Haunting at the Hotel

by Lauren Magaziner

  “A skeleton key,” Eliza says.

  She isn’t joking. It’s even shaped like a skeleton. “You think this is the key to the Dead Room?” I ask.

  “It’s a key to a TRAP!” Frank sings.

  Eliza twists her hair between her fingers—her nervous habit. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  I nod and start marching back toward the lodge. Hopefully Byron is still in the fire den and can give us a hand back through the window. We pass the hot tub and the firepit. I’m nearly at the window when I hear Frank cry out behind me.

  “Wait! I found something!”

  “If it’s fox scat, I’m not coming to look!” I shout.

  He hops into a bush near the firepit and emerges with something in his hands. “It’s a rock!” he says happily. “With holes in the top. And a wire!”

  Eliza turns back and examines the object. “Frank, this isn’t a rock—it’s a speaker. A speaker that’s designed to look like a rock. To blend in . . .” She trails off, then looks up at me, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

  That maybe a camouflage speaker could play howling noises.

  “We can examine this later,” I say impatiently, looking up at the lodge. Getting Mom out is my first priority.

  Byron is gone from the fire den, but we’re able to shimmy through the window with a boost from the extra-tall snowbank. Key in hand, I head to the Dead Room door. A green light is shining from the other side . . . and a creepy howling seems like it’s coming from above.

  “Speakers,” Eliza reminds me. And in this moment, it actually feels good to think like her—to have a logical explanation behind the hauntings. Because sometimes I’m still not sure.

  “Here goes nothing,” I say, putting the skeleton key in the keyhole.

  “Trap!” Frank says.

  “Speaking of traps, please shut yours,” Eliza says.

  Frank sticks out his tongue at his sister.

  “It’s okay, Carlos,” Eliza says. “We’re right here with you.”

  I turn the key, and the lock clicks. Then I turn the knob slowly. Fog rolls out of the Dead Room . . . Is it a ghost?

  Fingers curl around the doorframe. . . .

  “Carlos! Help!” Mom gasps, stumbling forward.

  “Mom!” I run to her, and her knees buckle. And suddenly she’s on all fours on the carpet, trying to catch her breath. “I can’t believe it! How did you . . . how long were you . . .”

  She cups my face in her hands and inspects me all over, while I’m examining her. She is pale and sweating . . . and a little shaky. She nods at Eliza and Frank.

  I don’t know whether to be angry or relieved at Mom. “What happened to you? How did you get in there without a key? Why didn’t you call for help on the walkie-talkie?”

  “The ghost took it,” Mom says. When she stands up, her legs are trembling—I give her my arm to hold on to. It takes me a moment to recognize the expression on her face, because in my whole life I’ve never seen her look like that before. . . .

  She is petrified.

  “What happened?” Eliza asks.

  Mom shakes her head. She drops her voice to a whisper. “We shouldn’t discuss this here.”

  I agree. In the hallway, any one of our suspects could be listening in . . . including our ghost.

  When we get back to the room, Mom curls up on the bed. My mom is usually fearless, but now she looks small. What did the ghost do to her? What did she see?

  I sit down next to her, and she pulls me into a hug so tight that for a second I think she’s part boa constrictor. “I’m so, so sorry,” Mom whispers into my hair. “I’m sorry I brought you to this case. It’s more dangerous than I thought. I never imagined I’d be held hostage in a room like that.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t want to cry, but my eyes are prickling. All the pressure of this case is getting to me: needing to impress Mom, needing to save Mom, and needing to hide how scared I’ve been. It all comes bubbling out in hot tears.

  “What did you expect, Mom?” I say, wiping my face on my sleeve.

  “I thought it was going to be some minor howlings. Nothing serious. I clearly underestimated the ghost.” She hesitates. “Now I see why the guests all fled. I have half a mind to pack up and go myself.”

  “We can’t,” Eliza says. “Even if we wanted to. We’re snowed in. Walls of snow are blocking the exits, and the car is buried. Even the telephone lines and cell towers are out. We’re stuck until the weather clears.”

