by Adam Croft
Ellis nodded. He certainly did believe in that sort of thing. ‘And it wasn’t opened again until the builders came in twenty years ago?’ he asked.
‘So the story goes. After the room was discovered, the hotel owners opened it up and turned it into the thirteenth room. Now, what have you heard or read about what happened afterwards?’ Graham sat back and took a long drink of his beer.
‘Well,’ Ellis said, ‘I heard that the receptionist was staying at the hotel one night and she woke up and saw an old woman in her room. And a businessman had a similar thing happen to him too.’
‘Yep. The sighting of an old woman is actually pretty common. Guests and staff have all said the same thing. Some have even seen her face and described her as upset or distraught. Now, I’m not necessarily one for believing in the paranormal, but all of these people have said pretty much the same thing. It makes sense in that case that the woman they’re seeing is Mrs Fletcher, who’s distraught at having been sacked from her job. Of course, she had been confined to her room until the wall was taken down and she was allowed to roam.’
‘Do we know if there were any other stories from before it became a hotel?’ Ellis asked. ‘Did nothing happen at all while it was in private hands?’
‘Not quite as much, no. Although some of the family who owned it last are still around and they’ve mentioned having heard footsteps coming from above them at night, and odd noises. Not what you’d expect, seeing as there are no other houses around them. Just the church. Most of the stories are from since it was opened as a hotel, though. A lot of people won’t set foot in the place again. Many won’t even talk about what they’ve seen.’
‘One bloke who worked there, an Owen Bartlett, actually handed in his resignation and walked straight out on the night Elliot Carr committed suicide,’ Ellis said, starting to form a theory in his head. ‘Do you reckon he might have seen the old lady and had to leave, there and then?’
‘That’s something you’ll have to ask him,’ Graham said.
32
That evening, Ellis arrived at the Manor Hotel to see three cars parked next to each other outside the front of the hotel, with a group of people ferrying equipment from the boots and back seats of the cars and into the reception room of the hotel.
Ellis wasn’t sure which one was Robin Joyce, so he headed into reception to find the hotel’s manager, whose name he either hadn’t remembered or still hadn’t asked. Well, you couldn’t really ask him now, after having spent half the morning chatting to him, could you?
‘Ah, Ellis!’ the manager said, clearly having remembered his name. ‘Good to see you. To be honest, it’s the perfect night for it. Our last two bookings for this evening both cancelled at lunchtime. For the first time since I’ve been here, we’re completely empty tonight.’
‘Looks like we’ve got free reign, then,’ a man carrying a camera stand said, extending his free hand towards Ellis. ‘Robin Joyce. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Ah, yes. Good to meet you,’ Ellis said. ‘Do you need a hand with anything?’ he said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder towards the cars outside.
‘No, but thanks for asking. The guys know where everything needs to go and they get a bit tetchy if people start touching their gear. Thousands of pounds worth and it’s not worth the hassle, to be honest. Quicker just to let them get on with it.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ Ellis said, not really fancying any heavy lifting anyway. ‘I’ll wait for you in the bar, then. First drink’s on me when you’re done setting up.’
Ellis sat in the bar with his pint of beer as he watched the sun setting over the manor grounds through the impressive french windows. It had always baffled him how some of the residents of Tollinghill sneered at South Heath, but the countryside surrounding Tollinghill was nothing compared to this.
Around half an hour later, Robin Joyce joined Ellis in the bar and introduced him to the rest of the team.
‘This is Dave Sansom,’ he said, gesturing to a large man with long, straggly dark hair and an unkempt beard. ‘He’s our EMF man. He keeps an eye on the electro-magnetic fields, which can fluctuate when there’s a paranormal presence. Lucie Greene, she’s our EVP expert. That’s the sound angle, if you like. We’ve found that ghosts try to communicate with us audibly, but that the frequencies often aren’t picked up by the ears of the living. Her EVP recorders pick that up. And Ajit Patel is our man with the thermal cam, if you’d pardon my little rhyme,’ Robin said, chuckling at his own joke. ‘He’ll be looking out for cold spots and areas of thermal fluctuation. He’s put cameras up all over the hotel, and they’ll be focused on areas where there’ve been lots of reports of paranormal activity.’
‘And yourself?’ Ellis asked.
‘I oversee everything and tend to be pretty perceptive when it comes to sensing paranormal presences. I tend to be more able to see physical forms of ghosts and even hear them sometimes. Not everyone has that gift, but those who do are usually the poor unsuspecting souls who have the paranormal experiences in their own homes or while staying in places like this. That’s why some people will go their whole lives believing in ghosts but never seeing or experiencing anything and others will be the world’s biggest skeptics but still experience strange phenomena and have experiences which they just can’t explain any other way. Quite a lot of them are converted to being believers, funnily enough.’
‘So you’ve seen things yourself?’ Ellis asked, feeling a tingling sensation running down his spine as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This was just his sort of evening.
