The Haunting of Lake Manor Hotel

by Gwendolyn Kiste

  “Almost everyone. So the boy — the man, by then — wandered, horribly scarred by the disease, seeing ghosts everywhere. He was cursed and desperate and always alone. I thought you’d like his finger bone.”

  “I love that story. Thank you.” I touch the bone to my lips; it’s smooth and slightly warm. “How did you hear it?”

  He wades a little closer, so I can smell the water and earth scent of his clothes. “I used to think ghosts talked to me.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I know it.” Then he leans forward and kisses me. His lips are warm and soft and very, very careful.

  I put the finger bone back into my pocket, and let my hands stroke down his cheeks, his neck, feeling the roughness of his scars against my palms. “You don’t need to be so gentle,” I tell him. “I won’t break.”

  “I know.” He draws a deep, shaking breath. “I’m scared I might.”

  So I take hold of his shirt collar and kiss him a little harder. At last his hands touch my face. Cold from the water, but gentle, like he’s still scared he’ll hurt me. I feel like a stone Madonna on a grave, like something beautiful and precious. My stomach tugs toward him as if I could get inside his skin.

  I can’t imagine going home and leaving him. I wish my wretched family was staying here for a bit longer. Forever.

  He clears his throat. “I— I should—”

  “I should, too. Mum might wake up and check on me.” Like I’m an infant; like I don’t know what’s going on.

  He turns my hand and kisses my palm. Is this how Mum and Dad felt, all those years ago? This perfect sense of rightness? Sometimes you fall fast, Mum told me, when she used to speak to me, when she used to speak. And there’s no coming back.

  I reach for his hand. He tucks it behind his back.

  “Why?”

  “It’s ugly.” His voice is hoarse.

  “I like it.”

  Slowly, he unfurls his hand, and I put my lips to the scar across his lifeline. The rough skin against my mouth, his indrawn breath, the cold, starry sky; everything feels like forever.

  “God,” he whispers. “God. Lara.”

  ~

  I sleep really well, for once, and the dreams don’t bother me. In the morning, I dress more carefully than usual. Joe’s kind of old-fashioned style is cute, and I want to match him so I choose my jacket with the pinched-in waist. Over a long skirt, it makes me look like some of the women in the portraits downstairs. Shame about my hair. I ruffle it, tweak it so the blue bits show. Mum nearly imploded when I had it done; seems like a long time ago.

  I’m buzzing as I walk down the stairs; it feels like I’m glowing with excitement. The finger bone is in my pocket and I’ve closed my hand around it, pressing the palm Joe kissed against the smooth bone.

  But Joe’s not in the dining room.

  Dad’s a funny grey color that isn’t really funny at all, and Mum’s eyes are red, but she’s not actually crying. She’s got one hand resting on her bump, and the baby’s kicks are visible even from halfway across the room. For the first time, I feel a bit of interest: what’s the kid going to be like? With a kick like that, I could teach her to be a mean striker. Does Joe play soccer? When I find him, I can ask.

  While my parents are nursing their pot of coffee, I wander off down the hall, looking for the picture of the lady whose dress looks like my outfit. I find her halfway down the hall; I like what she’s wearing, but her hair’s not as cool as mine. Right next to hers is another portrait. This one looks like Joe. The guy’s older, but the scars are the same.

  Weird. The plaque underneath reads, “Joseph Hamblin (1832-1884)”.

  ~

  Joe’s on the pier again; the sun picks out the gold in his hair, the green of his eyes when he turns to smile at me.

  I sit beside him and dip the toes of my boots into the dark water. “Are you Joseph Hamblin?” I didn’t really mean to ask, but the words feel right.

  “Yes.” There’s something tight about his voice; I keep my eyes on the lake.

  “The one who died in 1884?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the boy who survived the plague?”

  “Yes.”

  This time I look at him, at the way the sun makes his skin glow. “So are you a vampire?”

  He frowns. “Do I look like a vampire?”

  I shrug. “Depends what you read.”

  “I’m a ghost.”

