Haunting at the Hotel

by Lauren Magaziner

  “Why wouldn’t you tell us that important piece of information?” Mom says.

  “What are you hiding?” I say.

  Reese’s nostrils flare dangerously. “I have nothing to hide!” she snaps. It sounds like a lie to me. But I would never say that to her.

  “LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!” Frank shouts.

  I groan.

  “I will not stand here and be accused of . . . of . . .”

  “Withholding important information?” Eliza suggests.

  “I don’t like the direction this case is taking, and I certainly don’t like your conduct. Breaking into rooms and such! I’ll be having a word with the Better Business Bureau. Several words!”

  Mom blanches. “But we’re so close to solving your case!”

  “But by what means?” Reese says. “At what cost? No . . . you’re done here!”

  Because of Reese’s formal ethics complaint, Mom loses her private investigator license. I can’t help but feel like this is my fault, even when Mom assures me it’s not. I wanted to prove that I could be an equal partner, and now we’re both equally out of the detective game.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “DO YOU LIKE working for the Winters family?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Do they treat you fairly?”

  “Sure,” Cricket says.

  “Do you have any complaints?” Eliza asks.

  “I . . .” She drops her voice to a whisper. “You know, it’s really bad etiquette to talk ill about your employers.”

  “So there’s something bad you could say,” I say.

  Cricket looks angry with herself.

  “What about January?” Frank asks. “January has September, April, June, and November. What were we talking about again?”

  “January is not my boss, but I like her well enough. She does fight with her mom an awful lot, though. Typical young-teenager angst. My mom and I totally fought like that when I was January’s age. But it always falls on me to cover it up for the guests, and it’s, like, mortifying, you know? But maybe you should talk to Sunny or Fernando—they’ve got a lot to say about the Winters family.”

  They do? Because Sunny was tight-lipped. I suppose we could try Fernando . . . or we could press Cricket for more employee gossip.

  * * *

  TO ASK CRICKET WHAT SHE THINKS OF HER COWORKERS, CLICK HERE.

  TO INTERVIEW FERNANDO, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  ELIZA HOLDS THE mirror up to the other mirror, and finally we can see all the letters completely. I stare at the message.

  WITH YOUR MOM NOW LEAVE AT 1:08 AND SHE COMES HOME

  “Well . . . that’s a problem,” I say. “We’re not leaving without Mom, and it sounds like the ghost isn’t giving up Mom until we leave.”

  “Catch-22,” Eliza whispers. “A classic oxymoron.”

  “Hey!” Frank shouts. “You’re the oxymoron!”

  Knock, knock.

  It’s coming from our hotel-room door. Reese is standing there, and for some reason, she won’t look any of us in the eye. Her gaze is firmly on her feet.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you this morning,” she says, tucking a lock of her smooth black hair behind her ear. “I—I have some regrettable news.”

  My stomach jumps. Is it about Mom? Suddenly I feel like I can barely stand. I reach for Eliza, and she holds on tight to my arm.

  “Is your mother around?” Reese says. “I have to tell her too.”

  I breathe a huge sigh and feel like a two-ton weight has been lifted off me. Eliza lets out a shaky laugh, which prompts Frank to shout, “What’s so funny? Hello?”

  But I’m too relieved to answer him. So whatever bad news Reese has to deliver—it has nothing to do with Mom, which means it can’t be that bad after all.

  “Detective Serrano is not available at the moment,” Eliza says, her cheeks rosy from the lie. “We’ll pass along your message. What is your, uh, regrettable news?”

  “We are snowed in. The storm got very rough last night—the snow is higher than all the downstairs windows. The doors are lodged shut. The phones are down. And . . .” She trails off and blushes even redder than Eliza just did. “Sunny has lost the master key.”

  There’s silence in the room as the information bomb lands.

  “What?” Eliza and I say.

  “She . . . she says it was stolen from her. Right out of her room. We have no idea who has it. I caution you not to leave any valuables in your room, and I deeply apologize—”

  “Are you sorry?” Frank says, poking Reese in the stomach. “Or are you sorry YOU GOT CAUGHT?”

