Karma Moon—Ghost Hunter

by Melissa Savage

  “What?”

  “You know what. This is supposed to be a haunted mystery,” she says. “Haunted. No one has said a single word about serial killers or purple-haired old-lady vampires.”

  “What if all the haunted stuff is just some ruse for a vicious serial killer operation, conducting business under the cover of a haunted hotel? It’s a brilliant diversion, if you ask me. You know, for serial killer motives, that is.”

  She blinks a bunch of blinks at me before she finally says, “You’ve been watching Dateline again, haven’t you?”

  I toe another carpet vine while she blows air out of her mouth and flops down on the bed.

  “Dr. Finkelman said not to watch those shows,” she tells me, aiming out the window again. “Dateline is definitely on the list. And Scooby-Doo, too…”

  “I can so watch Scooby-Doo,” I insist.

  “Uh-uh,” she says without looking up. “I think it’s on the list.”

  That’s when I throw my hands out and go, “Mags, if I don’t watch these shows, how am I supposed to know what to worry about?”

  “You’re so dramatic,” she says.

  “Managers are missing. No one knows anything about it. No guests in a hotel? I don’t think I’m being dramatic to conclude there’s a serial killer on the loose, bumping off managers in the dead of night and hiding their dead body parts in this very wardrobe.”

  “I thought your what-ifs were supposed to stay in New York,” she says.

  I shrug, my eyes on the carpet vines.

  “You said Dr. Finkelman wrote a prescription to make them stay,” she says.

  “I know, but there was one big problem with that,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  I toe another vine and mumble, “My worries didn’t want to listen.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me and then puts her cheek in her hand. “I think Jack might like me,” she says. “I get a vibe. I’ve got to get a picture of us together so I can show the girls at school. Darby Woods is going to be so jealous.”

  I sigh and flop down on my own bed and stare at the ceiling tiles while she swipes through her Rocky Mountain photos.

  Dr. Finkelman, MD, PhD, LP, would tell me to breathe or meditate or write my feelings down and then throw them away.

  But frankly, right this minute, my brain is way too busy for any of that monkey business.

  WHAT-IFS

  Isn’t anyone going to check the wardrobe for body parts?

  So, it turns out that coq au vin is chicken after all. And lucky for Mags, there isn’t one single green thing in it.

  Even Hitchy likes it.

  Chef Raphaël serves Hitchy’s under our table on the same fancy china plates that he serves our chicken on. But I think Hitchy would have licked up every last drop of gravy on a plain old paper plate if he had to.

  It’s after dinner that we finally meet the paranormal ghost hunters from Denver, Lights Out! Paranormal Science and Research. It’s a ghostly meet-and-greet with T. S. Phoenix and his wife, Tally, in the MacGregor Dining Hall.

  That’s when I find out that T. S. Phoenix is big-time in the paranormal world.

  Google even confirmed it.

  In fact, it turns out that the guy has more letters behind his name than Dr. Finkelman. And they don’t give letters to just anyone.

  The thing is, T. S. Phoenix, MscD, EVP, CPI, is not a doctor of feelings or even your garden-variety strep throat kind of doctor either.

  He’s a doctor of ghosts.

  All those letters have nothing to do with feelings and everything to do with paranormal investigation.

  MscD = Doctorate in Metaphysical Science (knower of all things ghost-related)

  EVP = Electronic Voice Phenomena (catches ghost voices on recorder)

  CPI = Certified Paranormal Investigator (official investigator of phantasms galore)

  But he has something else that no other doctor I know has. Not even Dr. Finkelman.

  A badge.

  A ghost badge, to be exact.

  Dr. Finkelman doesn’t have any badge on his front, just a disgusting handkerchief that hangs out of the pocket of his suit jacket.

  As a general rule, I find people who keep their snot in a pocket highly suspicious.

  And you want to know what Crystal Mystic said when I asked if this hanky philosophy is a funky business?

  CRYSTAL MYSTIC

  I’M PICKING UP GOOD VIBRATIONS.