‘Oh yes. Many times. That’s not to say that I experience something in every location, of course. As I said to you earlier, these things tend to fluctuate and come in waves, so it might be that there’s no activity at all tonight. When our group came fifteen years ago, which was before my time, the reports say there was quite a bit of activity early on in the evening when the crew were setting up their equipment, but that it was pretty uneventful after that. Sometimes the ghosts just don’t want to play.’
‘And if they do?’ Ellis asked, leaning in towards Robin. ‘What could happen? I mean, could it be dangerous?’
‘There’s always a danger, of course,’ Robin said, sensing Ellis’s worry. ‘Largely, ghosts are harmless and are just trying to communicate and not to hurt anyone. Of course, there are also poltergeists and forms of spirit which do try to actively cause harm. If the recent events at the hotel are anything to go by, and if they were caused by the ghosts, then it could well be that there’s an element of danger, yes. That’s why we’re going to move around as a group as opposed to splitting off as we might do otherwise.’
Ellis nodded vigorously, trying not to seem to excited, but at the same time anxious and eager to get the evening’s ghost hunting underway.
The staff at the hotel had been instructed to carry on as they usually would, despite the lack of guests that night. Hotel business needed to carry on as normally as possible in order for the investigation to be carried out effectively.
The bar and lounge was designated as the meeting point and headquarters for the investigation, with two large computer monitors set up on a central table, where live footage from Ajit’s cameras could be viewed. Cameras had been set up in the main entrance, rooms seven and eight, both of which were directly under room thirteen and had been involved in reports of paranormal activity, room thirteen itself and the upper staircase leading up to it. The team would also concentrate on these areas throughout the investigation, using their EMF and EVP meters as well as a range of other types of equipment.
The bar area itself would be left largely alone, with the thermal video footage from each of the areas left to record should anything need to be watched back. Ajit would be with the rest of the crew with a small handheld thermal imaging camera which he would carry from room to room, looking for warm or cold areas or sudden temperature fluctuations.
Ellis was in his element and he wished that Hardwick could be here to se
e how much effort and science went into the art of ghost hunting, but he could almost predict Hardwick’s words were he to even suggest it. It wasn’t the sort of idea he’d entertain and he’d doubtless have something to criticise on the scientific side of things, too. Cold, hard proof is what he needed. Ellis, though, just wanted some sort of lead or spark of inspiration which could help lead him towards a credible theory behind the deaths of Elliot Carr and Kimberly Gray. A theory which would stand up to the Hardwick test.
The crew headed towards room seven, which was where the investigation would begin. Room seven was where Elliot Carr had been staying, and was situated directly beneath room thirteen, which was the room in which he died. A lot of activity had been reported in and around this room over the years, including the incidents involving one of the hotel’s first receptionists and the travelling businessman, both of whom had independently seen the ghost of an old woman crying at the end of their bed.
Ellis was excited yet apprehensive about heading up to room seven. Going in during the daytime with the lights on wasn’t a problem, but heading up there in the dead of night with a bunch of people who were actively trying to find ghosts gave the whole situation a completely different feel. Ellis’s senses were heightened and he knew that if he was ever going to see or experience something, tonight would be the night.
Shortly after midnight, Ellis, Ajit, Dave and Robin were walking through the reception area, having come down from upstairs, when a loud crashing sound was heard coming from the kitchen area.
When they arrived in the kitchen, the scene that greeted them was an entire cutlery tray upturned on the floor, a sea of knives, forks and spoons spread across the tiles.
‘Hello?’ Robin called out. ‘Is anyone around?’
Silence greeted them.
Dave waved his EMF meter in the air, slowly shaking his head and pushing his bottom lip out. ‘Nothing on the EMF. Must’ve been a pretty big disturbance.’
‘That cutlery tray was on the counter there, held in that recess,’ Ellis said, pointing to the two-inch deep rectangular dip in the counter. ‘It was there when we started earlier and I don’t think anyone else has been down here. There’s no way it could just lift itself out of the recess and tip over.’
‘Have we got cameras on the kitchen?’ Robin asked Ajit.
‘Afraid not,’ Ajit replied. ‘Only on the bedrooms where stuff’s been reported before and the upper staircase. Nothing down here.’
‘Damn.’
‘Would Lucy have picked something up on her sound gear?’ Ellis asked.
‘Well yeah, a bloody great cutlery tray smashing to the ground,’ Ajit replied, the resultant laughter breaking the tense atmosphere somewhat. ‘Seriously, though, there’s no record of any activity on the downstairs level here at all in the past. Everything has been in the guest rooms upstairs, which is why we concentrated there. If we’re getting activity downstairs then that’s pretty worrying.’
‘Is it?’ Ellis asked. ‘Why’s that?’
Ajit blinked and looked at Ellis, his face the very definition of seriousness. ‘Because it means that whatever’s here is getting angrier.’
Tuesday 24th March
33
Kit Daniels sat at his desk in the office of the Tollinghill Echo, glancing a final eye over his masterpiece. The story of the Bridgend suicides a few years ago had become national, even international, news and he knew the potential of the story he had here with the incidents happening at the Manor Hotel in South Heath.
