by Tracy Lane
He kept hearing the moment, feeling it, over and over. He would wake up in the middle of the night, hand over his face to avoid the flying shards of glass, and find himself sweating and panting with his sheets twisted around his ankles.
Sometimes he could get back to sleep after that, but most times, he couldn’t. So he dozed when he could and did so now – and somehow he managed to wake up just minutes before his stop on Standish Street, the closest intersection to the Balthazar Hotel.
He stumbled onto the street on legs wobbly from being cramped in his tiny bus seat for nearly twenty minutes. But once he hit the ground and the sunlight splashed across his face and he breathed the salt in the air, he felt a little better, and he walked with a jaunty step to Cinnamon Street, which led to Mott Street and then down toward the hotel.
He stopped at the corner and slipped inside a little convenience store for a soda and a protein bar. He hadn’t eaten since that morning, and after his brief nap on the bus, his stomach was rumbling and he felt a little weak. The grape soda was sweet on his tongue and the peanut bar filling, and he felt almost totally human by the time the ramshackle old building filled his view at the end of Gramercy Street.
It felt so familiar to him now, the cracked pavement under his feet and the mailboxes he passed every day and the streetlights high above; and then the hotel itself. It stood a blight on the San Francisco skyline, dark and sooty even after all these years.
He heard the music drifting from up the street, tinny and old-fashioned, like the stuff Frank used to play in his haunted gang hideout back in Dusk. It brought a smile to Jake’s face, and he wasn’t surprised when he walked up the front steps of the Balthazar Hotel and the sounds grew louder. He could even recognize the instruments now, trumpets and snare drums and saxophones and bass guitars.
He opened the door and tracked the source of the music to the ballroom, just off the main lobby. The door shut behind him, and it took only a few steps more before Jake was transported to another world.
Ghosts manifested from nowhere and swirled past him, fancy and dapper, with slicked-back hair and white tuxedo jackets for the men and flowery hats and long, black dresses for the ladies. The walls were no longer decayed and moldy but rich with patterned wallpaper and flickering sconces. The frayed carpet was now green and soft under his feet.
Jake had experienced a moment like this only once before, back in Dusk when Frank and his old jazz band had jammed one last time in a nightclub that was half real and half ghostly. Frank had said then that when enough ghosts congregated, their energies merged, and somehow Jake could see into their world as it once had been – as they still saw it.
It must have been happening again, because Jake hurried back to the front doors, poked his head outside, and sure enough, modern cars were parked across the street and the stone steps out front were crooked and overrun with flowers rising up, scraggly and rugged, between the cracks.
Jake shut the door behind him, and he was back in 1921.
He crept toward the ballroom; the music surged loud and clear now, the guests dancing and drinking as champagne flowed and women laughed and men smoked and the band hopped and jived.
It was a big group stuffed on a small stage, eight or nine pieces, if not bigger. A bandleader waved a baton and the band stood up, horns wailing horns and drums pounding. The dance floor responded with a wave of energy, and that was when Jake caught sight of Frank’s fedora.
“Frank!” he shouted, because suddenly Jake realized he was among friends. The ghosts could see him, and he could see them, and they welcomed him in by making room as he stepped lightly along the dance floor.
As he passed, he could feel the cold waft off of them in shivering currents, and if he got too close, their dresses and shoes, their pants legs and sleeves, dispersed into particles of mist, but only for a moment. He would shift past them, and they would be back to normal and none the wiser as they danced the night away.
“Jakey Boy!” Frank was beaming as he turned away from dancing with Clara. He slapped Jake on the shoulder, and Jake only shuddered slightly at the cold touch of his friend. “What took you so long?”
“I guess someone forgot to send me an invitation.” He meant that to be a jab at Frank, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Clara, and the edge died in his throat.
She looked radiant, deathly pale but beautiful just the same. Her light blond hair was swept under a black hat, leaving her shining face uncovered. She smiled down at him, and Jake suddenly understood why Frank was drawn to her.