  Which is impossible, of course. This whole thing is a trick, and he’s messing with me. “You’re not.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Am.”

  “Ghosts are insubstantial.” I prod his arm with one finger. It’s as solid as it was last night.

  “We are.”

  “Then how come I can touch you?” I ask, leaning close so my words buzz against his neck. “How come we could kiss?”

  He trails his free hand through my hair. That weird something in my stomach tugs toward him again, despite — because of — my confusion. “I thought you’d guess.”

  “Well, I haven’t.” But suddenly, I’m scared. Almost.

  “Ask your question,” he says. “I won’t lie to you. I can’t.”

  So I ask the thing that’s been bothering me for ages, since everything went weird, since Mum and Dad fractured and fell to pieces. “What happened on my birthday?”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Walking, on the bridge.” The wind tearing at my hair, my friends screaming from the other side of the barricade, and I was laughing, out above the huge drop to the black water, because I’d just turned sixteen and everything was mine and I was invulnerable and… and... “I— I didn’t?”

  His eyes are warm and his hands are, too. “You did.”

  “I fell?”

  He nods. “Five hundred feet.”

  His thumb rests, warm and light, in the hollow between my collar bones.

  I force myself to think about it. “Shit.”

  “Shit is right,” he says, so I kiss him.

  Room 1: Forget Me Not

  By Thaddeus White

  Alexandra turned onto the lane that led to Lake Manor Hotel. In the distance, the hotel and its eponymous lake were set amidst a countryside landscape. The serenity was shattered by her smartphone vibrating against her side. She kept one hand on the BMW’s wheel, and fished the thrumming device out. It was David.

  If you cancel, I won’t be happy.

  “Hey, darling,” she said. “What’s up?”

  The pause told her the news before he spoke. “Work’s just dumped the mother of all projects on me. I can still make the hotel, but I’ll be a little late.”

  She chewed the inside of her mouth. “Hours?” she asked, knowing it would be longer.

  “I’ll be there by Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.”

  “Christ, David. I get two weeks a year.”

  “I know. I—”

  “You need that promotion,” she finished his sentence. “Look, be here by Thursday. And bring chocolate.”

  She hung up and sighed. At least he’d be turning up at some point, which was almost more surprising than his delay. She slid the smartphone back into her inside pocket and patted the other one to reassure herself the ring was still there. He might be a traditionalist, but her golden hair would turn silver if she waited for him to pop the question.

  Alexandra pulled up outside the hotel, and got out. Gravel crunched beneath her loafers as she made her way to the trunk. The lake shone in the midday sun, and above it the hotel arose. She lugged her suitcase from the trunk and slammed it shut.

  It was only a short walk to the hotel’s front door. The lobby décor was antique, and the middle-aged woman behind the front desk belonged to the nineteen-fifties.

  “Miss Blackwood?” the receptionist asked.

  “Yes. I’m booked into room number one.”

  A shallow smile added a few more creases to the woman’s face. “Welcome to the Lake Manor Hotel. I’m Lissette. Your room is prepared,” sh
e said, sliding a chunky, old-fashioned key across the desk, “should you wish to enter it now, or you can avail yourself of our dining facilities while you await your gentleman friend.”

  Alexandra swiped the key. “It’d have to be a bloody big meal. I’m afraid he won’t be joining me for a few days.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, my dear. I’ll fetch Hank to carry your suitcase.”

  Alexandra shook her head. “I can carry my own baggage, thanks. Where’s my room?”

  “Along the corridor, on the left. Have a pleasant stay, Miss Blackwood.”

  “Thanks.”

  She wandered along the corridor, counting off the numbers until she reached her room. It had been years since she’d had a proper key instead of a keycard, and it felt rather quaint to turn the chunky metal key in the lock.

  The lounge was surprisingly spacious, decked out in antique furniture. The sole concession to the twenty-first century was the widescreen television in one corner. Even the radio was wooden. She dumped her suitcase in the bedroom and strolled over to the window. At least she’d have picturesque countryside to enjoy.

