The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel

by Amy Cross

  Standing on tiptoes, I take a look at the piece of paper, which certainly contains a great deal of writing.

  “Here,” Mr. Nash continues, grabbing my wrist and placing it next to the paper, before taking hold of my hand and forcing me to scrawl a few lines. “That should do it,” he continues, taking the pen from me and then examining the signature. “Now, we can get on with more important matters. My dear, you shall be put to work in the rooms. It will be hard work, with long hours, but in return you shall receive board and lodgings, including three meals a day. I hope you realize how generous I am being here. Most men would fling you outside to die.”

  I know I should thank him, but I feel as if maybe I shouldn't have signed that piece of paper after all. Still on tiptoes, I try to see what the paper says.

  “I think we shall become good friends, Ruth,” Mr. Nash says after a moment, stepping back in front of me and placing his hands on my shoulders, so that I have no choice but to look up at him as he towers above me. “If you work hard, you'll be rewarded. And believe me, this hotel is only going to grow and grow in popularity. Why, one day soon, Lakeforth Hotel will most likely be the grandest and most famous hotel in the civilized world! What do you have to say about that, eh?”

  When I start to move my lips, I find that they're slightly stuck together, since it has been so very long since I last spoke.

  ***

  “You see the shit on this one?” Mrs. Crandall asks, holding up a white sheet with brown stains smeared in the fabric. “This means it needs washing before the next guest comes. You can't just turn it over like I showed you with the others. You'll get complaints if you do that, because the shit shows through from the other side.”

  She shoves the sheet onto the trolley and then grabs another, tossing it onto the bed. As she does so, she lets out a long, exhausted sigh.

  “Sometimes I wonder about the animals who come and stay in this place,” she continues finally. “Shit, blood, vomit, and that's just the things I want to admit I recognize. Anything you can think of, sooner or later you'll come to change a room and find someone's left it wiped on the bedding. Or, even worse, on the drapes. There are some filthy beasts in the world, child, and nobody ever went broke underestimating the common man's propensity for vulgarity. Now grab the other side of that thing and help me make this bed.”

  I take hold of the sheet and help her unfold it, and then she shows me how to fit it to the bed. There are tears in my eyes, so I try to look away so that Mrs. Crandall won't be able to see me properly, but I can tell she's watching my every move. In my mind's eye, I keep imagining myself running from the hotel and going to live in the forest, but I know that I'd only end up starving to death.

  “That won't do any good,” she says suddenly.

  I try to sniff the tears back. “What won't?” I ask.

  “Turning into a sniveling wreck. No-one'll respect you, and you'll just get laughed at. If you want to last around here, you'll need to toughen up, which you're more than capable of doing if you just buckle down.” She pauses. “You're from that family that used to live in the house down by the lake, aren't you? The house that burned down the other day.”

  I stare at her, hoping that she might not talk about what happened.

  “Terrible business,” she continues. “We heard the screams from up here. Must've been trapped inside for a while, until they were overcome by the smoke. Did you have a sister, by any chance?”

  I nod.

  “That's what I thought. I was sure I heard a little girl's voice screaming from the flames. Her screams seemed so much louder than the rest. Closer, even.”

  I flinch at the thought of Mary, confined to her bed and shouting for help. I heard her at the time, and I tried desperately to get to the house so I could save her, but the fire was far too strong by the time I arrived. The house burned so fast, it's hard to believe a single candle could have caused such destruction in less than an hour. My face is still a little sore from the heat.

  “You're lucky, though,” Mrs. Crandall says after a moment. “Mr. Nash'll see you right, provided you show him some respect in return. A man like him is exactly what this area needed. Someone with ambition, someone with drive and determination. Someone who won't take no for an answer.” She hesitates, and now there's a very faint smile on her lips. “He never takes no. Not ever. There are plenty of people who've learned that the hard way. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if...”

  Her voice trails off for a moment, and she watches me as her smile grows.