“Come dance with me, Jake,” she said, dragging his hand along as the frost from her misty fingers merged with his all too human skin.
“Go on!” Frank said. He watched as Jake stood at the edge of the dance floor, nodding his approval while Clara tried to drag him out into the fray.
“My,” she exclaimed as Jake turned to look up at her. “You must be running a fever, your hand is so warm!”
He giggled awkwardly and slid it from her grasp as they stood on the floor, the bodies of other ghosts bumping and gliding alongside. “And those clothes,” she scolded playfully, and wagged a delicate finger. “Wherever did you get them?”
Jake looked down and blushed to find himself in cargo shorts, sneakers, and his favorite maroon sweater with the sleeves rolled up. “I…I didn’t know it was a formal affair,” he stammered.
Clara let out a breathy laugh and squeezed his cheek fondly. “Frank will have to give you fair warning next time,” she said before standing back and looking at him. “Now, are you ready to dance?”
Jake looked around nervously. Like a choreographed routine, all the fancily dressed guests seemed to be dancing the same dance at the same time, a dance he had never seen before.
“It’s the Charleston,” Clara explained, taking his hand once more and showing him the steps. “Just watch me, Jakey Boy. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Jake laughed and let himself be led. Clara was a good teacher, patient and gentle, and soon enough Jake was breezing along with her, dancing the Charleston as if he was really back in 1921!
It felt just like he was. The band played loud and fast and the bodies swirled and swooped and shook and jived. Clara giggled and waved her hands in front of her knees, urging Jake to do the same.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said breathlessly.
“Stick with me, kid,” Clara said, wiggling her hips and sending beads of her frilly black dress shaking to and fro, “and you’ll be able to dance as good as Frank.”
“Almost as good as Frank,” said the gangster as he swept in out of nowhere.
“Perfect timing!” Jake wheezed. “I’m worn out.”
“But the night is young,” Clara said. A burst of laughter escaped her as Frank twirled her around. “And so are you!”
Yes, Jake thought, but I’m also human. Ghosts don’t get out of breath.
“At least join us,” Clara said, dragging him back toward her and Frank. “It’s the Charleston – we can all dance.”
So Jake found no relief, instead dancing and shucking and jiving even more as sweat dripped down his face and the band played on and on. Frank whooped and hollered, Clara laughed, and Jake huffed and puffed.
But it didn’t take long for him to find his rhythm, and before he knew it, he was laughing too, legs sore and arms swinging, hair damp with sweat. He was spinning around and around, face shining with delight, when a familiar figure caught his eye from just inside the ballroom doorway.
“Jake?” Tank asked. Her eyes were wide as he paused in mid-step. “Are you…having some kind of a fit?”
She looked confused and nervous, and Jake wondered, suddenly, how long she’d been standing there. What had she seen? He started to picture it: himself, alone, jitterbugging and doing the Charleston, knocking his knees and waving his hands and smiling and laughing, alone.
Dear God, he thought. She must really think I’m crazy!
He turned to find Frank and Clara
, the band, the other dancers, to remind himself that, surely, they must still be there, but they were gone. All of them. No swirling dresses, no hearty laughter, no ghostly lights…
Just…gone.
He stared, wide-eyed, at the moldy paper peeling away from the walls, at the dark and rusty chandeliers hanging crookedly from the ceiling, at the darkened sconces once swelling with candlelight.
Even the empty dance floor beneath his feet had immediately changed. One minute it had been varnished and creaking with the weight of dozens of lively dancers. Now it was cracked and dusty and buckled with age and rot and time.
He slowly turned back to his friend, who was still standing, hesitant, in the doorway. “Tank?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
After a long moment, she sighed, “Come on, weirdo,” and stepped away to leave. He raced to catch up with her. “Another stunt like that and you’ll be in the same hospital as your dad. I hear they have a psych ward on the top floor.”
