The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel

by Amy Cross

  “Delusions?” she sobs. “How dare you!”

  “And how dare you?” I reply, deeply unimpressed by the way she addresses me. “You have entered my establishment and seen fit to cause tremendous trouble. Why, I can't imagine what you expect to get out of it. I can only assume that you are of weak character, and that you will apologize when you come to your senses. Either that, or your husband tolerates such excesses and will turn a blind eye to this idiocy.”

  “Weak character?”

  She gets to her feet, her eyes filled with anger, and her husband quickly puts a hand on her arm as if to calm her down.

  “I'm sure Mr. Nash didn't mean it that way,” he whispers to her.

  “That girl was real!” she hisses at me. “She was right in front of me, as surely as you all are now! You're the one who should apologize, for letting people stay here when you clearly have some form of spirit haunting the hotel! Surely my wife is not the first person to encounter such a presence?”

  “Nonsense!” I spit.

  “I saw her!” she shouts. “And if I saw her, then other people must have seen her! Or they will soon, at least! You can't keep something like this hidden, Mr. Nash! You can't just sweep a ghost under the carpet!”

  “A charming image,” I mutter.

  “The truth will come out!” she sneers, stepping closer to me before her husband takes her arm and starts guiding her into their room. “People will find out what you did! You think you're the king of this place! You think that out here, you can do anything you want and get away with it! But the ghosts won't just fade away! They're going to make sure you pay for all the pain you've caused! They'll haunt you until the day you die, and you couldn't run from them even if you tried!”

  “That's enough!” her husband hisses, finally getting her into the room. After a moment, he turns back to me. “Are you sure the name Mary means nothing to you, Mr. Nash? Or the idea of a strange young girl haunting the hotel?”

  “Don't be absurd!” I snap.

  He stares at me for a moment longer, almost as if he's studying my features.

  “Interesting,” he mutters finally. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Nash. It has been most illuminating.”

  With that, he swings the door shut, and a few seconds later I hear hushed tones coming from the other side. I pause, trying to make out what they're saying, but I suppose there's no point wasting my time.

  “Well,” I say finally, forcing a smile as I turn to Silas, “she certainly seems to be a rather angry young lady, does she not? Spouting nonsense like that. Honestly, I don't know what the world is coming to.”

  I wait for Silas to reply, but he seems barely about to meet my gaze.

  “I hardly see that you needed to bring me down here for that,” I continue, turning to head back to the elevator. “The woman is an utter -”

  “That's not all of it,” he says suddenly, interrupting me.

  I turn to him.

  “I've been watching them since they arrived a couple of days ago,” he continues, finally looking me in the eye. “I could tell something wasn't right from the moment they checked in. I've got a good nose for that sort of thing, and it turned out I was right. Sir, have you ever heard of the Desermes family?”

  “Never in my life. Why?”

  “Because Robert and Elizabeth Desermes are here with two friends. His brother, and his brother's wife. And with all due respect, Mr. Nash, I don't think they're here merely for a holiday. I think they've got some business here, something they're trying to cover up. And I think that little scene just now was mostly for your benefit. As a kind of test.”

  “What are they here for, then?” I ask, feeling a flicker of concern in my chest.

  “I caught them doing something last night,” he continues. “Down in the dining room. Something that maybe they shouldn't have been doing. Something that suggests they know more about Mary and Ruth Maywhistle than they're letting on. Sir, either way... I think this should be a matter of concern for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Sir Edward, I am truly honored that you saw fit to grace us with your company this evening. I hope you are enjoying the luxuries of our humble Lakeforth Hotel?”

  “Luxuries?” the old man replies, turning to me and staring at me through his monocle.

  “We try out best,” I continue, as the serving staff remove our plates. “And did you enjoy dinner? I employ a wonderful chef. He's from all the way up in Edinburgh.”

  “Exotic, eh?” Sir Edward replies with a chuckle. “It was fine, Mr. Nash. Very fine.”

  “Only fine?”