  Plenty of good photo opportunities. I wonder what sort of wildlife lives around here?

  ~

  The autumnal wind sent the dried leaves skittering around the lakeside path and made Alexandra shiver despite her lambs-wool fleece. Trees shed more leaves with every gust, though here and there a holly bush added a splash of green to the golden brown of autumn. A robin hunted worms amidst the desiccated undergrowth and paid no heed when her camera flashed to capture its triumph.

  Apart from the birds, she had little company on her stroll around the lake. A few hundred yards away, on the other side of the lake, a frail old dear in a red shawl was hobbling along the path. The old woman caught sight of her and waved hello, and Alexandra returned the gesture.

  She continued along the path, pausing to snap a grey squirrel. Dark clouds gathered overhead, and she put her camera away before the threatened deluge could fall.

  A red shawl with white dots fluttered from a branch. Alexandra retrieved it, careful to avoid ripping the fabric, and looked around for the old woman. She was a long way off, but the hotel was the only building as far as the eye could see, so Alexandra kept following the path around the lake.

  Something crunched under her hiking boot. When she lifted it, she discovered the crushed remains of a bird’s skeleton.

  Sorry, birdy.

  A trail of dead birds in varying states of decay littered the path. She stepped gingerly around the remains until she reached a cluster of them encircling a tree trunk.

  Well, this is creepier than a TV evangelist…

  A niche had been carved out of the trunk, within which a crude stone statuette of a crone sat, withered legs dangling over the side. The wretched figure was ensconced in a cloak of thorns.

  Lichen pockmarked the witch’s face, and moss ringed the little bowl resting at her feet. Alexandra approached the crone, wondering what angle would be best for a picture. She stumbled, and grabbed onto the tree to steady herself but yelped in pain when her hand grasped one of the thorns.

  “Bloody witch,” she muttered.

  The blood trickled down the thorn and into the witch’s bowl. Alexandra sucked the little cut on her finger, and took her camera out. The battery icon flashed, and it died before she could snap the disturbing little shrine.

  So, I got maimed for nothing. Well, at least I’ll be able to tell David about the pagan blood sacrifice I committed while he was working on slide shows.

  She abandoned the crone and set off, shawl in hand. There was no sign of the elderly lady, so Alexandra took the garment to the hotel’s front desk.

  “Hey, can I leave this here? I found it on my walk, but couldn’t catch up to the old lady who left it behind,” she said.

  Lissette smiled. “Old lady? I’m afraid we don’t have any old women staying here at the moment. Why don’t you hang onto it? If you see her again, you can hand it over.”

  Alexandra frowned, stuffing the shawl into her trouser pocket. “I thought the hotel was the only building near here?”

  “It is, dear. But the lake is very picturesque. Sometimes people drive up here to enjoy a walk around it.”

  Upon returning to the hotel, she went back to her room to dump the camera and recharge her phone before getting some food. Her fingers curled around the handle to room number one, but then she heard someone talking in her room.

  Damned cleaners.

  She opened the door, and was surprised to find nobody inside. Instead, the ancient radio was burbling away to itself.

  “This will help you calm down, my dear,” a woman’s voice crackled.

  Alexandra cast her eye over the tall, wooden device as what seemed to be a radio play continued. There were two knobs on the front, one for volume and the other for tuning, but no off switch.

  “Someone’s coming for me. And you need to leave,” the old woman answered.

  The two actresses blathered on, until she found a protruding button on the back and succeeded in silencing them.

  God, I hope that thing won’t be waking me up at night.

  She wandered into the bedroom and put her camera on the bed. A pewter figurine lay on the quilt.

  “Must’ve fallen off the shelf,” she mused. She reached out to pick up the ornament, and the twisting thorns carved into its base pricked her fingertips.

  Marvelous. Second time today I’ve been attacked by an inanimate witch.

  Alexandra sucked the blood, wrapped her other hand in her sleeve, and retrieved the fallen figurine. It was an exquisitely grotesque rendition of the hunchbacked crone wearing a cloak of thorns which pooled at her feet. Like a portrait painting, the glassy eyes reflected her image and seemed to always be staring back at her. She took the odd little ornament into the lounge and put it on the mantelpiece, facing the wall.