As they started out across the lobby, Jake looked over his shoulder one last time to catch a glimpse of the magnificent party that had been. Instead, he saw only darkness and decay.
Maybe Tank is right, he thought as he left the Balthazar Hotel and stumbled down the street after her. Maybe I am crazy…
Chapter 9
Jake took a twenty dollar bill out of the cookie jar in the kitchen and used it to pay the delivery man at the front door. The older gentleman in the dirty apron smiled at the five dollar tip and bowed his head, taking off a faded red ball cap and waving it appreciatively as he double-timed it back to the elevator in the lobby.
“Smells good,” Tank said, emerging from the den where all the expensive editing equipment was located for the first time all afternoon. In her hand, as always, was a sleek tablet she used when she wasn’t staring at a set of glowing monitors in the editing bay. “What’d you get?”
Jake stepped back from the crinkly brown bag stamped with the famous red dragon logo of their favorite Chinese takeout restaurant, Fong’s. If he didn’t, Tank would just shove him out of the way. She opened the top and, one by one, carefully removed each of the little white containers.
The smells were rich and warm and steamy as she opened each one, sniffing them closely before putting Jake’s down.
“Your favorite,” he said, hoping to keep her nostrils out of anymore of his dinner, “shrimp lo mein.”
“Mmm.” She hummed happily and grabbed the largest container in the bag and a pair of chopsticks before heading out to the patio. “You coming?” she called back, almost as an afterthought.
Jake shrugged and joined her, bringing along his container of sweet and sour pork. They sat in the mid-evening dim on the deck overlooking the streets of San Francisco. There was a fire pit in the corner, and Tank sat her lo mein and tablet to the side so she could fiddle with the controls. With a puff of smelly propane and a tickling spark, a flame flickered to life.
“Very romantic,” Jake said with a smirk as he sat across the crackling pit from Tank.
“Well,” she said, settling into her own chair carefully, “it’s appropriate for what I’m about to tell you.”
Jake tensed abruptly and paused, two chopsticks clutching a breaded piece of pork halfway to his mouth. “What, something about Dad? Mom?”
Tank was chewing, smiling, when she stopped. “What—no. No, no. It’s…why would you think it’s about your dad?”
Jake swallowed and sighed. “Just, I worry about him. He’s never spent this long away from home before.”
“Your mom either, I bet,” she agreed, wiping her chin with a napkin.
Jake shook his head, then pulled a frustrated face and nodded. “Yeah, I mean, I used to complain about us roving around from town to town all the time, but…now I kind of miss them.”
“You can always go to the hospital more, Jake,” she explained between bouts of slurping up gooey brown noodles.
He shrugged. “I dunno,” he hemmed. “Every time I do, Dad just asks me how the episode is going, and then I feel bad for slacking off, and then Mom comes up with his lunch or whatever and I always kind of feel like I’m in the way.”
Tank eyed her friend as she chewed contentedly on a shrimp. “They do seem to have gotten pretty chummy during his recovery,” she noted. “That’s why I’ve been hanging around here so much, doing all that editing on the Halloween segment.”
“I think,” Jake offered, swallowing a bite, “I think this is the first vacation they’ve ever had.”
Tank grinned. “From you?” she joked. “Or from the show?”
Jake had to smile. “Both.” He set his half-empty to-go box on the tiled edge of the round fire pit. “So what were you going to tell me, anyway?”
Tank nodded and stuck up her index finger in a “hold on a second” gesture. She finished off her greasy noodles and tossed the dirty chopsticks in the box before sliding it next to Jake’s. “First,” she said, “tell me what went on back in that ballroom today.”
Jake blushed hot as he relived the moment that had turned so awkward so fast. “Nothing, really,” he exhaled. “Ghost stuff, you know how it is. It’s hard to explain if you can’t see them the way I do.”
“Try,” urged Tank.