  I feel a flicker of concern as I realize that Sir Edward Barringham seems only moderately satisfied with his stay so far. He's the first member of the gentry to visit the hotel during my time here, and I need him to be impressed so that he'll spread the word when he gets back to London. Still, I tell myself not to panic, and that there'll be plenty of over the next few days to ensure that he recognizes the proper qualities of the hotel.

  Spotting movement nearby, I turn and see Robert Desermes and his wretched wife heading out of the room, along with two others. I'm tempted to ask them to leave the hotel altogether, but I suppose I should hold fire. I briefly make eye contact with Silas, who is in his usual spot by the door, greeting new arrivals. I am sure he can deal with any problems that arise during the evening.

  “Dessert will be here shortly,” I explain, turning back to Sir Edward with a smile. “The fork on the left should be used.”

  He furrows his brow.

  “Well, I know that!” he mutters grumpily. “I'm not a savage, you know!”

  “Of course not,” I stammer, “I merely -”

  “Maybe you people out here don't know which fork to use when,” he continues, “but in London we have a little more class. You shouldn't assume that the rest of us are fools, Mr. Nash. You shouldn't warn a man about his table manners in advance. It's rather rude.”

  “I'm terribly sorry,” I reply, feeling utterly humiliated as I look down at my cutlery. I want to apologize again, but I tell myself to stay quiet, even though I feel I am blushing terribly. I have made a dreadful faux pas, and I'm sure Sir Edward will spread the news when he gets back to London. I shall simply have to find some way to make it up to him. Some other effort is required.

  “You know, you have a growing reputation in London, Mr. Nash,” he says finally.

  “I do?”

  He nods. “People are talking about you.”

  I feel a flicker of excitement in my chest. Perhaps finally I am to be given the esteem I deserve, and the rancid upper classes of London are going to recognize my achievements.

  “They say,” he continues, “that you're the kind of man who could strike a deal with the devil. I suppose that's a compliment.”

  “I suppose it is,” I reply, although I'm a little uncertain. After a moment, however, I realize that it must be good to have such a reputation. “Everything in life boils down to deals, in the end,” I add, forcing a smile. “Contracts. Give and take. Perhaps I'm just a little more honest about that fact. I can't say I'm entirely surprised to learn that this approach has afforded me a glowing reputation in our fair capital.”

  “I didn't say it was glowing,” he mutters, as the waiter approaches the table. “Just that you have a reputation.”

  ***

  The room is quiet. Absolutely quiet. In fact, as I sit on the end of my bed and listen to the silence, I cannot help but marvel that the entire hotel seems to have fallen into a lull. I could honestly believe, at this moment in time, that I am the last man left in the world.

  Finally, the silence is broken by the sound of footsteps out in the corridor, and I get to my feet just as I hear a knock at the door.

  “Are they doing it again?” I ask, as I pull the door open and find Silas standing outside. “What time is it, man?”

  He checks his watch. “A little after 2am.”

  “And they're down there?”

 
He nods. “Robert, Elizabeth, Tobias and Emily Desermes. Sir, they're in the drawing room, and they're doing that...”

  He pauses, with a hint of disgust in his features.

  “That thing,” he manages to spit out finally. “That awful, irreligious thing. They're messing with elements they don't understand. Sir, I don't understand why you didn't just throw them out when I told you earlier. Why did you wait? Why do you have to see it for yourself?”

  “I am a curious man,” I reply, stepping out into the corridor and pulling my door shut. “Do I detect fear in your voice, Silas? I never had you down as superstitious.”

  “It's not that, it's just...”

  Again, his voice trails off.

  “You needn't accompany me,” I tell him. “If you would prefer to retire to your quarters for the night, I understand. Perhaps you find it difficult to deal with such events. So long as Sir Edward is safely in his room and cannot witness what occurs, I shall be content.”

