Haunting at the Hotel

by Lauren Magaziner

I flick on the lights, but they won’t turn on. “The lights are dead!” I say. Between the burning fires and our flashlights, we don’t need the overhead lights to see, but there’s something comforting about being able to turn on the lights. With the darkness behind me, any old ghost could sneak up on me and—

  Something grabs my shoulder.

  “GOT YOU!” Frank says gleefully.

  “Frank, you little—”

  Screeeeeeech.

  It’s definitely coming from inside the walls. I go over to the wall and knock. “There’s got to be a way in!”

  “Hey—where’s your mom?” Frank says.

  We point our flashlights all around, but she’s gone. Did she not follow us in here? Where did she go? “Mom? Mom! We have to go back!” I open the door to the lobby, but Mom is gone.

  Vanished.

  Into thin air.

  There is fog rolling through the lobby, so thick I can no longer see the glowing footprints. . . .

  THUD.

  I jump. Then I close the door behind me—shut out the swirling fog before a ghost can appear. I lean against the door. My heart skips wildly.

  “Carlos,” Eliza says breathlessly. “Look.”

  She points her flashlight at a chair. Byron Bookbinder’s chair. He’s not in it . . . but his briefcase is. The one with the EMF reader. This could be our only shot at taking it. Unless he’s already wandering around the lodge, using it himself. It’s a gamble to break into his bag; we could get caught.

  Oooooooooooooo!

  Then again, we really could use the EMF reader.

  I nod at Eliza in the dark. Then realize she can’t see me. “Go for it,” I say. “Do it quickly.”

  She jiggles the briefcase. “It’s locked,” Eliza groans. “Come here, Carlos. Frank, you have to cover us—ouch! Not literally! Warn us if Byron is coming.”

  When I stumble over to her, we aim both our flashlights at the lock.

  It’s a weird symbol with a bunch of blank spaces.

  “Hmm . . . it’s missing something,” Eliza says, digging into the side pocket of the briefcase. She pulls out a bag, dumps it out on the couch, and spreads out—

  “Scrabble tiles?” I groan.

  But looking closer at them, they aren’t exactly Scrabble tiles. They’re tiles attached together in pairs.

  I look at Eliza. “So, what do we do with these?”

  She frowns. “I think,” she says, so softly that she could be talking to herself, “we have to make six-letter words, using these tiles, with EA always in the middle. And”—she presses a blank space on blank tile close to the middle—“if we have the right letters on the inside spots, and we press them only, I wonder if the box would open.”

  Ugh. Only a writer would lock his briefcase with a word puzzle!

  * * *

  IF THE LETTERS ON THE INSIDE ARE GRAY, CLICK HERE.

  IF THE LETTERS ON THE INSIDE ARE WHITE, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “MOM, WE HAVE to run!” I shout, grabbing her by the hand.

  The ghosts shriek behind us, but I don’t have time to look over my shoulder. I yank Mom, then pull her through the door.

  Eliza and Frank are there, arms outstretched, to help us in. And then Eliza pushes the door shut behind us.

  Safe!

  We run away successfully, but we never get that close to the ghost again. We spent two more weeks on the case, spinning in circles, hitting dead end after dead end, before it’s clear that we’re getting nowhere, and Eliza, Frank, and I have to get back to school. We end the case in disgrace.

  This choice is definitely going to haunt me forevermore.

  CASE CLOSED.

  LOOK, I AM not voluntarily walking into the Dead Room. So if that means facing this monster behind us, so be it.

  “Stay close to me,” I whisper, my voice low enough for only Eliza and Frank to hear. They both stir next to me.

  Suddenly I sprint to the left. Eliza follows, and Frank brings up the rear. I think the beast is caught off guard since we sprinted straight at it. It flinches, and I don’t even have to slide—I soar.

  We make it past the beast—and we’re safe! Me, Eliza, and . . .

  “Frank?” I say, suddenly realizing he’s not next to me.