  Aside from the snot-in-a-pocket thing, Dr. Finkelman has a framed diploma on the wall above his desk from Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Apparently, Harvard isn’t official enough to dole out badges, but the Institute of Paranormal Studies and Professional Ghost Investigation of Boulder, Colorado, is.

  I bet Dr. Finkelman will be kicking himself that he didn’t go there instead of Harvard when I tell him he could have had a badge too. Because everyone who’s anyone knows there is nothing more official than a badge.

  That’s why they give them to police officers and health inspectors.

  A badge can get you arrested, like the drug addict who robbed D’Agostino’s on Greenwich Street last summer. Or a badge can shut you down, like with Chester’s Deli around the corner from our walk-up on Charles Street. And while we all knew Chester’s would be shut down sooner or later, no one could deny Chester made the best Reuben sandwiches in New York.

  “Hello!” T. S. Phoenix calls out to all of us seated at the small, square tables that are lined up diagonally throughout the dining hall, each one with a tall gold candlestick holding a single red candle. Me and Mags are sitting at a table up front. Dad, Big John, and The Faz are at the table next to ours. And the remaining hotel workers (the ones who haven’t disappeared in the dead of night) are scattered throughout the hall.

  There is Ms. Lettie (aka a tiny cowgirl vampire); Mr. Lozano, front desk clerk; Jack the busboy; Ubbe Amblebee (and his plunger); Ruby Red, housekeeper; Madame Drusilla, the Stanley Hotel’s resident spiritualist; and, of course, Mr. Plum in his too-tight blazer.

  T. S. Phoenix is standing on the stage at the front of the room with Tally by his side. He’s a tall man with a thick head of curls tucked inside a backward baseball cap. Tally has a short black pixie haircut and a tie-dyed skirt and flat sandals. She jingles every time she moves on account of the gazillion metal bracelets that hang around her wrists.

  “Thank you all for joining us this evening,” T. S. Phoenix calls out to us. “Tally and I are thrilled to be here. I’m the science guy in our research team, and Tally is what we in the paranormal business call a sensitive. There are two approaches when it comes to paranormal investigation: through facts and through the metaphysic.” He holds up two fingers. “Facts include tangible things that we can prove, and the metaphysic involves Tally’s harnessed talents of clairvoyance and ESP. Tally?”

  “Thank you.” She clears her throat. “ESP stands for extrasensory perception, which means that I can oftentimes perceive things by methods other than physical experience.”

  My cell phone buzzes in my back pocket.

  Mags.

  MAGS:

  How much do you think she’d charge to tell

  me if Jack the busboy wants to be my boyfriend?

  ME:

  Crystal Mystic will tell you for free.

  Mags just gives me an eyes-to-the-sky roll.

  She isn’t quite as blocked against the woo-woo as Dad, but her channels definitely need a major cleansing.

  Tally is still talking. “Oh, and Mr. Plum?” she calls out to the back of the hall. “Excuse me…Mr. Plum?”

  We all turn to look at Mr. Plum. But he’s busy scrolling through his phone and doesn’t even notice.

  “Excuse me…Mr. Plum,” Tally calls again.

  He jumps in his seat
and peers over round reading glasses. “I’m sorry. Yes?”

  “Driving directions aren’t part of the ESP phenomenon. Unfortunately, I still have to consult my GPS.”

  Mr. Plum’s mouth falls open.

  Me and Mags wide-eye each other.

  And a booming “Ha!” bursts out of Big John.

  “Ah…yes…of course…ah…my apologies. Please continue,” Mr. Plum bumbles out, his round cheeks shining like two bright red apples.

  “We are here to learn about what is restless at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park,” T. S. Phoenix continues. “Paranormal disturbances are way more commonplace than people think. Many push aside the idea that something has been moved or misplaced in their home as an oversight. Or something like a flash of light is just a faulty bulb. The truth is it can actually be a paranormal disturbance. We must keep an open mind without getting pareidolic.”

