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that there's no reason to be scared, that I'm probably better prepared than anyone in history who has ever walked through this doorway. At the same time, I can feel the room staring back at me, and after a moment I look down at my chest. I can still feel a hand pressing against me, as if to gently keep me out of the room, but I know that's just in my mind. It has to be. I take another deep breath and try to collect my thoughts, and sure enough a moment later the hand seems to fade away.

  There.

  It was just in my mind.

  “Room one's nice,” the old man says, his voice trembling slightly. “A lot of people -”

  “I'll be fine,” I reply, suddenly stepping past and then turning to him. I can feel a ripple of doubt running through my chest, and to be honest I feel like I need to get started before I chicken out. Holding my hand up, I wait for him to give me the key. “I'd really like to get settled in now. It's been a long day.”

  “Are you sure I can't tempt you into trying another room?”

&nb
sp; “This'll be fine,” I tell him, with my back still turned to the open doorway. “Please, can I just -”

  Suddenly I hear footsteps, and I turn to look over my shoulder. I swear I just heard the sound of someone walking across the room, but all I can see is the faintest shape of two single beds in the darkness, along with the hazy glow of a distant electric light that's just about picking out the window. As my eyes continue to adjust to the darkness, I realize I can see the door to the bathroom, and there's definitely no sign of anyone in the room. Finally, I turn back to the old man.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask.

  “Hear what?”

  I open my mouth to ask again, but I can see a hint of fear in his eyes. For a few seconds, I wonder whether he's simply in denial, but then I tell myself that once again I'm simply reading too much into things. He's just an old man, waiting for a tip after showing me to my room.

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out a few coins and hand them to him. I can't really afford to be too generous, but I guess it's only fair.

  “M'am,” he continues, as he takes the coins, “are you sure I can't persuade you to take a different room? I'd feel much better knowing... Well, you understand, I'm sure.”

  “I'll be fine,” I tell him, taking a step back, consciously making sure to cross the threshold into the room. Spotting a switch on the wall, I reach out and give it a press, and sure enough the lights flicker on behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see the bare, old-fashioned room with brown floral wallpaper, and for a moment I'm shocked by how mundane it looks.

  Not notorious at all.

  “And you don't have any other luggage?” the old man asks. “Just that suitcase?”

  I turn back to him.

  “Just the suitcase. And now, if you don't mind, I could really use a shower.”

  I wait for him to leave, and then I slowly swing the door shut. A shudder passes through my chest as I hear the latch click, and then I wait for a moment until finally I hear the old man's shuffling steps heading back along the corridor. There's still a part of me that wants to get out of here, that wants to abandon the whole plan and just go home. Fortunately, there's another part of me – a much stronger and more insistent part – that knows I'd never be able to live with myself if I backed out now.

  The ghost of Gwendoline Emmervessy has to be in this room.

  Turning, I head over to the nearest bed, while consciously avoiding looking across the empty room. The last thing I want to do is show my fear. Setting the suitcase down, I click the buttons and swing the lid open, and then I reach inside and take out the electron spectrometer. It's a complicated rig, something I bodged together over the past few months, and it sure wouldn't win any prizes for beauty. Still, it'll do the job, and so will the magnatron scanner I developed, despite the many trailing wires that rustle together as I set this particular piece of kit on the bed.

  Then I take out some hand-held motion-sensitive cameras, along with a mini Vibbs Oscillator and a dual-tone Kentatonic spectrum diffuser.

  And three simple crucifixes, one of which belonged to my grandmother Mary.

  “Okay,” I whisper, as my chest tightens so tight that I can barely breathe. “It's time.”

  10:00pm

  “Gwendoline Emmervessy,” I say out loud, trying to sound calm and confident. “I'm speaking now to the spirit of Gwendoline Emmervessy. Gwendoline, can you hear me? Gwendoline, if you can hear me, just come closer and give me a sign. I won't hurt you, I promise.”

  With my eyes still closed, I sit cross-legged on the bed, listening to the silence of the room and waiting for something – anything – that lets me know I've got a bite. A simple knocking sound, or a few brief footsteps, or perhaps even a very faint moan.

  Something.

  Anything.

  So far, however, all I can hear is the very faint, very distant buzz of the vending machine outside, and the room itself has remained resolutely quiet since I started my work over an hour ago. I know I have to be patient, but I really wish patience wasn't quite so difficult. Still, I came a long way for this, and I planned for months. I can afford to wait a few more hours. I just wish my voice didn't sound so weak and childish. I sound like a little girl, even though I'm twenty-one years old.

  “I'm calling out to the spirit of Gwendoline Emmervessy,” I continue. “Gwendoline Emmervessy, I know what happened to you in this room. I know most of it, anyway. I know you died a horrible, painful death. I'm here to help you, and to give you peace, and to...”