  “Well, that is unfortunate,” Mom says.

  This is so not like her. She never gives up on a case, and she never runs. Not even when things get really hairy. So what in the world happened to make her this afraid?

  “What happened in the Dead Room, Mom?” I ask. “Tell us everything.”

  Mom shudders. I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. I actually think that helps. Her shoulders relax. “I was right behind you three. And something—the ghost—grabbed me from behind. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I woke up inside the Dead Room. All alone. No flashlight . . .”

  “What’s in there?” Eliza whispers.

  “I don’t know . . . my eyes never adjusted to the dark. It was pitch-black the whole time. I could feel around, though. There was no exit, no matter how much I explored. And I heard . . .”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Breathing,” Mom says with a shudder.

  “That’s nothing!” Frank says. “Everyone breathes!”

  “Ironically . . . except ghosts,” Eliza points out. “Since they’re supposed to be dead.”

  Good point, Eliza. Mom nods, and she looks impressed. But I’m not surprised. Eliza is brilliant.

  “But hearing . . . that’s what saved me. Because—it must have been hours later—I heard someone outside the Dead Room door mention hiding the key in the deer head and something about antlers.”

  “And you don’t know who said it?”

  “The voice was a whisper. It’s hard to tell whose voice it is when it’s a whisper. But I was encouraged, because if I could hear people on the outside, maybe they could hear me on the inside. So I started furiously knocking and rattling the door. Every time I heard you in the hallway, I shook the door with all my might, hoping you’d come investigate.”

  “We thought it was part of the hauntings,” Eliza mumbles.

  “Well, eventually you found me and broke me out.” Mom smiles weakly. “The thing is, though . . . I have to go back in.”

  Am I hearing her correctly? “What?”

  “Properly prepared this time . . . with a flashlight. Now that I have the key, I can take a look around. Maybe there’s a clue to find.”

  “I don’t like this idea,” I say.

  “This is the job, Carlos. This is what being a detective is.”

  I shake my head. “No, Mom. Being a detective means relying on your team. From now on, we should use the buddy system. You and a buddy go investigate the Dead Room. Me and a buddy carry on the fieldwork. The four of us can meet back here in exactly an hour.”

  “That’s an excellent plan,” Mom says. “And I’ll let you choose your companion, Carlos. Who do you want by your side—Eliza or Frank?”

  * * *

  TO PICK ELIZA, CLICK HERE.

  TO PICK FRANK, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “YOU PLAN ON buying the Sugarcrest, right?” I ask Luther.

  “Yes.”

  “And the fact that it’s not for sale means nothing to you?” Eliza adds.

  “Why should I care?”

  “Because it’s against the rules,” Frank says.

  Luther snorts. “There are no rules when it comes to business. Business is war. Kill or be killed. Some businesses—like the Sugarcrest—are fresh, juicy warthogs, just waiting for a lion to come along and eat it. I am that lion.”

  Yikes. This guy is intense.

  “Let me give you some business advice—no, life advice. If you want to be successful,
you’re going to have to make some enemies.”

  Eliza and I look at each other and roll our eyes. “No offense, but that’s horrible advice,” I say.

  “Are you making an enemy out of Reese?” Eliza asks.

  Luther smirks. “Naturally.”

  “And that’s why you’re haunting her hotel?”

  Luther arches his eyebrows. “Who, me?”

  “YES, YOU!” Frank shouts.

  “Couldn’t be.”

  “THEN WHO?”

  * * *

  TO ASK LUTHER WHY HE WAS AT THE SUGARCREST JUST NOW, CLICK HERE.

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

  * * *

  THE LEFTOVER LETTERS spell out two hundred forty-six. I enter that number into the lock. It clicks open—we’re in!

  And good thing too, because I don’t think we have much time before Reese, Harris, and January get back. Especially now that the sun has gone down.

