Karma Moon—Ghost Hunter

by Melissa Savage

  She focuses on me again. “Were there rose petals?” she asks.

  My eyes go wide and I suck air. “Yes,” I breathe. “Dried rose petals. They were in the dining hall after Chef Raphaël’s sighting, too.”

  She nods then and smiles. “You are getting closer to your abilities, Karma Moon Vallenari. I suspect you will come to your answer soon.”

  “So, it was Mrs. Honeycutt?” I ask. “Leaving us a clue?”

  She just keeps smiling. “What does your gut tell you?” she asks.

  I close my eyes and breathe in and out.

  In and out.

  Listening to the somethings all around me.

  Gut: I’ve still got nothing.

  When I open my eyes again, Madame Drusilla is still smiling at me.

  “It might be her?” I say, raising my shoulders up and then letting them down.

  “Your gut doesn’t sound very sure about that,” she tells me.

  “Yeah, my gut doesn’t have much to say that’s worth listening to, except when it’s hungry. Maybe you can just tell me what yours says. It’s probably way more accurate.”

  “That’s the easy road,” she tells me. “Just keep listening.”

  “Listening for what?”

  She places a flat palm on her heart and says, “Answers from deep inside you.”

  “But I already told you,” I say. “My inside’s got nothing.”

  “There are no nothings,” she tells me. “Only somethings. Never judge it. Trust it.”

  * * *

  On my way back up to get Mags in room 332, I stop in the lobby.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lozano?” I say, putting two palms on the front desk.

  He folds the corner on the page of his book and sets it aside. Another Stephen King, but this one has an evil cat with red eyes on the cover.

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we?” I say.

  He stares at me and says, “What table?”

  Sly.

  Clearly a stall maneuver.

  “You know, this.” I knock on the desk. “The desk. Let’s put our cards on the desk, shall we?”

  He looks at the desk and then back at me.

  “It’s an expression…you know, it’s…never mind. So, what’s the deal with the unmarked door downstairs? And don’t try any tricks with me because I know all about it. Madame Drusilla told me. I think the fishiness you were talking about begins and ends right there.”

  He eyes me some more while he chews at the bottom of his bushy mustache and then finally says, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” I ask.

  “No,” he says flatly.

  “I know there’s a secret tunnel, Mr. Lozano,” I say. “How come Totally Rad and Lights Out! weren’t told of this tunnel? Clearly it’s a prime location to investigate and could be highly active, wouldn’t you agree? It could very well be the most active spot in this whole place. It’s day six and we still don’t have a ghost on film.”

  He takes a breath and blows it out again. “I’m the interim manager while the Jewels look for Mr. Plum’s replacement,” he explains. “It’s my job to make sure the people in the hotel are safe. The tunnel is not a secret, it’s just off-limits for safety reasons.”

  “Uh-huh, and yet no sign,” I say. “You’re Keys and Signage, everyone says so. How do you explain that, sir?”

  He shrugs. “It’s nobody’s business,” he tells me.

  “And by nobody, you mean us?”

  “It’s nobody’s business including your busy body and any other busybodies that don’t belong down in that tunnel. And that’s all there is to say about it.”

  He hides his nose back in his book while I stand there watching him. The evil feline on the cover is staring at me with its scary red eyes.

  “You like haunted stories, huh?” I ask.

  “Mmm…”

  “Haunted stories,” I say again. “Especially about this hotel.”

  Silence.

  “I saw you reading The Shining,” I tell him.

  He folds the page he’s reading and closes his book, setting it aside. “Stephen King wrote that book in this very hotel,” he tells me. “They stayed here during a blizzard, he and his wife. The roads were closed and they couldn’t get down the mountain. They were the only guests here. Just like you are now.”

  I swallow and watch him pick his book back up and start reading again.

  “So, I guess I have another question, then,” I tell him.

  He sighs and looks at me over the top of the book.

  “What about the movie Poltergeist?” I ask. “Have you seen that one?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  “Do you think Tweety is the cause of the paranormal activity? Because it’s the source of a raging controversy between me and Mags.”

  He folds the page again, leans in closer toward me. “The canary,” he says, “is only one of the subliminal parallels of the undead entities hidden under the neighborhood of homes in the film.”

  I blink at him for a long while and then finally say, “Well, sure…yeah…everyone knows that one.”

  He rolls his eyes and picks up his book again. “I’m very busy here,” he tells me.

  “Reading?”

  “It’s research,” he says.

  “For what?” I ask.

  Sigh. “Is there anything else?” he asks. “Because I’d like to get back to my book.”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, putting my elbow on the counter and my cheek in my palm. “I’ve got something else.”

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “I get the whole, you know…subliminals and everything you’re going on about, because, you know…I’m in the film business and whatnot, but…did Tweety start it? I mean he’s in three whole scenes. Four if you want to count the bulldozer digging up his cigar box coffin. Not to mention, all his scenes are in the beginning of the movie, which to me seems like it makes his character way more important. My writing teacher, Mr. Cavanaugh, says everything is in a story for a reason. I think a canary ghost haunting the family is a real possibility.”