  “I just think they're stirring up trouble. Sir, if -”

  “So be it,” I reply, cutting him off. “I shall go down alone. Don't worry, Silas, I doubt the situation will call for a man of your physical talents. I shall simply observe these Desermes trouble-makers and see if they find what they're looking for. Perhaps they'll make contact with their target.”

  Silas immediately makes the sign of the cross on his chest.

  “Go to bed,” I mutter, turning and walking toward the elevator. “Oh, and in the morning, remove that portrait of my wife and I from the lobby. I don't care where you put it, but hang it somewhere so that I won't ever have to see it again. The sight of her face, even in reproduction, makes me nauseous. I do not wish to be reminded of her emotional weakness.”

  ***

  “Ruth Maywhistle, are you here? We want to speak to the spirit of Ruth Maywhistle. Ruth, if you're here, can you give us a sign?”

  Standing in the doorway, staying in the cover of shadows, I watch as these four interlopers sit at the far end of the dining room and conduct their unholy little ceremony. Robert and Tobias Desermes, and their wives Elizabeth and Emily, are seated at a table by the window, and they each have a hand on a small wooden device that they have placed on some kind of board. Silas informed me that this device is a Ouija board, something that cretins believe will allow them to contact the dead. Evidently, these four members of the Desermes family have come to the Lakeforth because they wish to speak to a ghost.

  And that whole scene earlier, when Robert pretended to comfort his crying wife, was clearly staged. They wanted to see how I'd react. Well, I shall show them a reaction, alright. Just as soon as I have seen exactly what they're up to.

  “Ruth Maywhistle,” Robert continues, his voice tense with anticipation. “It's very important that we speak to you. We have a message for you, a message from your sister Mary.”

  Now I know that these people are idiots. Ruth Maywhistle died a decade ago, when I shot her in the head during one of my drunken adventures. I was trying to shoot a paperweight from her hand, and I'm afraid the whiskey caused me to miss. I had Silas dispose of the body, which I believe he weighed down and threw over the end of the jetty. Meanwhile, her sister Mary was a crippled little thing who I had killed and tossed out at the same time. Silas disposed of that body, too, so I'm sure the dead girls have no need of any intermediary. Their ghosts can simply speak to one another directly, and leave the rest of us well alone.

  Not that ghosts exist at all, of course. Of that, I am certain. I have been certain since the day my father sealed me inside my grandmother's coffin.

  “Ruth Maywhistle,” Robert Desermes says again, sounding a little more desperate this time. “Please, we have a message for you from Mary. Are you here? Can you -”

  Suddenly he falls silent as something moves on the board.

  “Is it her?” Elizabeth asks.

  “Is it you, Ruth?” Robert continues. “Please -”

  Before he can finish, the item on the board moves again, dragging their fingers to one of the corners.

  “Yes!” the other woman says excitedly. “We've done it! We've made contact!”

  “Ruth,” Robert stammers, as if he can barely wait to get the words out, “my name is Robert Desermes, and I came here tonight specifically so that we could talk to you and deliver a message. We believe we have uncovered the truth about your death. We've been working with your sister Mary, we've been talking to her, and now we just need to hear your side. Can you appear to us, Ruth? Are you able to physically manifest?”

  Silence falls, and the four idiots wait.

  “Talk to us,” he adds, sounding a little desperate now. “Please.”

  “Please, Ruth,” the other gentleman says. “Don't be shy now.”

  Again, they wait.

  Again, there is only silence.

  “Does that mean she can't,” Elizabeth asks finally, “or that she refuses?”

  “I don't know,” Robert continues, “but -”

  Suddenly he looks this way. I step back, further into the shadows, and after a moment he turns to the others again. I find it absurd that I must sneak about in my own hotel, but I wish to observe these idiots for a while longer.

  “What is it?” one of the women asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you hear something?”

  “Just a bump. I don't think it was her.” He pauses, staring back down at the board. “Ruth Maywhistle,” he continues finally, “we know you were murdered. We know your death was unjust, and that you seek retribution. That's why we're here. We want to help you, but first we need to understand more about what happened. Mary could only help us with so much, but she couldn't tell us enough.”