  I reach into the cabinet and grab the papers inside. Then Frank and I slip out Reese’s door before she knows we invaded her private space. I try to hide the papers in my shirt, but I don’t think it’s doing the trick, because Cricket is staring at me as I cross the hallway. And that’s when I notice the clock behind her.

  Thirteen minutes past the time I was supposed to meet Mom and Eliza. They probably think something happened to us.

  “Quick, Frank!” I say, grabbing him by the hand and sprinting up the stairs. We head to room 237, and I let myself in with my key.

  Mom and Eliza aren’t there.

  “Okay, don’t panic,” I tell myself. “Think logically. Like Eliza.”

  “Logic is for squares,” Frank says, jumping on the bed.

  As far as I can see, there are only two reasons why they wouldn’t be here:

  1. They thought we got into trouble, so they went searching for us.

  or

  2. They got into trouble themselves.

  I kick the bed in frustration. I have no idea what to do next. I don’t want to wait here if they’re in trouble—they might need our help. But what if they do manage to get back here, and we’ve gone looking for them?

  Curse the ghost for stealing our second walkie-talkie!

  “Hey, aren’t you going to look at the thing you stole?” Frank says, still jumping on the bed.

  Oh, right—I forgot. I reach into my shirt and pull out the papers I was hiding. There aren’t that many pages, but they’re all stapled together.

  We, Young-soo and Hana Park, give our hotel, the Sugarcrest Park Lodge, to our eldest daughter, Sunny Park.

  I look up.

  Sunny Park . . . is that the same Sunny who’s the housekeeper here? It has to be, right? How many Sunnys could there be associated with the Sugarcrest Park Lodge?

  Now I’m really confused. What does Sunny have to do with any of this? I mean . . . Reese was hiding this will. Does that mean this will proves that Sunny is the real owner of the hotel?

  My head is spinning. So . . . is Reese trying to drive Sunny out? Or is Sunny trying to drive Reese out?

  “Frank!” I say. “Do you know what this means?”

  “What what means?” he says. “I can’t read, remember?”

  “Sunny is Reese’s sister . . . she’s a Park too. . . .”

  “Okay!” Frank says, and he goes back to humming.

  Clearly this means more to me than him. I have to find Eliza and Mom. They’d know what to do with an important clue like this! But I still don’t know whether I should wait here for them like we’d promised, or I should go looking for them.

  * * *

  TO STAY PUT AND WAIT FOR MOM AND ELIZA, CLICK HERE.

  TO GO LOOKING FOR MOM AND ELIZA, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I’M CURIOUS WHETHER our glowing footprint belongs to Fernando di Cannoli. He was really shady when we talked to him yesterday.

  We walk into the kitchen, where Fernando is shoving something into a compartment in the wall. The second he hears us, he jumps and slams a picture frame closed, so that a still-life painting of fruit in a basket covers the area of the wall that was just open.

  Is that a wall safe? I thought only billionaires had those! We have to take a look behind that picture.

  “You a-scared me!” Fernando di Cannoli says, his accent so ridiculously over-the-top again. “Um . . . how a-much of that did you see?”

  “How much of what did we see?” Eliza says.

  Perfect answer, Eliza! Fernando starts to relax; I can tell from his posture.

  “How can I—the greatest chef in all of Italia—help you?”

  “Food, glorious food!” Frank sings. “We need it now, and we need it FAST.”

  “Please,” Eliza reminds him.

  Frank opens his mouth wide. “Ahhhhhhh,” he says, like he’s at a doctor’s office.

  Fernando sets some cheese in a can on the table. Which seems beneath the greatest chef in all of Italy, but it satisfies Frank.

  “We need to talk to you,” I say to Fernando.

  Fernando’s face is glistening with sweat. “I don’t have time to talk.”

  “It’ll be quick,” Eliza promises.

  This is the second time Fernando hasn’t wanted to talk to us. When he’s not performing his over-the-top chef persona, Fernando seems to be really . . . squirrely.