He slid down deeper into his wooden chair and looked at her across the flickering gas flame. “There was this big dance,” he began, picturing the scene in his mind’s eye. “It seemed like everyone staying at the hotel was there.”
Tank immediately grabbed her tablet and went to town on it as he talked. “How were they dressed?” she asked, fingers scrolling.
“Formally, I guess” he said. “Like it was a holiday or special occasion, or something. The guys were wearing white jackets and bowties, the women were wearing fancy dresses and small hats stuck to their hair with all these fancy pins.”
“Like this?” she asked, turning the screen to face him. Jake leaned closer to get a look. There, as if he’d taken a photo of it himself that very afternoon, was a scene straight out of the hotel ballroom: elegant men and women all dancing as cigarette smoke wafted above their heads and a full band played atop the stage.
“Exactly like that!” Jake said excitedly. “Tank, where did you find this?”
Tank shrugged, no big deal, and turned the screen back to face her, as if admiring her own handiwork. “I scanned it out of one of my history books,” she explained. “It was the last known picture taken the day of the hotel fire.”
“But…why?” Jake sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. He realized that he’d been so busy watching Frank and Clara court, he hadn’t been bulking up on his research about the actual haunting.
“It was October 7, 1921,” Tank read, and Jake looked up to see her eyes roving across the screen. “It’s all in this old newspaper clipping. It says the Balthazar was celebrating its tenth anniversary. They threw a ball and invited all their customers. The paper sent a reporter to cover the event, and he took this picture only an hour or two before the fire started.”
Jake felt chills run up and down his arms. “So, I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Why—why were the ghosts dancing tonight?”
“It’s almost October,” Tank reminded him, resting the tablet on her lap. She narrowed her eyes in thought. “Maybe that brings up old memories. Maybe they do it every night.”
“Frank said that the pain was so powerful in that place, the ghosts can’t help but relive their final days, over and over again.”
“Was he there tonight?” Tank pressed.
Jake nodded. “He was dancing with Clara.”
Tank’s brow furrowed; she didn’t understand.
“His ghost girlfriend,” Jake explained, trying not to sound too sarcastic in case Frank was somewhere around, hiding in the shadows.
“Did she stay there?” Tank pressed as she clutched her tablet.
Jake shook his head, then leaned forward to snag a last piece of pork from his takeout box. “Worked there as a maid,” he s
aid around the savory mouthful.
Tank used her forefinger to scroll through another few screens. “Do any of them look like her?” she asked.
She handed Jake the tablet and he looked down at a picture of a dozen or so employees of the Balthazar Hotel. “It was taken a few months before the fire,” Tank said, “for Employee Appreciation Day, so if she was new, she might not be in there.”
Everyone in the photo was standing – posed, really – along the front steps of the Balthazar. There were cooks and bellmen, valets and maids and waitresses and waiters, all in uniform, standing alongside the stone stair railings. At the top of the stairs, behind a massive cake shaped like the hotel, was a man in a stiff gray suit.
“Atticus Granger,” Tank noted when she saw Jake’s eyes drift up to him in the photo. “The front desk clerk.”
Jake pushed out a long breath and looked closer at the picture. He spotted Clara on the right side of the steps, standing beside a redhead in a similar maid uniform. They were smiling and holding hands. He touched either side of the picture with his fingers and widened them across the screen so the photo was zoomed in toward the two girls.
“Gosh,” he breathed.
“What?” Tank asked, leaning in closer.
“She looks…she looks just like she did earlier today,” he said before he handed the tablet back to its owner.
Tank studied Clara’s face herself, and then shrank the picture back down to read the names listed in the small caption at the bottom of the photo. “Clara Bellridge,” she said, looking back at Jake. “She was twenty-four when she died.”
Jake sat back in his chair. “She’s still twenty-four,” he replied under his breath.
Tank sat back as well. They stared at each other over the fire, and it suddenly reminded him.
“Why did you say the fire was appropriate for what you were going to tell me?” he asked.