He’d been fortunate enough to have a few stories sold up to the nationals over his time at the Echo, including a sex scandal involving the local Member of Parliament and a leaked memo regarding the installation of a huge wind farm on the edge of Shafford. Each time a national paper had picked up a story of his, he received a nice little bonus from the editor, who in turn had received a juicy payout from the national.
It was the quickest and easiest way of making money on the local paper and the stories didn’t even have to be necessarily accurate. If the story was deemed to be in the public interest or had sufficient witness testimony, no matter how unreliable the witnesses, it was often the case that the subjects of stories would almost never bring about legal action against the Echo. If they did, it was unlikely they’d win the case and if they did the compensation would be a drop in the ocean compared to the money each story made them in the first place. And a potential suicide scandal would make a lot of money.
Kit knew only too well that the lower rungs of the journalism ladder didn’t tend to deliver much in the way of a salary. Even with three years on the paper and the enormous number of hours he put in, he was still taking home little more than a postman. He’d often wondered whether that would have been a better career choice. Finish at lunchtime, get a bit of exercise in the morning while doing the round. Would help shift the slight paunch which was developing around his waist, too. That was another drawback to working in an office: there was always someone who’d bring in cakes or chocolates, and it’d be rude to say no.
If this story really hit the big time, Kit knew it could be the making of him. He’d almost certainly have enough money to finally tip his savings account over the line at which point mortgage advisors would actually bother to give him the time of day, which would help keep his girlfriend, Becky, happy. She’d been on at him for months about finally getting a place together but she just didn’t understand how these things worked.
He’d told her they’d need to save up for a deposit and not keep spending money on stupid things like clothes and nights out, but she wouldn’t have it. She said she’d looked into it and they could rent a place and only need a month’s rent money as a deposit. It was dead money, he’d told her, and they’d be far better off waiting and getting a place of their own. So far, he’d managed to hold her off but he knew that would only last so long. At some point, a decision had to be made. With the story on the screen in front of him, though, he could have his answer.
Kit knew exactly what the reaction would be. From the public, it would be sheer hysteria. The usual bored old housewives and retired men would be calling and writing in to demand that the hotel be closed, the mobile phone masts ripped down and everyone given a nine o’clock curfew. The hotel owners would be up in arms saying it was giving them bad publicity, and statistics showed that people died in hotels all the time and it was perfectly normal, thank you very much. Try telling that to their families, he’d reply. And Detective Inspector Rob Warner would be straight on the phone to accuse him of interfering in police work.
He knew the pattern. It was always the same when Kit reported on local crime stories, which he often did. Three years service was quite a long time for a local newspaper, and he was now in a position to claim de facto any crime stories which passed through the news desk. Whether it be a murder or just a burglary or even the holy grail: an elderly person being beaten up by a youth, he would be all over it like a rash. Crime stories shifted papers and were much easier to sell up to the nationals. As with everything, it all came back to money.
Kit knew that two deaths at one hotel was hardly a ‘suicide scandal’, but his sources had tipped him off as to an extra few details. Both Elliot Carr and Kimberly Gray had died in the same room, were unknown to each other and both hanged themselves with a dressing gown cord. This was the sort of story which could carry on momentum for a long time, so he would continue to keep an eye on the place and big-up any odd occurrences at the hotel, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
For now, though, this story would get the ball rolling perfectly.
34
‘Ellis? It’s me,’ Hardwick said as he barked into the payphone near the train station in South Heath. ‘Listen, I’m going to pop down to Brighton and chat to Owen Bartlett myself. I need to know why he left so suddenly that night. Something isn’t quite right.’
‘You’re a mind reader, Kempston. Last night I was speaking to a local historian and something popped into my mind about Owen
. Can you ask him something for me?’ Ellis was sure he could hear Hardwick sighing on the other end of the phone.
‘What is it, Ellis?’
‘Can you ask him if he ran off because he saw the ghost of Mrs Fletcher?’
Hardwick was silent for a few moments. ‘Ellis, this is no time for messing around. Can you just give me Owen’s address? I wrote it down but left the piece of paper in my kitchen. Can you remember where he lives?’
‘Oh yes, I remember,’ Ellis said.
‘Good. Where is it?’
‘That all depends,’ Ellis said, smirking. ‘Will you ask him about the ghost of Mrs Fletcher?’
‘Ellis, this isn’t something we can be foolish with. People have died and you’re still mucking about with your silly paranormal theories. Will you just leave it be and give me Owen Bartlett’s address so I can speak to him?’
‘I will if you’ll ask him the question,’ Ellis replied.
‘Ellis, there’s no need to blackmail me. I’m quite happy to find an internet café and look up his address myself if you’re going to play the fool.’ Hardwick sounded incredibly exasperated now.
‘Do it for me as a friend, then,’ Ellis said. The line went silent, but he knew Hardwick hadn’t hung up because he could still hear the traffic from Greenford high street. ‘I am your friend, aren’t I?’ he said, knowing that Hardwick never admitted to anyone being a friend. Colleague or acquaintance was the closest he ever came when being introduced to people.