  “Well,” she adds finally, “there's no need to talk about that, is there? What's done is done, and it's men like Mr. Nash who prosper. You'll see soon enough, child. This hotel'll be the talk of the world, and people'll flock here from other countries. When a man like Mr. Nash sets his mind to something, he simply refuses to fail. The possibility just never enters his head. And the rest of us? We're just the lucky ones who get to hang onto his coat-tails. Sometimes, I wonder if maybe one day he'll actually speak to me. I can't imagine how happy that would make me.”

  She hesitates for a moment, watching me intently, before stepping closer and crouching down in front of me. To my surprise, she puts her hands on the sides of my face.

  “Never forget that fact,” she continues, her eyes bright with excitement. “We're lucky to be here. Mr. Nash is the most perfect man in the whole world.”

  ***

  Later in the evening, after I've finished my first day of work, and after I've eaten bread and jam in the kitchen for dinner, and after I've made up my bed in the corner of the storeroom next to the kitchen, I finally manage to sneak away from the hotel and hurry past the edge of the gardens. I know I'm not supposed to leave the estate, but there's one thing I have to see for myself.

  When I get closer to the lake, I find that Mr. Nash was telling the truth earlier when he said work would begin immediately. Already, the burned and ruined timbers of the house Pappa built have been partially torn away, and there are tools propped against nearby trees. With the sun setting in the distance, casting sparkling light across the lake's surface, I edge closer to the ruins of the house, and I can't help remembering the screams I heard on the night of the fire. Although I saw Pappa's body falling from the flames, it's Mary I think of the most as I stand here.

  “Mary?” I whisper, daring her ghost to come to me. “Are you here?”

  I make my way around the side of the ruins, but Mary's ghost doesn't appear, nor does she say anything.

  “Pappa? Mamma? Are you here?”

  The only sound comes from the trees as they rustle nearby.

  “Mary, please,” I continue, close to tears. “Can you come back as a ghost? Can you give me a sign? It doesn't have to be anything big, but just one sign would do, so I know you're close.”

  I wait.

  Nothing comes.

  I spend a few more minutes exploring the ruins, and for a while it occurs to me that I really could try to run away from the hotel. I could find a road and follow it, and who knows what I'd come to? I might even make it all the way to London if I really walked fast. Then again, I might die horribly, and I can't do that. I think I'm the only person in the whole world who remembers Mary, which means she only exists now in my head. So I have to try to stay alive for as long as possible, and that means staying at the hotel.

  At least for now.

  Finally I head back up to the main building and go to my bed in the storeroom. I cry for a long time, as I listen to the sounds of people working in the rooms above me. A hotel is a noisy place, as it turns out, and I don't manage to sleep until well after midnight. Even then, once most of the sounds have died down, there's a faint and very distant banging that persists for several more hours. I don't know exactly when I finally fall asleep, but the respite is all too brief. I don't even dream of Mary or Mamma or Pappa, at least not that I remember. And after what seems like no time at all, I open my eyes and find that morning has come, and all the noises have started up again.


  “Come on!” Mrs. Crandall yells, pushing the door open. “Get up, girl! We've got more work to do!”

  She sets me to work in the dining room, putting out plates and cups for breakfast. A few guests watch me as they come down, and they smile at me as if they think I'm being good.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I'm going to show you why you should trust me!” Mr. Nash says, grabbing my arm and dragging me across his office. He stinks of whiskey, and he seems a little unsteady on his feet as he pushes me against the wall and then steps back. “I can see it in your eyes. You doubt me.”

  “No, I -”

  “Don't disagree with me!” he yells angrily. “Don't ever disagree with me! I'm always right!”

  Swallowing hard, I watch as he stumbles back over to his desk, where his unfinished lunch has been left on a tray. I'd have thought he was a neat and tidy man, but he's left crumbs all over the desk. I expect he has someone else to clean those up for him.

  “Mrs. Crandall said I'm to go back and help with the rooms as soon as possible,” I tell him cautiously, hoping against hope that he'll let me go. “It seemed very important.”