  “Both?” Reese says meekly.

  “Do you and Harris have a master key?” Eliza asks.

  Reese shakes her head. “No, unfortunately. Sunny has the only one. After the locksmith changes all the locks, though, I may have to rethink that plan.” She looks down again. “If you could leave this little incident out of your online reviews of the lodge, we would be very grateful. Our reviews are already abysmal. . . .”

  So that’s why she is so nervous. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Winters,” I say. “We won’t be leaving a review for the hotel—we’re not guests. We’re working.”

  “Oh, thank you!” she says with a watery smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go tell Byron Bookbinder. Please pass this information on to your mother.”

  She leaves, and we close the door behind her.

  “Well, that’s a problem,” Eliza says. “The most important key in the whole hotel? Missing?”

  “And my mom’s missing.” A much bigger problem than a stupid missing key.

  “And we’re snowed in,” Eliza adds.

  “And snow snakes are on the loose!” Frank says.

  Eliza and I both look at him.

  I snort. “Snow snakes? What in the world are snow snakes?”

  “Snakes that live in snow!” Frank says. “I saw one yesterday!”

  Eliza laughs. “Snakes are cold-blooded, so they need warm-weather temperatures. Reptiles can’t live in the cold.”

  “Snow snakes can!” Frank shouts.

  “But snakes hibernate in the wint—”

  “Sssssssssssss!” he hisses. “SNOW. SNAKE.”

  He stands up on the bed looking almost angry.

  I shake my head. I almost forgot—we’re talking to someone who believes unicorns are real . . . and that they have rainbow poop. “Oh, of course, Frank,” I say. “I forgot about snow snakes!”

  “Well,” Frank huffs, sitting back down on the bed again. “I’ll forgive you this one time only. But NEVER. FORGET. AGAIN.”

  I turn to Eliza. “So we never actually looked at our clues from last night.”

  “Oh, you’re right!” Eliza says, digging into her backpack. “Between tackling January and the mirror threat and Reese’s news, I got distracted.”

  I’m glad she didn’t mention the fact that I snapped at her last night. I’m so ashamed I can barely look at her. After all, it’s not Eliza’s fault that Mom is missing. I’m not mad at Eliza—just at the situation. And the ghost. “Eliza, I’m sorr—”

  “I know, Carlos. You don’t have to apologize,” she interrupts. Her gray eyes find mine, and she looks solemn. “I understand completely. I’m worried about her too, you know. . . . Oh—found them!” She pulls out two envelopes and lays them down on the bed.

  One is the letter we stole from Byron’s briefcase. It says FORMAL WARNING on the envelope. Pretty threatening.

  The other is the letter we stole from Cricket’s lockbox. It has Cricket’s name on it . . . and it’s from the Super Hotel Express. Pretty suspicious.

  Both letters seem promising. But which is going to get us to the truth of the haunting?

  * * *

  TO READ THE LETTER TO BYRON BOOKBINDER, CLICK HERE.

  TO READ THE LETTER TO CRICKET MCCOY, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “QUICK! GET INTO the trash cans!” I whisper.

  We each climb into our o
wn can. I close the lid above me and immediately regret my choice.

  The smell is foul. Beyond foul—absolutely putrid. It’s a mix of bananas, tuna, onions, and some sort of soft cheese . . . but everything’s rotten.

  After a minute, I start to wonder when we’ll know the coast is clear. How long do we have to stay in here? Another five minutes, I can handle. But five hours? I’ll die.

  Suddenly my can starts to move. Like it’s being rolled away. And then lifted up . . . we’re getting thrown out! “Hey! Wait!” I shout, trying to push up my lid, but it’s stuck. The can turns upside down, and I go tumbling into a garbage truck.

  “HEY!” I shout, but no garbage collector hears me. Frank, Mom, and Eliza follow—in that order. And the truck starts driving away.