  “HELP!” he cries.

  The beast has Frank by the ankle. It drags him back, and we run forward—but not fast enough. It pulls Frank into one of the guest rooms and locks the door.

  “ELIZA! CARLOS!”

  “LET US IN!” I shout, knocking on the door.

  “FRANK! FRANK!” Eliza shrieks.

  I slam my body into the door until it splinters on its hinges, and we force our way inside. But the room is empty. No ghost, and no Frank.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “MOM, WE HAVE to know—how did you end up here?”

  “I got attacked from behind when I was running after you,” she says. “I’m so sorry I let my guard down. But better me than you.”

  “Well,” Eliza says with a shudder, “now it’s all of us.”

  “Why would someone do this?” I ask. “It was the first night—before you even did any investigating! I thought the culprit never attacks until you get close to the truth.”

  Mom laughs. “Carlos, there are no rules for how a culprit will or won’t act.” Then she says thoughtfully, “I have a feeling this is a scare tactic.”

  “Scare tactic? What does that mean, Mom?”

  “Whoever is behind the hauntings doesn’t want us to get within a hundred feet of the truth. They would never wait for us to get truly close. So if they scare us before we can investigate, maybe—in their mind—we’d quit the case and go home. Remember, they were able to drive away all the lodge’s guests with these hauntings. But we’re not so easily scared,” Mom says, squeezing my hand.

  I don’t know what she’s talking about—I’ve been terrified this whole investigation. But it makes me feel good to hear her say she thinks I’m brave.

  “I am very hard to scare,” Frank says. “Very, very, very, very, very, very, very—”

  “We get it,” I say.

  “—very, very, very, very, very, very hard to scare.”

  “Th-that’s because you’re always the one doing the s-s-scaring,” Eliza says.

  I don’t think my hug is helping her get warm. I take her hands in mine—they’re ice-cold. We have to find a way out of here before she freezes. But there are still things I need to know.

  Like . . . why did they lure Eliza, Frank, and me here now? Why not earlier, when they brought Mom here? And why not later?

  * * *

  TO ASK MOM WHY THEY LURED US HERE, CLICK HERE.

  TO SEARCH FOR A WAY OUT, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  IT’S IMPORTANT FOR Mom to get all the information I have. So I tell her about the lair. The coded notes we found. The cameras.

  “So someone could be watching right now?”

  I think back to the camera monitors we found in that underground room—within the walls. We didn’t see Mom on the monitor, but it really wouldn’t surprise me if one of the cameras is in the Dead Room. Maybe it was just too dark to see.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t think straight right now. What do you think, Eliza?”

  Silence.

  “Eliza?”

  She’s asleep on the floor.

  “C-C-Carlos,” Frank whispers. “Too c-cold.” And then he nestles under Eliza’s arm and closes his eyes. Come to think of it, my eyelids feel heavy too. My brain is slow. Did we stay in here too long? Is this what freezing feels like?

  I’ll think about it later . . . for now, I’m just going to close my eyes for a second. . . .

  CASE CLOSED.

  I HAVE ELIZA play F A D E. But nothing happens.

  She plays it again. Still nothing.

  And again.

  “WILL YOU STOP THAT!” bellows Harris, storming into the room. “What are you doing?”

  “Playing piano!” Frank says brigh
tly.

  “No you’re not!” Harris says, gesturing us away from the piano keys. “This is how you play piano.” He begins to play a very beautiful song, and I go to leave, but Harris stops me.

  “Where are you going? This music lesson is for you, you know.”

  “We don’t need it.”

  “Oh yes you do! Now sit and listen, or you’re fired.”

  I sit and listen. How long can one song last, anyway?

  “Er . . . how long is this going to last?” I ask Harris.

  “Well, this particular concerto is only seven hours long . . . but after that I have a sonata, a fugue, and a symphony! You should probably prepare yourself to be here for quite a while.”

