Haunting at the Hotel

by Lauren Magaziner

  “You look terrible,” Frank points out to me. “If you vomit, I wanna see.”

  “Frank!” Eliza scolds. She puts a gentle hand on my back.

  My heart is pulsing through every nerve in my body. The room swims—all the ghost children blending together.

  I feel like my brain has totally shut down. But luckily, my legs know what to do. . . .

  I run to Mom. She’s frozen, mesmerized, staring at a ghost close to her, whose round face is sinking into itself, becoming hollow and bony until at last it’s just a skull with eyeballs and a black hole for a mouth.

  Then it screams—a horrifying, guttural sound. A noise so disturbing that Mom steps back and trips into me.

  Seeing me snaps her out of her trance. “Carlos, I told you not to look!”

  “Too late for that now!” I snap as the ghosts dance in front of us.

  “They’re holograms!” Eliza cries from the doorway. “Run to us! Quickly! They’re not real!”

  “Phony baloney!” Frank echoes.

  A shadow moves behind one of the thin cloths hanging down from the ceiling, and sure, these blue ghosts are holograms. But there’s a real culprit—or maybe both of them—slinking around in the basement with us. This is our chance to catch them.

  * * *

  TO RUN THROUGH THE DOOR TO SAFETY, CLICK HERE.

  TO STAY AND BATTLE THE GHOST, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I WANT TO interview Fernando now.

  After a little trial and error of peeking into closet doors, Reese’s office, and a laundry room, we finally find the kitchen. It is shockingly silver—the fridge, the freezer door, the counter, the stove, the oven. All of it is stainless steel. The vibe is modern and sleek, the opposite of the rest of the lodge. The lighting is so harsh, it hurts my eyes.

  And standing with his back to us is Fernando di Cannoli.

  He turns around. “What are you doing here?” he asks in his fake accent.

  “We’re here for ice cream,” Frank says. “A sundae. With hot sauce. Cherry on top.”

  “What?” I say. “No, we’re not—”

  Eliza clears her throat loudly. “We’re not here for one sundae . . . we’re here for three,” she says.

  Fernando frowns. “Well, the customer is always right, I suppose,” he says, walking to the freezer.

  When he’s gone, I turn to Eliza. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m hungry,” she says. “And this is a kitchen. Frank had a good idea.”

  “I am always full of good ideas!” Frank says. “And don’t you forget it.”

  I sigh. Outnumbered by Thompsons.

  But it’s hard to stay annoyed about the investigative delay once Fernando comes back with a tray of three sundaes, so tall that they’re dripping over the edge of the glasses.

  “Where’s the whipped cream?” Frank demands.

  “I think he means thank you,” I say.

  “No, I don’t! I mean where’s the whipped cream?”

  Fernando gets a can from the fridge and squirts a bit of cream onto Frank’s sundae. “Happy now?”

  Frank replies by face planting into his sundae. No spoon—just face. He gets it all over and grins through the chocolate.

  “You’re really not supposed to be down here,” Fernando says nervously. “If Mr. or Mrs. Winters finds out . . . I don’t want to get in trouble.” He looks around, like he seems afraid of the wrath of the Winters family. It’s weird; they seemed pleasant when we talked to them. So I don’t understand why Fernando is so worried.

  “Reese and Harris won’t mind us down here,” I say to him. “We’re detectives.”

  “You? You’re just kids!”

  Frank emerges from his sundae to stick out his tongue.

  “The truth is, Mr. . . . uh . . . Cannoli, we’re trying to get to the bottom of these ghost hauntings,” I say. “We heard there was a haunting in the kitchen two nights ago.”

  His eyes go wide.

  “Did you see it?”

  “Sì, signore!” he says with a nod.

  * * *

  TO ASK FERNANDO ABOUT THE GHOST SIGHTING, CLICK HERE.

  TO ASK FERNANDO ABOUT THE WINTERS FAMILY, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “WE JUST SAW you,” I say to Luther, “at the Sugarcrest Park Lodge. Why were you there?”

