by Amy Cross
As I turn to head back across the bathroom, my hip rubs against the sink, causing it to bump slightly. I freeze, before looking down and seeing that the back of the sink is very slightly loose from the wall. I give it another bump, and I immediately realize that this is the exact same bump that I heard a few minutes ago when I was in the bedroom. I push the sink a couple more times, just to be sure, and then I take a step back.
While I was in the bedroom, just before I came through here, something must have bumped against the sink.
Or someone.
I look down at the bath, then at the toilet, then across toward the towel rack at the far end of the room.
“Gwendoline?” I whisper.
I wait.
“Gwendoline Emmervessy?”
Again I wait, but there's absolutely no response of any kind. Taking a deep breath, I realize I need to sound more authoritative, more sure of myself. Hell, if I was a ghost, I don't think I'd appear to some scrawny early-twenties girl who sounds as timid as a field-mouse.
“Gwendoline Emmervessy?” I call out, surprising myself by sounding pretty firm this time. “Are you here?”
After a moment, I realize that I inadvertently made fists with both my hands. I immediately open them again. If there's a ghost here, she'll have seen that, and she'll probably think I'm completely ridiculous.
“Gwendoline Emmervessy,” I continue, stepping over to the open doorway and then turning to look around the bathroom one more time. “I know you died here. I know you must have been terrified, and I know people have seen you since that night. I want you to give me a chance to help you. If you're trapped here, I can find a way to set you free. If there's something you want, or if you just want justice, I can help with that too. All I want in return is to see you. To know that you're real.”
I wait.
Nothing.
“I've got all night,” I add finally, forcing myself to stay focused and confident. “I know you'll show yourself eventually. And I'm not going anywhere until you do.”
I think my voice sounds a little better now. Less like a girl, more like a woman. That's good. The ghost of Gwendoline Emmervessy will definitely respond to that.
12:35am
Sitting cross-legged on the bed once more, but this time with the lamp on and my laptop open in front of me, I continue to tap away at the keyboard. It's almost 1am, which means it's several hours since I was in the bathroom, and I'm just waiting and hoping that eventually Gwendoline Emmervessy will show herself. To be honest, I thought I'd have detected something by now, but I figure maybe she's just being cautious.
I mean, if I was a ghost, I'd be cautious. If some new girl showed up in my room, after years of emptiness and loneliness, I wouldn't start slamming doors immediately. I'd watch her for a while, I'd wait to see what she wanted. Just because Gwendoline Emmervessy is a ghost now, that doesn't mean she's lost her mind or become an idiot. I have every reason to believe she was a smart, flawed woman when she was alive, and I'm sure she's just the same in death.
Not that I haven't noticed a few odd things already, of course.
So far, since I came out of the bathroom, I've heard four distinct bumping sounds, although three of those turned out to be people in other rooms and the fourth was probably just more of the same. I also heard a clear scratching sound about an hour ago, lasting several seconds, although I think maybe that was from outside the window. There was also a brief, terrifying moment when I heard a rustling sound over my shoulder, although that turned out to be my backpack tipping slightly. My heart really pounded for a few seconds, but I quickly calmed my nerves.
I have to stay focused.
I can't allow myself to get distracted, or to start imagining things that aren't there, or to hear perfectly ordinary sounds and start attributing them to Gwendoline.
She'll appear eventually.
She has to.
After all, my research shows that this particular room has manifested paranormal elements on several previous occasions. In 2001, just two years after Gwendoline's murder, a woman staying alone reported seeing a figure in the bathroom, and a year after that there was a cleaner who ran crying hysterically from the room, screaming about a dead woman in the bathtub. I've uncovered eleven distinct reports of paranormal activity in this room, all the way up to 2015, which is when the management seem to have stopped renting room nine out altogether. I guess they were worried about the motel getting the wrong kind of reputation.
I just wish someone had caught a photo of the apparition, or a recording. Or that I'd been able to interview someone who stayed in this room.
Bringing up another webpage, I start re-reading the police report into Gwendoline Emmervessy's murder. I've read the damn thing hundreds of times, of course, but you never know when you might find that you'd been missing something. As I read the introduction, I hear the rumbling sound of a truck passing the motel, followed seconds later by another. In fact, for the next few minutes I hear a constant stream of traffic, and faint lights flash across the window. I keep reading, however, and gradually the sound of traffic begins to die down as the freeway once again falls quiet.
And that's when I realize I can hear someone sobbing.
Looking up from the laptop, I stare at the half-open bathroom door. I left the light on, and I can see the sink but not the bath. The sound of sobbing is almost imperceptible, almost so low that it could be a buzz in my ear, but after a few seconds I realize that I'm definitely hearing a series of anguished, mournful gulps and whimpers. I immediately think of the bath, and of the possibility that Gwendoline Emmervessy has somehow chosen this moment to reappear. Is she in there right now, reliving the moment of her death, waiting for me to go and witness whatever happened to her?
I close my laptop, and I can't help noticing that my hands are suddenly clammy with cold sweat. This might be the moment I've been waiting for.