  Instead of replying, he simply mumbles something under his breath as he takes a tea cup, pours its contents onto the floor, and then comes stumbling back toward me.

  “I want you to hold this,” he slurs.

  “But -”

  “Don't argue!”

  He shoves the cup into my hands, so firmly that I'm surprised it doesn't break.

  “Hold it up,” he continues, taking hold of my wrist and forcing me to hold the cup high above my head. “Now don't move. Don't move a muscle, is that understood? Stay still!”

  Turning, he makes his way back toward his desk, where he stops for a moment to go through the various drawers. I don't know exactly what he's doing, but I remember seeing Pappa get drunk like this. Of course, Pappa always used to pass out in his armchair before he became too loud, whereas Mr. Nash just seems to get more and more agitated. Even now, he's muttering to himself, and I flinch slightly as he pulls a drawer out from the desk and tosses it to the floor, sending papers and other items all over the place.

  “There!” he says suddenly, triumphantly holding up a revolver.

  My eyes widen with horror, but I don't dare run to the door.

  “Now hold that cup up high,” he continues, closing one eye as he struggles to load some bullets into the chamber. “The higher the better. It's for your own benefit.”

  He hiccups, and this seems to amuse him. He laughs.

  I open my mouth to ask again if I can be excused, but at the last moment I tell myself I'll probably only make him angry. Instead, I watch as he fumbles with the bullets, and finally he drops several and seems unable to get down and pick them up. Still, he managed to load two, I think, and he closes the chamber before stumbling toward the far window and peering out.

  “Look at them down there,” he mumbles. “My guests. They look like ants from here.”

  He pauses, before suddenly turning to aim the gun directly at me.

  I immediately flinch.

  “Hold still!” he sneers, and I watch as the gun trembles in his shaking hand. “What's wrong with you, girl? Don't you trust me? You will. You'll learn to. Soon, you'll see why men all across the -”

  Suddenly the gun fires, blasting a chunk of plaster loose from the wall about two feet to my left. I flinch, almost dropping the cup, but I don't dare turn and run. The door is only a few steps away, but I know he'd only insist that I come straight back.

  “Nearly,” he mutters, with one eye closed as he tries to aim the trembling gun at the cup. “Nearly, nearly...”

  He falls silent for a moment, still struggling to aim properly. After a moment, he grabs his whiskey bottle and takes another swig, before setting it down and returning to the business of aiming the gun at the cup.

  “How old are you, Ruth?” he asks.

  “I'm eight,” I tell him, and for a moment I'm tempted to ask if I can leave now.

  “You'll make somebody a very fine wife one day,” he continues, watching me with a faint smile as the gun continues to shake in his hand. “Very fine indeed. You're lucky to live where you do, my dear. You could be married in as little as another seven years, perhaps even less if nobody is paying too much attention. Perhaps you might even marry a great man, such as myself. In fact, if I am still in need of a wife in a few years' time, you shall perhaps marry the greatest man in the country. I'm sure you know to whom I am referring. I'll tame the savagery out of you.”

  I think he's talking about himself, but I hope I'm wrong. Mr. Nash is an older man, surely in his late forties or early fifties at least, and I can't imagine any girl ever wanting to spend time with him unless she is forced to do so. In fact, I wonder if perhaps -

  Suddenly the gun fires again, blasting a hole in the wall just inches from me and causing me to drop the cup. I look down, shocked, as the cup hits the floor and smashes, and then I hear Mr. Nash starting to laugh. Looking over at him, I see that he has set the gun on the desk, and he's chuckling to himself.

  “See, my dear?” he laughs. “Second time lucky!”

  Realizing that he thinks he hit the cup, I decide it would be unwise to tell him otherwise. It would also be unwise to ask if I might leave now, so I simply stand and wait as he slumps into his chair and continues to laugh. I tell myself that he has to stop laughing soon, that he might even pass out. Yet his laughter continues, going on and on, and all I can do is stand and wait and hope very much that soon I shall be allowed to leave.