  “Where are we headed?” Eliza says, between choking breaths.

  “Probably a dump,” Mom says.

  “HEAVEN! We’re headed to heaven!” Frank says, throwing trash into the air like confetti. “Hey, Eliza, look at this!”

  “Frank, that’s just a piece of broken plastic.”

  “I will treasure it forever!” he says.

  I look around at the mountains of trash in the truck and feel like crying. I refuse to believe that our case has ended with refuse.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “WHERE WERE YOU during the haunting last night, Byron? And why did you leave all your stuff behind?”

  “To start, I was fiddling around with my EMF reader, and the needles started to jump toward the green. The temperature dropped in this room, despite the fire. I suddenly found myself quite cold. So I put the EMF reader in my bag, put my bag on my chair, and stood up to see if I could adjust the temperature in the room. That’s when I saw it.”

  “It?” Eliza squeaks, her eyes wide.

  “In the reflection of the window, I saw it behind me. A figure gliding by.”

  “A ghost?” I say.

  “I don’t know for sure—it floated by so fast,” he says, looking away. “But I suspected, so I scurried after it. I needed to find it and catalog it for my book.” He’s examining his shoes so intently.

  “Where did it go?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Look at me,” I say, and Byron meets my gaze. But only for a nanosecond. He breaks away again and looks at the floor as a flush creeps into his face.

  “You’re lying,” I say. “You didn’t follow it.”

  “No,” he admits. “I did not.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to lie to us! And you just did!” I search his face—his watery-looking eyes, his flat nose, his reddish round cheeks. For some reason, I don’t think he’s blushing because he was lying, like what happens when Eliza lies. I think he’s blushing because he’s embarrassed. Then it hits me. “You were afraid,” I say. “You freaked out—so much that you left your precious computer and all your research behind. And then did you run from the ghost?”

  “I hid,” Byron Bookbinder says, his voice no louder than a peep.

  “SCAREDY-CAT!” Frank shouts, pointing at him accusatorily.

  “A ghost writer, cowering from a ghost. That is reprehensible.” His lip wobbles. “I have to tell you—I wasn’t just scared. I was petrified. You can’t imagine the sheer terror of being alone, the ghost at your back, the stillness, the darkness. I ran for my life.” He shudders.

  Goose bumps prickle up my arms. The way he’s talking really freaks me out.

  Suddenly the door to the fire den opens, and Harris Winters comes in carrying some firewood. I nearly jump out of my own skin. He takes one confused look at this unlikely gathering of hotel guests and says, “Don’t mind me. Just want to keep the fires going.”

  It’s hard not to mind him, though, since he literally interrupted our conversation. I have to wait for him to leave. I don’t like conducting our work in front of prying ears.

  We stop the conversation. From the next room over, someone is playing the piano . . . if by “playing the piano” I mean “poking a yowling cat.”

  We all cringe, and Frank covers his ears with his hands.

  “MAKE IT STOP!”

  “Oh, my poor ears!” Harris groans.

  Suddenly the music stops. Just like that.

  Is it a haunting? Is it possible to have a daytime haunting? Maybe I should go check it out.

  “Excuse us,” I say to Byron and Harris, and I pull Eliza and Frank toward the library door. Byron looks alarmed at our abrupt departure, but Harris couldn’t care less. He’s continuing to feed the fire; he doesn’t even look our way.

  When we’re in the library, I close the door. And this is where things get really weird.

  There’s no one in here.

  Eliza immediately frowns—her puzzle-solving expression.

  Frank does the opposite: he lights up into a wide smile. “Cool! The ghost plays piano!”

  Huddled together, we slowly approach the piano. There doesn’t seem to be anything extraordinary about it. Other than the fact that it just played itself.

  I reach into Eliza’s backpack and pull out Byron’s EMF reader. But the reading on the room seems normal—the needle is pointing right at red. No jumps or spikes in ghostly activity whatsoever. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved about that.