Still, I hesitate for a moment before climbing off the bed. My chest is so tight, I can barely breathe, but I know I have to go to the bathroom door and take another look at the bath. I know from my research that sometimes the presence of a ghost provokes echoes, and living people can see whispers of traumatic events that took place years and years ago. As I force myself to step across the room, I tell myself that the sobbing sound might be some kind of psychic manifestation. I hold the spectrometer up, hoping to see a spike on the readings, but there's nothing. That doesn't necessarily mean much, though. After all, the spectrometer is experimental. I only finished building it last week.
Reaching the door, I push it all the way open and feel a flash of relief as I see that the bath is still empty.
The sobbing sound continues, however, and it seems to be coming from the far end of the room, over by the sink.
I open my mouth to call out, but I stop myself at the last moment. Better not to spook whatever's here. I came to observer and record, not to interfere.
Never to interfere.
Making my way toward the sink, however, I can't help feeling that I'm getting closer to the source of the sobbing sound. I tell myself that maybe the sound is coming from outside the room, maybe from the parking lot or from the room next door, but deep down I already know the truth. Someone is sobbing right here in the bathroom, even though I don't see anyone. As I reach the sink, I look in the mirror and see my own fearful face staring back at me, and I half expect to spot something in the background. There's still no sign of a physical manifestation, however, so I slowly turn and look back toward the bath.
And then, before I have a chance to stop myself again, I let a word slip from my mouth.
“Gwendoline?”
The sobbing stops.
Just like that, on a dime.
A shudder passing up my arms as I realize that she must have heard me say her name. If I could take that back, I would, but I guess the instinct was too strong. I guess I should have known that, faced with a possible encounter, I'd attempt to communicate.
“Gwendoline?” I say a
gain, and this time I can hear the fear in my voice. There's no hiding how scared I am right now. “Gwendoline Emmervessy? I'm here to help you. I don't exactly know how you need help, but that's something we can figure out. Can you give me some kind of sign that you understand?”
I wait.
I give her a couple of minutes, standing in total silence, before realizing that maybe I've scared her off.
Damn it, why did I have to say her name out loud? I didn't even get a chance to record the sobbing sound first. I need to keep my head together and make rational decisions, and I need to resist the lure of the dramatic.
Then again...
Looking down at the empty bathtub, I can already feel an idea creeping into my thoughts. A bad idea, an insane idea, but one that's pretty appealing right now.
No.
No, I have to stay focused.
I turn and head toward the door, before stopping as the idea takes root a little deeper. Slowly, I turn and look back at the bathtub, and I can already feel my resolve starting to weaken. Even though I know the idea is melodramatic and unwise, I step back toward the tub and lean down, and then I put the plug in the hole before turning on the faucet and starting to run some warm water.
I'm going to take a bath.
After all, maybe Gwendoline needs a little more encouragement, and a reminder of what happened to her. She died in the tub, and the police report stated that there'd been water in there when she was killed. I also know that at least two of the people who reported strange events in this room said that they'd run a bath before the first manifestations occurred, so I guess maybe this is something I need to do.
An hour ago, I'd never have considered doing this.
An hour from now, I'll probably think I was crazy.
But at this exact moment, determined to make some progress, I check the water one more time before stepping back and starting to strip out of my clothes. There's still a voice at the back of my head, telling me that I'm being way too daring, and I know I'm probably letting my impatience get the better of me. At the same time, I've been in room nine for several hours now and I only have this one night, so I figure I need to kick-start things a little. A few sobs are not enough. I want a proper paranormal encounter with the ghost of Gwendoline Emmervessy.
Once I've stripped down to just a pair of white briefs, I lean over the bath and check the water. It's warm enough and full more than halfway, so I turn the faucet off and take a step back. When Gwendoline was found, there was evidence that she'd had bubbles in the water, but I'm going to have to make do with what I've got. It's not like I have to recreate the entire night of Gwendoline's death; I just have to do enough so that the spirits in this room start paying attention.
After slipping out of my briefs, I climb into the bath and lower myself into the water, and then I lean back and wait.
She's coming. I can feel it. The ghost of Gwendoline Emmervessy is getting closer.
1:19am
One hour later, still leaning back in the bath and still waiting, I have to admit that my confidence is starting to wane. The water is getting cold, I'm almost shivering, and I'm no longer quite so sure that this is going to work.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, before sitting up and then leaning down to feel my toes.
Sure enough, they're waterlogged.
“What am I doing wrong?” I ask out loud, as I look around the room and see nothing but bare white tiles staring back at me. “You appeared to other people. Why did I only get those few sobs?”
The only answer is silence.
Finally, with a sigh, I get to my feet and step out of the bath, before grabbing a towel and starting to dry myself. The only sliver of consolation right now is the hope, however remote, that Gwendoline is merely biding her time. After all, it's not even 2am yet. There's still plenty of time before the sun comes up.