  WHAT-IFS

  Sounds contagious to me.

  I raise my hand. “Excuse me, Dr. Phoenix,” I call. “Is that catching?”

  He laughs. “Ummm, kind of, but not by germs. Pareidolic means you find whatever you are searching for purely because you want to find it. I’m far from pareidolic. I’m a scientist first and foremost when it comes to my investigative process. I’m looking for facts that can be backed by evidence, using electronic equipment to substantiate those facts. We will be using cameras, Geiger counters, electromagnetic meters and more. Tally will enhance that search with information about any psychic energy in the anomalies we may find.”

  With my pen poised, I ask, “Can you spell parei…parei—”

  “P-A-R-E-I-D-O-L-I-C.”

  Dad scribbles it down in his logbook, and so do I.

  “Think of it like this,” T. S. Phoenix goes on. “If you are interested in UFOs, everything you see in the sky that you can’t explain becomes an alien vehicle from a far-off planet. Or every log floating in Loch Ness becomes the Loch Ness Monster, because that’s what you are looking for and that’s what you want it to be. We want to have an open mind about what we might find, but also be objective. My first thought at the start of each investigation is, What earthly explanation can we attribute to this disturbance? Once I’ve exhausted all my options, that’s when I examine the paranormal possibilities. Is that clear?”

  I give him a thumbs-up and say, “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  “Does anyone here have a theory of their own about the Stanley Hotel or an experience they would like to share?”

  Ghostly meet-and-greet silence.

  That’s when we hear racing footsteps somewhere high on the grand staircase.

  Mr. Plum huffs out a “Dag gum hooligans” under his breath before excusing himself and stomping out of the dining hall.

  After he’s gone, T. S. Phoenix stretches his long arms toward all the Stanley Hotel employees like an invitation. “You are the experts,” he tells them. “You work here. You live on the property. You’ve had your own sightings. Please share your experiences with us.”

  Ms. Lettie is the very first one to volunteer. She stands up, smooths out her cowgirl fringe and then clears her throat.

  “I can tell you exactly who it is,” she says.

  “Yes, please share your thoughts, Ms. Lettie,” T. S. Phoenix tells her.

  “It’s Mr. Ozgood Honeycutt, of course. I’m certain of it. He can tell you himself.”

  T. S. Phoenix looks at Tally and then back at Ms. Lettie. “How do you mean?” he asks.

  And that’s when the dining hall chandeliers all go out at the very same time.

  Voices gasp.

  Alfred Hitchcock woofs.

  I grab Mags’s knee under the table.

  Someone screams (I think it’s me).

  And then as fast as the lights went off, they are on again.

  Ms. Lettie gives us all a real big I-told-you-so grin. “He can be a real stinker when he wants to be,” she snickers.

  The chandeliers flicker again.

  Dad’s Nikon D5600 flashes three times.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be much quicker than that, Mr. Vallenari,” Ms. Lettie tells him.

  WHAT-IFS

  I sure hope Dad put that heart attack

  doctor on speed dial like we talked about.

  I tap my fingers under the table on one hand and squeeze Mags’s leg with the other.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  “I think we should go back to our room,” I whisper to her.

  “You can’t walk out now,” she informs me, peeling my fingers from her leg. “You’re Research.”

  “I quit,” I tell her.

  “You can’t quit.”

  “Hold my hand,” I say.

  She reaches out and wraps her hand around mine. “It’s just lights,” she tells me.

  “It’s not just lights,” I correct her.

  “Yeah, I see that,” she says, nodding her head up and down. “But that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.”

  “I think we need to hear more about this Ozgood Honeycutt,” Dad says then.

  Ms. Lettie nods. “Mr. Ozgood Honeycutt and his wife, Seraphina Jayne Honeycutt, came to the hotel to celebrate their honeymoon in 1909. On the third day of their vacation, they both died tragically. During a scenic horse-and-buggy ride, the buggy toppled over and they both tumbled down the mountain. I believe the haunting at the Stanley Hotel is Mr. Honeycutt looking for his bride and making it known that he is doing so. He lingers…wandering the halls…looking for his love…unable to move on without her.”