  If I only have a limited time, do I want to ask Fernando about his alibi? Or do I want to find an excuse to bend down, so I can look at his shoe?

  * * *

  TO BEND DOWN AND EXAMINE FERNANDO’S SHOE, CLICK HERE.

  TO ASK FERNANDO ABOUT HIS ALIBI LAST NIGHT, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  TURNS OUT, DOWNHILL skiing is very hard.

  My skis keep crossing over themselves, which makes me crash into the snow. Eliza is going down the mountain by stepping down sideways, ski by ski. Frank cannot control his speed.

  “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” he cries, just narrowly avoiding a tree.

  “Eliza, you must have read something about skiing!” I shout across the hill, after my fifth fall.

  “I think you’re supposed to go down pizza pie!”

  “I’m more in the mood for apple pie,” Frank says. “Or pumpkin pie.”

  “We’re not eating pie, Frank,” I say.

  Eliza makes her skis into a wedge and slowly starts gliding down. “Actually, this is a lot easier!”

  We all follow her lead and slide toward Luther’s property, which we can see from a mile away because it’s got neon glowing lights.

  At last we reach the front entrance to Luther’s hotel. The Super Hotel Express is tacky, run-down, and charmless. I’m starting to understand why he wants to own the Sugarcrest so badly. If his business is doing well, looking like this, I imagine he’d make a ton more money off a place that’s as classy and comfortable as the Sugarcrest.

  My boots clack on the floor of their lobby, and I’m dragging my skis behind me, leaving a trail of snow that’s making the front-desk clerk wince.

  “I . . . what are you doing?”

  “We just came in from nighttime skiing,” Eliza says. Usually Eliza turns pink when she lies, but luckily, her cheeks are still red-raw from the cold outside.

  The desk clerk gives us a very snooty look. “Are you guests here? Because I’m afraid I can’t permit you to go any farther if you aren’t guests.”

  “We have a room,” I say.

  “A fancy room!” Frank says. “With chocolate on my pillow!”

  The clerk frowns. “I need to verify that.”

  Uh-oh.

  “What is your name?”

  Eliza and I look at each other in panic.

  Confidently, Frank says, “Mickey.”

  The desk clerk types it in. “And your surname?”

  “Mouse!”

  I hold in a groan.

  “Well, I’m afraid we don’t have a Mr. Mouse staying with us. . . .”

  * * *

  TO UNPLUG THE COMPUTER AND E
RASE THE GUEST RECORDS, CLICK HERE.

  TO BOOK A ROOM AT THE SUPER HOTEL EXPRESS, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I KNOW THIS is going to be the weirdest question I ever ask a suspect, but my gut says, “Go for it!”

  “Mr. Covington, can I examine your shoe for a second?”

  He blinks, confused. We definitely caught him off guard with that one. “My shoe?”

  “You know,” Frank says, “they’re like hats for your feet. You tie ’em in a knot, tie ’em in a bow. One, two, buckle my shoe?”

  Luther stares blankly.

  “You know, for a business guy, he’s not very smart,” Frank whispers, loudly enough for Luther to hear. “He doesn’t even know what a shoe is.”

  “Please,” Eliza says. “It’s important.”

  Luther nods once and slips off his left shoe. We turn it over, and I can tell right away it’s not the correct shoe. It’s too small. Luther is tall enough to graze a tree, but his feet are surprisingly tiny. Not to mention that the rubber of his shoe has a straight-line pattern. We’re looking for squigglies.

  “The glowing footprint isn’t yours.”

  “What glowing footprint?” Luther frowns. “Don’t tell me you really think there’s a ghost up there!”

  “Isn’t there?” I say.

  “No.”

  * * *

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

  * * *

  “AAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  The howling echoes throughout the lodge. I’m going to find its source.

  Eliza and I make our way down the stairs. The front doors to the lodge are wide open again. Only, in the storm, snow is flying into the lobby, and light from the lobby is spilling out onto the fresh powder.

  The sound comes again, and it is clearly from outside.