  Frank moves closer to the piano and sits down at the bench. And I wince because I know what’s going to happen next. It’s inevitable with Frank.

  He starts banging on the piano. Hard. I think my ears might be bleeding.

  I take a closer look at the sheet music on the piano . . .

  “I wish I took music lessons,” I say. “I don’t know how to begin reading that.”

  “I can help,” Eliza says cheerily. She turns the sheet music over, draws one of these music line things, and writes letters on them.

  “Since when do you play an instrument?” I ask her.

  “I don’t. But anyone can learn to read music. It’s just like another language! If you tell me what notes to play, I can find the corresponding key on the piano, and we’ll see if this sheet music has anything to do with our disappearing pianist.”

  * * *

  TO PLAY D E A D, CLICK HERE.

  TO PLAY F A D E, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  MAYBE ELIZA’S RIGHT. Maybe it’s just too risky to leave the safety of our shelter.

  I put the skis down. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s wait out the night.”

  The three of us cuddle up close for warmth. We have no blankets, and this shed is colder than it looks, but we drift off eventually.

  There are no windows, so we can’t tell if it’s morning when we wake up. But I feel like we’ve slept a long time. Too long.

  “Come on,” I say, going to the door. “Time to get back to the case—” The door is locked. I look back at Eliza in panic. “We’re locked in!”

  “How is that possible?” Eliza says. “And don’t you dare say it was the ghost!” she snaps as I open my mouth. I can see the wheels turning in her brain as she paces. “Obviously whoever lured us out of the house came to check on us . . . and then when they realized we were in here, they locked us in.”

  “Well, the door is the only way out—there aren’t any windows!” I bang on the doors, and Eliza joins me. “Help! Help!” we shout.

  I turn to Frank. “We need your lungs.”

  He takes a deep breath. “HEEELLLLPPP! LET US OUT OF HERE!”

  We scream, and we scream, but it’s no use. We’re all alone out here.

  “Out of the frying pan into the fire,” Eliza mumbles.

  “I’m hungry,” Frank says.

  Eliza just had to mention a frying pan at breakfast time.

  “I’m hungry,” Frank says again. “I want bacon.”

  “Well, you won’t get bacon unless we get out of here,” I say.

  “BACON!” Frank shouts, pounding on the door. “BACON! BACON! BACON!”

  Well, we’re definitely not bringing home the bacon on this case.

 
; CASE CLOSED.

  “SO WHAT IS the history of the hikers?” I ask. “You said they died in this room seventy years ago?”

  “That they did,” Byron says.

  “So how did you come to find out about the hiker story?” Eliza asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How did you hear about the story? Who told you?”

  Byron hugs his computer closer to his chest. “Everyone knows that story! It’s . . . it’s practically legend.”

  “Like the abdominal snowman,” Frank says.

  “Abominable,” I say.

  “A bomb in a bull?” Frank snickers. “That’s silly!”

  I turn back to Byron Bookbinder. “Answer the question. When did you first hear about the hikers?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. A while ago. Yes, yes . . . it was about three years ago.”

  “But if the hikers died seventy years ago, then why didn’t the hauntings begin until six weeks ago?”

  “Who knows? They don’t operate on our mortal timelines, do they? But when I heard there was recent activity, I had to come see.”

  “Is there a reason Reese says this history is fake?” Eliza asks.

  Byron straightens his crooked glasses and huffs. “What does she know? Is she a historian? Is she a published author? I am the authority on ghosts—are you questioning my scholarly knowledge? Or perhaps my authorial intent?”

  My head is spinning from his twenty-cent words, but Eliza knows what he’s talking about.

  “Neither,” she says. “I’m just doing my due diligence as an investigator—”

  “Get out!” Byron howls, his face glistening like a honey-glazed ham. “Get out, get out, get out!”

  I don’t think Eliza’s question was out of line, but Byron seems particularly touchy about his writing. Note to self: remember that later.

  * * *

  GO TO SLEEP ON CLICK HERE.