  “No, Tweety didn’t start it,” Mr. Lozano says. “And yes, he’s in the movie for a reason. The canary is symbolic.”

  I point a single-finger gun in his direction and wink. “Riiiiight,” I say. “I’ve got it now, Mr. Lozano.”

  “Good,” he says, opening his book.

  “Wait…a symbol of what?” I ask.

  He closes his book.

  “The afterlife continuing to rise to the surface,” he tells me.

  “Oh, right, right. Yeah, totally…I get that. I mean, that’s what I thought you meant,” I say. “But I was just double-checking.”

  He opens his book again and I head toward the grand staircase but turn around one more time.

  “So, what about the pink goo subliminals?” I ask. “I’m going with Jell-O. Thoughts about that one?”

  He sets his book down and this time takes off his glasses. “I know you’re not asking my thoughts on Jell-O in the afterlife.”

  “It’s a completely valid theory,” I insist.

  His eyebrows go up. “Jell-O is a valid theory?” he asks.

  “Totally,” I say. “I mean, Mags thinks the pink goo is ghost gut residue and Nyx thinks it’s echo-something. But I still think Jell-O is a very valid theory and, you know, maybe symbolic and everything. Like with the bird. So? What do you think? Jell-O in the afterlife? Yea or nay?”

  The door of room 332 slams behind me.

  “You were supposed to meet me down in Madame Drusilla’s office,” I remind Mags, flopping down in the cracked leather chair next to the desk.

  Hitchy finds a patch of sun on the viney carpet and cl
oses his eyes.

  Mags is propped against pillows on the bed thumbing at her phone.

  “I was talking to Jack the busboy while he was washing the breakfast dishes,” she tells me without even looking up.

  “Did you get any intel about the suitcase?”

  “I got zip,” she says. “If he were my boyfriend, I know he’d tell me everything.”

  “Mags, the kid is tainted,” I tell her.

  “I know, but he’s still cute.”

  “Your line definitely needs to be drawn at phony baloney,” I tell her. “That’s just basic line drawing 101.”

  She sighs. “I guess.”

  “Well, you missed it big-time,” I tell her.

  “Mmm,” she says, still typing. “Missed what?”

  “That sneaky Mr. Lozano,” I tell her.

  Still typing.

  “You’ll never guess in a million years what he’s done now,” I say.

  “Well, if you’re mad at Mr. Lozano it could be a number of things,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She sighs and looks at me over her phone. “Did he dis your spirit guide?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Order moo goo with brown rice?”

  “No.”

  “Mispronounce the word gyro? Call your woo-woo flimflam? Pick you dead last for dodgeball?”

  “Hey.” I point a finger at her. “That one’s not fair. You know there’s a conspiracy against me in gym.”

  She goes back to typing.

  “This one is really big,” I tell her. “I mean huge. Like supreme big, really. It’s like the hugest thing since we got here.”

  Her eyes meet mine and she throws her phone to the side. “Fine,” she says. “What is it?”

  “Remember what Nyx said about there being some real secret place here at the hotel?”

  “Mmmm…no.”

  “Well, if you weren’t so busy watching Avengers, you would have,” I tell her.

  “I told you it was Endgame, didn’t I?”

  “Guess what I found out,” I say.

  “What?”

  “There’s an actual…real live…secret underground tunnel system under this very hotel,” I tell her.

  “For real?”

  “Totally real.”

  “No way,” she says.

  “Way. I mean, you know, ‘secret’ may be a judgment call,” I go on, “but I think that’s a matter of opinion considering we’ve been here six whole days and not a single person has mentioned it.”

  She sits up straight on the bed. “Did you see it yourself?” she asks.

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I saw Mr. Lozano coming out of this unmarked door when I was down waiting for Madame Drusilla. I’m like, how did we not notice this door before, right? So, I watch him skulk out of it and lock it up tight and he flipped his gourd when he noticed me watching him. So, when Madame Drusilla was finally done talking to her roses and I’m all like what’s that and point to the door? Right? Then she just tells me straight-up…it’s a tunnel.”

  “She actually said that?” Mags asks.

  “Exact words.”

  “Why didn’t they tell us about it?” Mags says.

  “That’s the question.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “I actually went right up to Arlo Lozano at the front desk and asked him.”

  She gasps. “Whoa, girl, that’s so Velma.”

  “Nailed it, right?” I say.

  “Totally,” she agrees. “What did he say when you asked him that?”

  “He said some stuff about it being unsafe to use anymore and that’s why they keep it locked up. I guess there are all these tunnels under the hotel that the staff used to travel between the different buildings. Since some of the buildings have been closed and no one maintains the tunnels, it’s risky to use them, just like with the elevator, except in this case it’s more like tunnel at your own risk.”

  “That’s bizarre,” she says.

  “And the tunnel is all quartz.”