  “Well, if you must know, I was going to give Reese Winters a little persuasion to sign the hotel over to me.”

  “What do you mean by persuasion?” Eliza asks. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “You know what else sounds like a threat?” I say.

  “A threat!” Frank says.

  “No, a ghost haunting. Reese told us the ghost had been leaving these cryptic and threatening messages.”

  Luther’s nostrils flare for a second. And then he laughs. “I don’t know much about the hauntings there, but I assure you, I don’t need a ghost to do my threatening for me. I carry out all the threats myself.”

  “At three in the morning?” I say.

  “At all hours of the day and night. Business never sleeps.” And then he presses his fingers together like a supervillain on the verge of accomplishing his evil plan.

  I shake my head at Luther. Something isn’t sitting right with his story. There’s no way that he would make a business deal at three in the morning. It doesn’t even make sense—Reese would be sleeping.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say. “Reese is sleeping at three in the morning.”

  “Is she? Seeing as I just saw her, I’d have to say you’re wrong. She has been having trouble sleeping ever since the ghost appeared. She looks awful,” he gloats. “So occasionally I make nighttime visits, because I am much too busy to go all the way up the mountain during regular work hours.”

  “Doesn’t anybody sleep anymore? I’m so sleepy,” Frank whines. Then he wilts like a flower, resting his head in his sister’s lap.

  If Luther’s telling the truth, then maybe he saw the ghost or some clue, even if he doesn’t understand what he saw. Then again, I don’t really trust him. Those footprints, him leaving . . . the timing was too convenient. I look down at his shoe. Maybe, if I ask, he’ll let me examine his shoes. Then I could tell if the footprints were his.

  * * *

  TO ASK LUTHER WHAT HE KNOWS ABOUT THE HAUNTINGS, CLICK HERE.

  TO ASK LUTHER TO SEE HIS SHOE, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  WE HAVE TO talk to Byron about the glowing footprints.

  We find him in the fire den, hunched over his laptop. He’s typing feverishly, and I stand on my tiptoes to read over his shoulder.

  The tragedy of a haunting such as this one is not in the spectral spirits themselves, but rather in the fervent denial of any supernatural occurrences. The current proprietors of the hotel—whether out of ignorance or imprudence—steadfastly repudiate the evidence before their eyes.

  Byron whips around.

  “What sort of deed are you undertaking?”

  “Uh . . . we just came to talk to you.”

  “How much did you see?”

  “Nothing,” I lie. “I swear we only came to ask you something.”

  He snaps his laptop shut.

  “But now that you mention it, what were you writing?” Eliza says, her eyes narrow. “This doesn’t sound like a particularly flattering chapter on the Winters family.”

  “AHA!” Byron says, getting to his feet and pointing at us. “I suspected as much! You came here to steal my work—to plagiarize!”

  “We’re not writers,” I say. “We’re detectives.”

  Byron laughs hysterically. “Oh, I see what this is. You were so affable yesterday, cuddling right up to my computer. And before I know it, you’re going to snatch my work for yourselves! Well, I won’t let that happen. REESE!”

  Byron calls Reese into the room and says we’re trying to steal his manuscript. She, of course, takes the side of her only guest.

  We’re booted from the case. Mom too.

 
I think that’s the end of it, but nine months later, Byron’s work of fiction comes out, featuring three nosy characters that ruin the main character’s life. Named Carlos Santiago, Eliza Thomas, and Frank Thomas.

  “Yay! I’m in a book!” Frank says.

  “Yeah, but he made us all look horrible. You’re a villain!” I gripe.

  “Mwahahahahahahaha!”

  Frank may think it’s novel, but I’m furious.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “WHY DO YOU have a letter from Luther?” I ask Fernando. “Are you two conspiring to haunt the hotel?”

  “Nothing like that,” Fernando says. “But I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

  “Unfortunately,” Mom says, “you aren’t at liberty not to. We need to know what’s going on with you, and we need to know now.”