  I just have to wait for him to stop laughing first.

  ***

  “The sheets are at the end of the corridor,” Mrs. Crandall told me a few minutes ago, as she sent me down here to the bowels of the hotel. “Don't be a difficult child, just go to the basement, go to the end of the corridor, and take as many fresh sheets as you can carry. And bring them up here as quickly as possible.”

  The task sounded simple enough at the time, but now I'm down here and there's absolutely no sign of any sheets at all. I've found some shelves, but they're entirely empty and I don't much like the idea of going any further into the basement. The place is so horribly dark, with just a few electric lights placed high up on the bare bricks walls, and the air all around me is very cold. At the same time, I know Mrs. Crandall will be furious with me if I return empty-handed, so I force myself to be brave and to head further along the corridor, going deeper into the darkness.

  Suddenly I stop, listening to the sounds of the guests' footsteps in the rooms above. There seems to be another sound nearby, a little closer than all the others, as if somebody is weeping.

  “Hello?” I call out cautiously, and the weeping immediately stops.

  I wait, but now all I hear is laughter from upstairs. I think I'm directly beneath the dining room, and lunch is in full swing. There are so many people up there, laughing and talking and eating, and the noise almost drowned out the sobbing that I briefly heard.

  Almost, but not quite entirely.

  “Hello?” I continue, stepping forward toward a doorway that opens into a pitch-black room. “Is somebody down here? I heard a -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that perhaps the sobbing came from somebody else who works at the hotel, perhaps somebody who was upset by Mr. Nash. I suppose I shouldn't interfere, so I hesitate for a moment before turning to go back.

  “Ruthie?” a whimpering voice calls out suddenly.

  I freeze for a moment, before turning to look into the darkness again.

  “Ruthie, is that you?” the voice continues. “Oh Ruthie, please, say it's you!”

  I recognize that voice.

  It's Mary, but I know it can't be her, not really. I must be going completely mad.

  “Ruthie, help me,” she sobs. “Ruthie, I'm so cold down here, and it hurts so much. Ruthie, please, do you have something I can eat?”

  I step closer to the doorway again, but I still can't quite believe what
I'm hearing. I know, with absolute certainty in my heart, that Mary died in the fire. After all, I heard her screams. Yet as I take a step through the doorway into the colder air of the next room, I'm quite certain I can hear her breathless sobs. I've heard Mary cry many times over the years, and I swear I'm not wrong.

  “Please, Ruthie,” she continues. “I'm in so much pain.”

  I hesitate, convinced that this has to be some kind of illusion or trick.

  “Why don't you say anything?” she asks. “Do you hate me? Has he turned you against me?”

  “Who?” I stammer.

  “Mr. Nash, of course. Please, Ruthie, I haven't been given anything for my burns, and the pain is so very awful. I can barely even think, the pain drowns all my thoughts. I can't walk and my skin... I'm still burning, Ruthie. The flames are gone but I can feel the heat still in my flesh, all the way to the bone.”

  “Mary?” I whisper, staring ahead into the darkness.

  “Help me!” she gasps, and suddenly I hear a rustling, dragging sound, as if fabric is being pulled across the bare concrete floor.

  Coming closer.

  “Why won't you help me?” she sobs. “Ruthie, it's me! It's Mary! Why are you just standing there like that?”

  The dragging sound continues. Although the room ahead of me is completely dark, there's a very faint patch of light at my feet, cast by an electric light behind my shoulder. Staring down at the concrete floor, as the dragging sound comes closer and closer, I feel a rising sense of dread in my gut, but I know I can't turn and run. I can't leave Mary, even if...

  Suddenly she lets out a gasp of pain, and the dragging sound stops.

  “I can't,” she sobs. “Help me...”

  Stepping forward, I move past the patch of light and into the dark, cold room. I can still hear Mary crying, and I follow the sound through the darkness until finally I feel that I must almost be standing on top of her. I stop and listen again, and then I crouch down and reach my hands out in the dark.