  Things this hideous should be kept out of sight.

  After changing out of her walking gear, she washed her hands and face before going for some food.

  The saunter around the lake had taken longer than she’d intended, and by the time she wandered into the dining room only one table was occupied. Rain lashed the windows, in stark contrast to the room’s warmth. She took a seat at a small table by the window and enjoyed a view of the lake until someone came to take her order. The delicious aroma of roast potatoes and lamb chops helped revive her spirits. In addition to the meal, she bought half a bottle of Beaujolais nouveau to drown her disappointment with David.

  She was halfway into her meal when a little old lady shambled in. Despite the room’s coziness, the old dear was wrapped in a thick, brown coat. Once Alexandra saw off the last of the roast potatoes, she made her way to the old woman’s table.

  “Hello, there. I’m glad to see you,” Alexandra said. “Lissette said there was nobody of your description staying here.”

  “No, no, my name’s not Lissette. I’m Edith. Who are you, young lady?” said the old woman, voice scraping in her throat.

  “Alexandra. I found this,” she said, raising the shawl.

  Edith stroked the shawl with a wrinkled hand. “It’s very pretty. I used to have one just like it.”

  Alexandra smiled. “This is yours. You must have dropped it.”

  “Are you sure it’s not yours? I’m sure it’d suit you.”

  “No, no, it’s yours,” she said, handing over the shawl.

  Edith beamed. “Aren’t you a sweet one? Your mother must be so proud of you.” The old woman took the shawl, but seeing the fresh wound made her sigh.

  “Oh, but you’ve hurt yourself. How did that happen?” Edith asked, grasping Alexandra’s hand to examine the little cut.

  No wonder she’s wrapped up indoors, with hands this cold.

  “It’s nothing, really,” Alexandra said, extricating her hand from the pensioner’s icy grip. “A thorn pricked my skin, that’s all.”

  “You should be more careful, dear.”
r />   “Anyway, I must be off. It was nice meeting you.”

  “And you too, dear. I do hope I get to see you again before you go.”

  ~

  The lake washed against its stony shoreline, gentle ripples caressing the rocks. A weak wind rustled the last few leaves still decorating the trees. Fog blotted out the sun, and damp hung in the air. A few yards away, a figure strolled along the path, but its identity was obscured by the mist.

  “David?” Alexandra called, recognising the gait.

  She followed him, but he walked more quickly and even his shadow was swallowed by the grey miasma. Alone, she hurried to try and find him, but snagged her fleece on a thorny branch. The twisting barbs held her fast, and she reached out to pull herself free.

  “Something wrong?” David asked her.

  Smiling with relief, she gestured with her free hand at her trapped sleeve. “My fleece is caught.”

  “Want a hand?”

  Alexandra nodded. “Please.”

  He edged toward the wicked thorn that had ensnared her, and cast an eye over her predicament. David grabbed her free wrist and plunged it into the thorns, which squeezed her tight. Fabric ripped and flesh tore, the writhing thorns dragging her closer to the water.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she screamed at him. She strained to pull herself loose, but succeeded only in lacerating her skin. Hot blood poured, red flashes amidst the ragged grey fleece.

  Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and his tongue darted out to claim the drop of scarlet. “One little taste only sharpens the hunger, pretty one.”

  The thorns wrenched her off her feet and dragged her toward the lake. She tried to hook her feet around a nearby tree trunk, but the strength against her was irresistible and she plunged beneath the surface.

  Alexandra awoke with a start. Her wrists hurt, and she flicked the bedside lamp on to see whether she’d bruised them during her dream. Her forearms were slick with blood, and there was blood under her fingernails. The white sheet had been daubed red.

  Christ!

  She stared at the bloody mess. A scarlet drop ran down her wrist and onto the ruined sheet. It had been years since she had walked in her sleep, and she’d never self-harmed before.