  Fernando nods slowly.

  “The letter talks about shutting down the business for good,” Eliza says. “Using . . . ghosts?”

  “Ghosts were Luther’s suggestion. Not mine. I only reached out to Mr. Covington because I needed help . . .”

  “Ghost help!” Frank says.

  “No, not ghost help!” Fernando barks. “I don’t care one whit about this ghost! I am here for compensation only.”

  “Compensation?” I say. “Like, you want money for doing your job? Or . . . something else?”

  Fernando hangs his head low. Okay, definitely something else.

  “Are you stealing?”

  “No.”

  “Are you doing something illegal?”

  “No.”

  “Does it have something to do with your other name?” Eliza asks. “Stefano di Marco?”

  He doesn’t say no.

  * * *

  TO ASK ABOUT THE DRIVER’S LICENSE, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “THIS IS CHALLENGING,” I say, staring at the map.

  “Tell me about it,” Eliza groans.

  “Oh no, not you too! You were supposed to help me!”

  Eliza and Mom both laugh.

  “Why don’t you start backward?” Mom suggests.

  Frank starts walking backward—and promptly runs into a decorative table.

  “Let’s keep the backward in our brains,” Mom says, beckoning Frank back over to us.

  “Well, we know we have to land on the final one square in the top right corner . . . that will lead us to the star.”

  “What will get you to the one square?” Mom asks.

  “The five—all the way on the bottom right?”

  “Sure,” Eliza says. “A puzzle like this just requires some trial and error, doesn’t it? We can’t be afraid to mess up. If we keep trying, we’ll get it.”

  * * *

  ADD UP ALL THE NUMBERS FROM THE SQUARES YOU PASS THROUGH.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 49, CLICK HERE.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 47, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  THE LETTERS IN the inner circle are definitely white. I place the tiles. The briefcase shakes violently. So violently, in fact, that I drop it right onto the wood floor.

  Ca-thunk.

  “Carlos,” Eliza says quietly, “did you just drop Byron’s computer?”

  “BUTTERFINGERS, BUTTERFINGERS!” Frank yells, pointing at me.

  “I—I’m sure it’s okay,” I say.

  Spoiler alert: it was not okay. When Byron came back, we had to tell him what happened. He opened the briefcase to find his computer in shambles and all his hard work gone. He had only printed out the first fifty pages of the book, and he lost more than two hundred pages of work. (What writer doesn’t back up their work?)

  We were escorted from the Sugarcrest Park Lodge for causing their one and only guest emotional distress. And a month later, Byron Bookbinder sued us for damage to his property and livelihood. This was a costly error.

  I can only hope that, one day, we can lay the ghost of this failed case to rest.

  CASE CLOSED.

  I KEEP STARING at the inscription beneath the deer, and I still can’t find any numbers in the poem.

  “Eliza, can you help me? How many numbers do you see?”

  “I see three total in the whole poem. I guess that means we don’t have to pull all eight antlers. Just the three, in the order we see them.”

  “But what if I don’t see them? Is forth one?”

  “No . . . that’s spelled wrong to be fourth. I don’t mean synonyms. I mean there are actual numbers, spelled correctly, embedded in the poem.”

  “Show me,” I demand.

  A buck and a doe went forth down the slope

  On a day that would seem unappealing.

  The snow cascaded, and soon an avalanche

  Left our poor deer both reeling.

  All tangled in knots, they grumbled and griped

  At their poor, unwise venture with feeling.

  “See? Look there, Carlos!” Eliza says, pointing at the second line. “Straddled between that and would on the second line is the number two!”

  On a day thaT WOuld seem unappealing.

  “Oh, Eliza! I get it. The numbers are hidden in plain sight, between two words like that.”

  She grins. “As far as I can see, that two is the only number in the first three lines. But I see the next one in the fourth line.”

  “Can’t you just do it for me?” I gripe.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” she says cheerfully.

  Left our poor deer both reeling.

  “Did you find it?” she asks me.