  “But—”

  “Shhhhh!” he says. “No speaking during a concert.” He plays. And plays. And plays.

  I have to face the music—this one ended on a sour note.

  CASE CLOSED.

  WE HAVE TO save the bank slips before Cricket destroys the incriminating evidence. I open her drawer, take all the papers I can find, and shut it again.

  “We have to show Reese this evidence right away,” I say.

  We find Reese in the fire den with Harris and Sunny. “I have something to show you.”

  I hold out the papers.

  The doorway to the library opens, and Cricket lunges out. Like a ballerina, she leaps across the room, grabs the deposit slips from my hands, and tosses them directly into the fire.

  The papers crumble to ash. “HEY! What did you do that for?”

  “That was our evidence!” Eliza cries.

  “What evidence?” Reese asks.

  “That Cricket was depositing lots of money into her bank account, ever since the hauntings started.”

  “Is this true, Cricket?” Reese asks.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “It is true!” I shout.

  “Where’s your evidence?” Cricket demands.

  I point to the fire. “There! There is my evidence!”

  “That’s no evidence at all,” Reese says with a frown. “You know . . . I don’t feel comfortable with you going around accusing people of wrongdoings without evidence. Perhaps I made a mistake in hiring Las Pistas Detective Agency. Harris, get me the number of a new detective agency. Let’s try this again from the top.”

  CASE CLOSED.

  WE FOLLOW THE poem on the tapestry, pressing the corresponding symbol each time it comes up in the poem. The passcode is long, but we got it: sun, snowflake, house, heart, flower, sun, leaf, snowflake, snowflake, snowflake. Funny how many snowflakes are in the poem, but I guess they are the Winters family!

  The door clicks open, and we hurry inside.

  The electricity isn’t working in Reese’s suite either, so I shine my flashlight around. There’s a small staircase that goes up ten steps, a landing, another ten steps, another landing, and one last one. The first landing has a mini kitchen. The second landing has a lounge area with couches and a television. The last landing has another lounging area, with a door that must lead to Reese and Harris’s bedroom and bathroom.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I’m whispering. It just seems like an appropriate thing to do.

  My heart is beating insanely fast. Partly because I know we’re doing something we shouldn’t be doing. And partly because I keep seeing shadows dance at the corner of my vision—but every time I whip the flashlight around, nothing is there.

  There’s a dark presence in this room. I feel it. An evil spirit.

  “Eliza,” I whisper. “Something’s in here with us.”

  “You’re just paranoid,” she says softly, like she’s not convinced. “Frank?”

  “Present!” he says cheerfully, like Eliza’s taking attendance.

  As we creep up the stairs, footsteps patter behind us. I shine the light, but there’s nothing there. I shudder. “Do you see anything strange?”

  “Yup,” Frank says. “Eliza!”

  “Anything strange that’s not me?” Eliza says.

  “Yup! Carlos!”

  I sigh and look around for the source of the thumping sound, but since we’ve entered the apartment, it’s been completely silent. So . . . did the ghost move on? Or did it stop because we’re in here? Or—the most terrifying prospect of all—did it lure us here on purpose?

  Frank jumps on the couch, while Eliza and I sweep the upper living room. Eliza’s looking behind the television and in the cabinets, and I’m going through the mail on the table. Bills for Harris. A brochure for a film editing camp, addressed to January. And a letter from the Super Hotel Express for Reese.

  I turn the envelope around and—

  “Wait!” Eliza says before I can open the letter. “You can’t open someone else’s mail! It’s a felony.”

  “It’s already been opened,” I say, showing her the rip at the top. “So technically I’m just reading already opened mail.”

  Eliza considers that for a minute before she says, “Proceed.”

  As suspected, the letter is from Luther Covington, the owner of the hotel halfway down the mountain. I read it out loud.