  “No disrespect to you, Ms. Lettie,” Madame Drusilla says. “But my sensibilities tell me it’s more of a haunting than just silly poltergeist shenanigans.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Dad asks her.

  “So many outsiders have come. Like…you.” She holds her nose up in Dad’s direction. “Outsiders who don’t belong here and claim to be investigating when they have no knowledge on the subject of the afterlife or how dangerous it can be—”

  “Um, excuse me, Madame Drusilla,” I interrupt. “Can you define dangerous?”

  She turns to me. “Not safe,” she says flatly.

  My jumping beans lurch and my voice cracks. “Th-that’s what I was afraid you meant.”

  Ubbe Amblebee shakes his plunger and says, “I agree with Ms. Lettie. It’s definitely Ozgood, and Seraphina is here too. This hotel is a place of happiness. Of love. It’s not evil. Those who stay here experience some of the best times of their lives. It just makes sense this is where they would choose to come in the afterlife. Especially in the case of the Honeycutts.”

  “Gran has even seen Mr. Honeycutt’s image,” Jack the busboy pipes up from the back.

  “That’s right,” Ms. Lettie says. “It was in 2015. Mine was the very first sighting. I saw a man in a fancy tuxedo vest and top hat wandering the lobby, and then he just vanished as quickly as he appeared.”

  WHAT-IFS

  Did she say…vanished?

  Onetwothreefour.

  Mr. Lozano raises his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Lozano,” T. S. Phoenix says.

  “Yeah, so…ah, I may be new here,” Mr. Lozano says, shifting in his seat. “But I’ve done a lot of research on the history of this hotel. Ms. Lettie’s was indeed the very first sighting here. And since that time, there have been more and more sightings. They’ve scared off all the guests. Mr. and Mrs. Jewel have had to put the hotel up for sale because of it, and no one wants to buy it because of all the paranormal activity. If things don’t improve quickly, they will lose it altogether. I don’t know what it is, but I know the problem needs to be fixed. Mr. Amblebee is right about this place. It’s special. The Jewel family made it so for all these years. They don’t deserve this—”

  “I disagree,” Madame Drusilla interrupts. “We can�
�t disregard the fact that the outsiders who come here investigating, when they have no business being here, are unknowingly communing with evil spirits and drumming up chaos. And all I know is that once you let them in…well…that’s when you have a real big problem.”

  I swallow hard and say, “Excuse me, Madame Drusilla. Can you define problem?”

  She turns to face me again. “An evil spirit problem, of course,” she says.

  “Th-that’s the kind of problem I was afraid you were talking about.”

  I knew this trip was going to be the worst mistake of my young life. And I know if Crystal Mystic were with me now, it would definitely confirm it.

  As I sit there trying to calm my jumping beans while the others argue about which entity is haunting the Stanley, I notice one very important change to the MacGregor Dining Hall.

  Ruby Red, who had been sitting alone at a back table near the door…is gone.

  Just in case my hotel-manager-serial-killer theory pans out, Mags agrees to check the wardrobe for missing manager body parts that night before bed.

  “Make sure you check each and every drawer,” I tell her, supervising from a safe distance.

  “See?” She closes one drawer and then another. “Nothing.”

  WHAT-IFS

  A pinky toe can easily hide in the crevices.

  “See? Nothing,” she says.

  “Not even a pinky toe?” I ask.

  “That”—she points at me—“is disturbing.”

  She proceeds to open all the remaining drawers and then close them again with a bang. “See? Nothing.” Slam. Open. “Nope.” Slam. Open. “Still nothing.” Slam. “Can we go to bed now?” Open. “Wait…oh, no! Oh my God! The horror!” Slam.

  While I’m hightailing it to the door, she’s chucking out a big fat “Ha!”

  “I’m kidding,” she calls after me.

  I turn around with my hand on the doorknob. “You’re kidding?”