  “A hundred!” Frank shouts.

  “Frank, there are only eight antlers!” Eliza says.

  I think I’ve found the number, actually . . . sitting between the last two words on that line. “Got it,” I say to Eliza.

  “Now,” she says. “Skip the next line—there’s nothing there. But the final line of the poem will give us one last number.”

  All tangled in knots, they grumbled and griped

  At their poor, unwise venture with feeling.

  “It will?” I say.

  “Take a closer look at unwise venture,” she says. “You ready with our three numbers?”

  “READY OR NOT, HERE WE COME!” Frank shouts, his voice nearly drowned out by the howling wind.

  * * *

  THE ORDER IN WHICH YOU PULL THE ANTLERS IS YOUR NEXT PAGE.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 233, CLICK HERE.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 237, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  WE HAVE TO go to the attic. It’s the only way to help Mom get out of the Dead Room.

  With Frank on my shoulders, I pull down the string to the attic hatch, and an awful stench wafts down. It smells like something’s rotting up there.

  I climb up, and the smell gets worse. My eyes are watering.

  “Ugh! What’s that smell?”

  “Whoever smelt it, dealt it!” Frank shouts.

  Eliza hops up into the attic, and she coughs into her sleeve. “This is unbearable,” she coughs, but she follows me through the attic anyway.

  The odor is making me dizzy. I wobble on my feet. Suddenly my head is on the wood floor, and Eliza and Frank are lying next to me. This is no ordinary smell I’m breathing in . . . this is sleeping powder!

  “What do I do with you?” says a voice from behind us. “Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong . . .” I try to see who’s talking, but I can’t turn around. My head is too heavy.

  I wake up with a jolt.

  “Carlos!” Eliza whispers. “I’m glad you’re awake—I think we were dropped off here.”

  “Where is here?” I say.

  “An olfactory factory.”

  “Old factory factory!” Frank says.

  “Olfactory factory,” Eliza corrects. “Olfactory means related to your nose.”

  I guess this is the perfect place for one ghost to ditch three nosy detectives.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “WHAT IS THE hair incident?” I ask.

  “Two weeks ago . . . Harris and I woke up
to . . . well, a haircut.”

  We all stare at Reese.

  “What do you mean, a haircut?” Eliza asks.

  “Up until two weeks ago, I had hair down to here.” Reese gestures halfway down her chest. “But in the middle of the night, the ghost snipped off the left side of my hair. I had to get it chopped up to my shoulders to even it out. And the ghost cut off two inches off Harris’s beard.”

  “And you both slept through that?” Mom says, surprised.

  “Like a rock,” Reese says.

  “That’s not that scary,” Frank says. “I get haircuts all the time. They don’t even hurt!”

  Reese frowns. “The scary thing was that the ghost was in our room. With scissors. Sure, it was only a haircut this time . . . but who knows what it will do with those scissors next time?”

  “Don’t forget the message on the wall,” Harris says.

  “Oh, yes. It said CUT AND RUN.”

  “So . . . the ghost described what it did?” I say. “That’s weird.”

  “Or,” Eliza says, “maybe it’s a warning to you two. Telling you to cut and run. It’s an expression that means ‘flee.’”

  “Or,” Mom says, “maybe it’s not a warning at all. Maybe it’s a command . . . a threat.”

  We all sit in silence. All except Frank, who hums to himself as he merrily scarfs down another spaghetti bite. Oh, Frank!

  * * *

  TO ASK WHO MIGHT WANT REESE TO FLEE THE HOTEL, CLICK HERE.

  TO ASK WHETHER THEY THINK THE GHOST IS REAL, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  CHOOSING BETWEEN MY best friend and my best friend’s little brother is a very dangerous game . . . I feel like I’m picking kickball teams, and I’m bound to hurt someone’s feelings. But my gut is telling me to take Frank. He is unpredictable—I just know he’ll unearth clues with me. We need to dig up clues right now, more than we need Eliza’s puzzle-solving skills.