  I hesitate, and for a fraction of a second I feel my resolve starting to weaken. I momentarily feel utterly stupid, but I quickly remind myself that I need to stay focused. It takes a few more seconds before I'm able to really reset my mind, but finally my doubts fall away and I'm left once more in silence on the bed, still waiting for some sign that Gwendoline Emmervessy is willing to contact me.

  “Gwe -”

  Something bumps nearby.

  My eyes flick open and I stare straight ahead, into the darkness of the room. I want to turn and look to either side of the bed, but I'm worried about scaring her away. Assuming the bump was her, of course; it could just as easily have been part of the AC system, or any one of a number of little twinges and settlings that might occur in such an old building. I told myself right from the start that I can't afford to get carried away. Still, as I wait in silence, I feel more and more certain that the bump might well have been a sign. A first, tentative offer of communication, perhaps.

  Or just a bump.

  It's so easy to let your mind fool you in these situations.

  I sit completely still for several more minutes, with the spectrometer in my right hand and my grandmother's crucifix in my left, before slowly starting to climb off the bed. The frame creaks as it releases my weight, and a moment later the floor creaks in reply as I set a foot down. Every sound feels like an intrusion, but I force myself to walk across the room until I reach the bathroom door, which I finally pull open. Reaching inside, I pull the cord and a bright electric light flickers to life, and I squint slightly. I've been in the darkened room for so long, the light seems shocking, and I can hear a faint electric hum.

  The light is flickering, catching against the white porcelain of the bath.

  That's where she died.

  Stepping forward, I look down into the bath. I've studied the police photos for so long, I swear I can see them now, overlaid on the scene. While the bath is clean now, I know that on the morning of January 1st 1999, there was blood everywhere. I even remember the exact patterns. One long, thick arc of blood ran from the base of the hot-water faucet, all the way down to the plughole, while there was a splatter pattern covering the far end and part of the wall. I remember how the blood near the handles was darker, as if it had dried before the rest. I also remember seeing patches of blood on the side of the sink.

  Almost on autopilot, I drop down to my knees and place my hands on the bath's edge, and I lean in to take a closer look at the area around the plughole.

  Clean now, of course.

  But on the morning of January 1st 1999, there was so much blood, the hole looked to have been completely sealed.

  Reaching down, I run a fingertip against the bare white porcelain. The light is still slightly flickering high above, and I can just about see my silhouette reflected in the glare. Just as I'm about to turn and get to my feet, however, I spot a small dark fleck at the very edge of the metal plughole. Leaning closer, I squint as I try to work out whether I've found a common piece of dirt or perhaps, after all these years, a leftover patch of blood.

  And then I see a pale, bloodied foot next to my hand.

  Startled, I pull back and slip, landing hard on the tiled floor. My heart is pounding as I stare at the bath, but there's no sign of anyone else in the room. Still, I know that for a fraction of a second I saw a foot – Gwendoline's foot – and I swear it was too real to be a hallucination. I should be able to see her head poking out the top of the bath, however, so fin
ally I crawl back to the edge and take another look, and this time there's nobody and nothing in the bath at all.

  I look down at the spot where I saw the foot.

  It's clear.

  Turning, I look around the room for a moment, just to be sure, and then I lean down and take another look at the dark spot next to the plughole. This time there's no sign of a foot, so I manage to start scratching at the spot with a fingernail, but it seems that there's something dark that has managed to get into a small pock-mark in the porcelain. Whatever it is, I can't dig it out, and I figure it's almost certainly not blood. I mean, this bath must have been cleaned thoroughly after the body was removed. There's no way even a speck of blood would have been left behind.

  I look over at the far end of the bath, at the spot where Gwendoline Emmervessy's head lay after she'd been murdered. In my mind's eye, I can see the crime-scene photos from a million angles, showing her face tilted toward the door and her eyes and mouth wide open. Her throat had been sliced open from ear to ear, and torrents of blood had rushed down over her naked body, staining her large, bare breasts and running over her hips before pooling at the bottom of the bath. There was no water when she was found. Just a dead woman, left in the bath in room nine of the Sandolin Mercer Motel.

  And nobody was ever arrested.

  Getting to my feet, I head over to the small, frosted-glass window above the sink. All I can see outside is darkness, and occasional distant, blurred flashes of light from the freeway. Thinking back to the crime-scene photos, I feel certain that this is the exact same window that was in place almost twenty years ago, even with the same metal bars. The police concluded that there was no way anybody could have escaped through here, and although I initially doubted their conclusions, right now I'm starting to think that they were at least right about this. I reach out and take hold of the bars, giving them a pull and finding that they're firmly in place.

  The killer didn't leave through the window.