  They all sit in silence for a moment.

  “Something's wrong,” he adds, clearly frustrated. “She's here, but at the same time she's holding back. It's almost as if there's some kind of force that's making her scared to appear.”

  “Maybe it's that awful Nash man,” Elizabeth mutters. “You saw him earlier, Robert. The man has a ghastly countenance, he almost seems to chill the air when he walks into a room.”

  Charming.

  “The ghost of Ruth Maywhistle is certainly fearful of something,” Robert replies. “Ruth, whatever worries you, you must not let it stop you. For your sister's sake, if not for your own, please come to us. We can help you, I promise!”

  As he babbles on some more, I am tempted to step forward at once and end this whole charade. Why, I could toss these four idiots out of my hotel in the middle of the night, and I would certainly have every justification for doing so. There is something amusing about them, however, and I remain in the shadows for a few minutes longer as I observe their pathetic attempts to contact the spirit of little Ruth. Just as I am contemplating an interruption, however, I realize I can see a very faint shape in the darkness over by the table, almost as if some figure is edging toward them.

  It's her.

  I feel a flutter of fear in my chest as I realize that I can see the form of a little girl. Her features are not particularly clear, and she seems to possess an ethereal glow that marks her as distinct from the world around her. I tell myself that this is a form of show, that they have dressed some other child up in an act of theatrical showmanship, but deep down I know that the girl's features seem awfully familiar.

  It cannot be her, though.

  She's dead.

  “Please Ruth,” Robert Desermes continues, patently unaware of the flickering vision that stands just a few feet from his side, “give us a sign.”

  Unable to help myself, I take a cautious step forward, marveling at the sight of the girl as she approaches the table. I can see her face a little more clearly now, and her dark, intense stare. She's watching the board, almost as if she means to communicate with the four idiots. The more I watch her, the more I feel my disbelief starting to crumble, and the more I find myself contemplating the possibility that her ghost really has been summoned.

  Is it possi
ble?

  Was I wrong, all this time?

  “Ruth, talk to us!” Robert says firmly.

  I take another step forward, out of the shadows.

  Suddenly the little girl turns and looks straight at me, and immediately she opens her mouth and emits an ear-piercing scream. Her face distorts into a rictus of anger, and her flickering form briefly becomes more clear. Startled, I take a step back, bumping against the wall, and in an instant the sight of the girl is completely gone, even as her scream rings in the air for a few more seconds.

  “What was that?” Elizabeth Desermes stammers, getting to her feet and looking around before spotting me.

  “It's him!” Robert adds, standing and making his way around the table. “That's why she couldn't bring herself to talk to us! He was scaring her away!”

  I open my mouth to tell him he's a damn fool, but I can only stare at the spot where the spectral figure was standing. I feel a prickling sweat on the back of my neck, and for the first time in my life I'm contemplating the possibility that ghosts might be real.

  “I heard something else,” Elizabeth continues, still looking around the room. “Didn't the rest of you? It was as if somebody was crying out...”

  “We know about you!” Robert sneers, ignoring his wife and marching toward me until finally he stops in the middle of the dining room. “We know what you are, Jobard Nash! You're a monster! You're a killer!”

  “Is that a fact?” I reply, struggling to compose myself as I see the girl's screaming face once more in my mind's eye. “You seem very sure of yourself, considering you are in possession of no facts whatsoever.”

  “You're a murderer!” he hisses.

  “I have never laid hands on another soul,” I tell him. “Not once.”

  “Only because you get others to do your dirty work!”

  Forcing a smile, I step toward him. I am perfectly willing to lie to this wretched man. After all, certain types of people are not to be trusted with the truth.

  “Might I remind you,” I continue, “that you are on my property, and that while you are here, you are my guests. Now, I know that you are paying for the privilege, but I rather feel you could be a little more polite. The deaths of Ruth and Mary Maywhistle were a tragedy, but -”