  Dear Loser,

  You should have sold me your stupid hotel six months ago when I first asked. You could have gotten twice as much out of me as it’s worth now. It is very gratifying to see your value plummet; I relish your blunder. Bet you wish you hadn’t rejected my offer now. Nah nah nah nah boo boo.

  “He actually wrote nah nah nah nah boo boo?” Eliza interrupts, moving closer to peek over my shoulder. “He really did!”

  “Neener-neener!” Frank sings.

  “Is this just a letter to taunt Reese? Seems a little rude.”

  “A lot rude,” Frank says gleefully.

  “Can I finish now?” I grumble.

  You’re too dense to even realize that one of your staff members is double-crossing you and working for me. Now that I have sown the seeds of doubt, I hope your house of cards comes tumbling down. I will purchase the wreckage.

  Cordially,

  Luther Covington

  “Ouch,” Eliza says. “That last line is cold.”

  She’s missing the forest for the trees, focusing on a mildly insulting last line when the biggest clue so far is staring us right in the face. “Eliza, that’s not nearly as important as a double-crossing staff member!”

  “Yes, that’s troublesome,” she says, rolling her braid between her fingers thoughtfully. “But are you sure that’s real? This whole letter seems to be a taunt. Have you considered that maybe Luther just said that to torture Reese?”

  It seems a little far-fetched to me, but Mom did tell me to keep a more open mind to other theories. I wonder what Mom would say about this letter if she hadn’t upped and disappeared on us. I don’t know whether to be worried or angry. I think I’m somewhere in between.

  “Seriously, Carlos,” Eliza continues. “If Luther provokes Reese into thinking that someone she trusts betrayed her, then she might truly crack.”

  “Step on a crack, and you break your mother’s back!” Frank chants.

  Screeeeeeeee.

  The sound of metal scratching metal. We all look up from the letter. The sound definitely came from inside the suite. The kitchen, it sounds like. I don’t even have to ask Eliza and Frank if they heard it too. Judging from the way Eliza sharply intakes her breath and the way that Frank stiffens beside me, I know they heard it.

  Slowly, carefully, Eliza folds the letter and slips it into her pocket. My heart is fluttering. Between the three of us, our flashlights are shining everywhere. But nothing is on the stairs.

  Hands down, the worst thing about ghosts is their invisibility.

  “Go, go, go!” I say, and the three of us thunder down the suite stairs. We open the door, run into the hall, and slam the door behind us again.

  There was something dark in Reese’s suite, and I don’t just mean the power outage. In the hallway, I can breathe easier. We’re all panting and holding our hearts.

  “That
was awesome!” Frank says. “It’s fun to be scared!”

  I do not share that feeling.

  “So now what?” Eliza says, her voice shaking. “Do we tell anyone what happened in there?”

  “We can’t tell anyone what happened in there. No one can know we did that. Except for Mom.” I put my hand on my walkie-talkie. Then pull it up to my mouth. “Come in, Mom! Hello?”

  A noise comes from the Dead Room door. I look over, but there’s nothing to see.

  Tap. Tap.

  The sound is coming from the inside. We have to get out of here before the ghost slips under the door crack and materializes in the hallway.

  “Let’s go!” I pull Eliza and Frank down the hall, and we don’t stop until we whip around the corner—to the landing of the foyer staircase.

  “Where are you taking us?” Eliza says.

  “Away from there,” I say with a shudder. “But I guess we should talk to Reese or Luther.”

  “The recipient of the letter, or the sender of the letter,” Eliza says thoughtfully. “Well, if we talk to Reese, we have to be very careful not to tell her we got this information by snooping in her room and reading her mail.”

  We both look at Frank, who is notoriously bad at keeping secrets.

  “What?” he says innocently.

  * * *

  TO TALK TO REESE, CLICK HERE.

  TO TALK TO LUTHER, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  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.

  TWO. THREE. SEVEN. Got it!

  The second I pull, the deer’s head opens up like a mailbox flap, and there’s a secret compartment inside the statue’s neck. I reach in and pull out—