  “Quartz?”

  “The whole mountain is,” I say.

  “Isn’t that the crystal that Madame Drusilla said enhances higher spiritual receptiveness?”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And when I asked Arlo Lozano if any of the other ghost hunters knew about it, he basically said no. I really think this is it. This is where all the answers can be found.”

  “Check with the expert.” She nods toward Crystal Mystic sitting on the desk.

  I grab it and give it a shake.

  “Is this the place where we will learn once and for all what’s so phony baloney in the Stanley Hotel?”

  CRYSTAL MYSTIC

  THAT IS DEAD-ON.

  “I told you!” I exclaim.

  “So, we’re going to investigate the creepy crystal tunnel?” she asks me.

  “Absolutely.”

  And it’s right at this very moment that the ancient typewriter on the desk next to me starts clicking keys all by itself. Black round keys typing without any fingers pushing them down.

  I jump up from my chair and scramble onto the bed next to Mags.

  Hitchy jumps up from his sunny spot with a woof.

  One key snaps and an arm reaches out to stamp a bold, black letter on a piece of paper wound into the machine.

  Click.

  Another letter.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Mags grabs my arm. “What’s happening?” she whispers.

  “Grab your phone!” I tell her. “Get it on video! It’s a message from the beyond!”

  We both fumble with our phones, but mine falls on the floor.

  After the final stamp of the keys, I turn to Mags. “Did you get it?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I got it.”

  “I think it’s done.” I slip off the bed and take a step forward, stretching my neck to read the letters on the page.

  Hitchy stretches his neck and takes a few big whiffs toward the ceiling.

  “What does it say?” she asks.

  I suck air when I get close enough to see it.

  Message: Leave it alone.

  “Someone is listening to us,” I whisper.

  “Someone…or something,” she whispers back.

  That’s when we both know exactly what we need to do, without even having to speak the words.

  I make it to the door first, but Mags and Hitchy are right on my heels.

  * * *

  “I’m getting nothing,” T. S. Phoenix says, running the Geiger counter back and forth over the desk.

  It’s a no-brainer, really.

  When an ancient typewriter types out a message from the in-between right before your very eyes like magic, waking up the paranormal night shift is just plain smart ghost-hunting protocol.

  “Nothing at all?” Dad asks, aiming his Nikon D5600 and taking a close-up of the ominous message.

  We watch as Dad, who’s still in his sweatpants and white T-shirt, and T. S. Phoenix, with another bad case of bedhead, conduct an official investigation at the scene of the disturbance.

  Room 332, our room.

  “The keys just started typing on their own?” Big John asks. “Just like that?”

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “All by themselves,” Mags adds. “I took video of it too.”

  “That should make Netflix happy,” I tell Dad. “Typewriter keys typing all by themselves?”

  “It’s good,” Dad agrees. “But just like with the piano keys, we still need an image or an orb or something.”

  I sigh.

  T. S. Phoenix continue
s to float his machine over the desk while Tally is busy being sensitive in the cracked leather armchair with her eyes closed and her palms up.

  “What were you talking about at the time of the event?” T. S. Phoenix asks. “What does leave it alone refer to? The needle isn’t even budging.”

  “That’s the biggest news of all,” I tell them. “I found out there’s a secret tunnel that runs under the hotel and links all the different buildings together.”

  Both Dad and T. S. Phoenix stop what they’re doing and stare at me. Even Tally opens her eyes.

  “Did you say tunnel?” The Faz asks.

  “That’s right,” I say, and then rattle off all the details.

  Dad looks at T. S. Phoenix. “No one mentioned a tunnel to you?” he asks.

  T. S. Phoenix shakes his head. “I think I’d remember something like that.” He motions toward the wardrobe. “And this dress? It just appeared here?”

  “One day it wasn’t here and the next it was,” Mags says.

  He runs his Geiger counter up and down the wardrobe doors.

  “I’m not getting anything here, either,” he says. “What about you, Tall?” he calls to Tally. “What do you think about the dress?”

  We watch as she slips off the chair and steps toward the wardrobe. She opens the doors, closes her eyes and lets her fingers gently touch the brittle threads of the sleeve.

  She closes her eyes again. “I’m seeing more letters,” she says. “It’s a name. Definitely a name…whoever owned this dress. C…l…and an e,” she says. “It’s Cecil…no…CeCe…Clee…it’s Cecelia. It’s definitely Cecelia. Yes, and there is a great sadness about her. She has been looking for someone for a very long time and cannot find where they have gone. And…I see roses, too.”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “There were five rose petals, just like in the dining hall. But what about Mrs. Honeycutt?” I ask. “Her name is Seraphina, not Cecelia. Are you sure you’re getting all the letters?”

  We wait and watch as Tally’s eyeballs flicker underneath her lids, right and left, right and left. Then she opens them again and sighs. “Yeah, I’m just not seeing Seraphina’s image…it’s another woman altogether,” she finally says. “A woman with dark hair. But again…roses.”