***
“Come on,” I whisper, pressing the button a couple more times but still not getting any ice from the machine. “I just need a couple of -”
Suddenly there's a clunking sound somewhere deep within the machine's innards, followed by a whir and then some kind of grinding noise, and a moment later three ice-cubes drop into my cup. My relief is short-lived, however, as I lift the cup and examine the cubes, only to find that they have a faint yellow tinge. Now, I'm not the fussiest person in the world when it comes to food and drink, but I think even I draw the line at yellow ice-cubes.
Sighing, I tip the cubes into the bin and turn to head along the corridor, back toward room nine. I'm so tired, I almost -
“Hey there!”
Startled, I let out a gasp as I take a step back, and the blonde-haired woman immediately starts giggling.
“Honey, I'm sorry,” she continues, “I didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't creeping, honest. I was just waiting to get some ice. And this floor...”
She steps to the side, and I notice that the deep, thick carpet barely makes a sound beneath her feet.
“Like I said,” she adds, “I just came to get ice.”
“I think it's a little off,” I tell her.
“It is?”
Furrowing her brow, she steps past me and sets a cup in the machine. When she presses the button, several ice-cubes obediently drop down, and when she holds them up I see that they're pure and clear.
“That looks better,” I admit, putting my cup into the machine and pressing the button. A moment later, three yellowish ice-cubes drop down.
“Huh,” the woman says with a smile. “Maybe you're just cursed. Let me help.”
Taking my cup, she tosses the cubes aside and then tries again. This time, perhaps because she pressed the button, the next cubes are clear, and she hands the cup to me. Ordinarily I'd insist on trying the machine again, just to figure out what's going on, but right now I'm way too exhausted.
“No offense,” she says, taking a moment to eye me up and down, as if she's amused by me, “but you look like hell. What's wrong, can't sleep?”
“Something like that.”
“Me neither.” She sighs as she checks her watch. “Then again, I never can in this place. Not even at 2am. There's just something about this motel, don't you think? A kind of atmosphere. Like the whole building is kinda uncomfortable with itself. Itchy.”
“Itchy?”
“Itchy walls.”
She reaches out and runs a hand across the mottled wallpaper.
“If this place was a person,” she continues, “it'd have terrible skin. Have you seen the roaches?”
“Roaches?”
“Sometimes you see them scuttling just beneath the wallpaper. It's totally gross.”
“I'm sure there aren't cockroaches here,” I reply.
“Just 'cause you haven't seen 'em, doesn't mean they're not here.”
“I guess.” I pause for a moment, trying to clear my sleep-deprived mind, but one of her comments is ringing in my ears. “You said you never find it easy to sleep here. Does that mean you come here often?”
“Oh, well...” She glances over her shoulder, and for a few seconds she seems a little awkward, almost worried. “That depends on who's asking.” She turns back to me, with her hand still resting on the wall for a moment before she lets it slip down to her side. “A lady has to make a living in this crazy world, and sometimes there aren't so many options. You've gotta play to your strengths, right?” She looks me up and down again. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm thinking you and I aren't in the same line of work.”
“Line of work?”
“This isn't exactly an up-scale kinda place,” she adds, stepping past me and – in the process – wafting a hint of watered-down cologne my way. “It's cheap, though, and that's all my clients care about. Speaking of clients, I've got one coming in thirty minutes, so I need to get back and make myself presentable.”
I've got to admit, it takes me a moment to realize exactly what she means.
“Wait!” I stammer. “You mean you're a -”
My throat dries up, and I stare in shock as she turns and grins at me. I've got to admit, although I'd already figured out that this motel was a little rundown and sleazy, I didn't think there'd actually have prostitutes working here. I thought that kind of thing only happened in movies.
“You wanna finish that sentence?” she asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“No, I mean...” I take a deep breath. “Do you come here a lot?”
“About twice a week for the past few years,” she replies, taking a cigarette and lighting it, before taking a drag. There's a No Smoking sign on the wall right next to her, but she seems not to care and I don't see any sign of smoke detectors. “I'm not hurting anyone, so don't get all judgmental on me.”
“I'm not,” I reply, “I just... Have you ever seen or heard anything weird in this motel?”
“Plenty.”
“But what about -”
“This one time, a client insisted on wearing a gas mask while we were doing it. Can you imagine that? It was some kind of World War Two vintage get-up. Just the gas mask, mind. Nothing else. He had a big old belly, too. I told him it was alright, and I wasn't exactly facing him during the act, if you catch my meaning, but -”
“I mean ghosts!”
She takes another drag on her cigarette. “Come again?”
“Have you ever seen anything like a ghost?”
“Like a ghost?”
“Have you ever seen a ghost here at the motel?” I pause, aware that I probably sound completely insane. “Have you ever stayed in room nine?”
“Room -”
She hesitates, as if she understands where I'm going with this.
“Well,” she continues finally, “room nine is off-limits. Everyone knows that.”
“You've never stayed in there?”
“No-one stays in there.”
“I'm staying there tonight.”
“For real?”
Holding up the key fob, I show her the brass 9, and I can see that she's surprised.
“Please,” I continue, “if you've ever seen or heard anything unusual in, or close to, that room, I need to know.”
