by Amy Cross
Sighing with relief, I feel that I can walk properly again.
As I reach the top of the stairs, I can't help thinking back to that strange girl. It's not completely unusual for people to sit around in the reception, of course. Maybe she's waiting for someone, or she arrived a little early and she's waiting to check in. There are plenty of possible explanations, but I can't shake the feeling that something about her felt a little strange. And as I fish my set of master-keys from my pocket and head along to room 121, I find that I just can't shake an image of the girl from my mind. It's as if she was really, really interested in me for some reason. She was almost creepy.
Reaching room 121, I take a moment to open the door. My hands are fumbling slightly, and I have to admit that so far this morning I'm feeling really off-kilter. Nevertheless, I quickly get the door open and then I step into the room. There's an immediate smell of perfume in the air, and I see a large suitcase open on one of the tables. I head over to the nightstand, and sure enough I find a small pillbox. I check that it's not empty, and then I step back out into the corridor and pull the door shut.
I stop for a moment, to get my composure back, and then I turn to head to the stairs. That girl will still be down there, of course, but I'm going to not look at her. I'm going to be -
Suddenly I hear someone sobbing.
Stopping, I look around, but there's no sign of anyone. Still, I can definitely hear a series of anguished, harrowed sobs coming from somewhere nearby. My first thought is that it's from one of the rooms, and I look briefly at the doors to rooms 118, 120 and 121, but now the sobbing sounds louder and it's as if it's coming from somewhere out here in the corridor. In fact, it's as if someone's sobbing right next to me, but there really isn't anyone close.
I look all around, as the sobbing intensifies.
“Hello?” I say cautiously. “Is anyone there?”
I listen, and I'm starting to think that the person sobbing is a woman.
“Hello?” I say again. “I work here. Can I help?”
This is starting to get a little creepy, but I quickly tell myself that there's no need to get spooked. I've been working at Harper's Hotel for a while now, and I've become accustomed to the creaky old Victorian-era building. There are ancient pipes that groan in the night, and dumb waiter shafts that whistle in the wind, and rooms that never feel quite empty. For my first few months here, I was generally pretty nervous, but eventually I forced myself to get a grip. And this sobbing sound really is just another little trick that's being played by the building's ancient architecture. So as the sobbing continues, I tell myself that there's no cause for concern and I head once more toward the top of the stairs.
And then the sobs become a gulp, and I freeze as I realize that someone's behind me. I don't know how I know, exactly, but the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck.
Slowly I turn and look along the corridor, and I feel a sudden tightening in my chest as I see a woman sitting on a chair at the far end, weeping with her face cover by her hands.
I open my mouth to say something, but no words emerge.
I look around, thinking that maybe I should go and get help, but then I realize that I should at least go over and see what's wrong.
I start walking along the corridor, still carrying the pillbox. With each step, however, I'm feeling more and more nervous, and I can't help peering at the top of the woman's head and wondering why she seems so familiar. A creeping sense of deja vu is starting to rise slowly through my body and, by the time I'm standing right in front of the woman, I swear I can pick up a distinct perfume hanging in the air. A perfume I know.
“Um,” I say cautiously, “sorry, I just wondered whether you're alright.”
Damn.
That was dumb.
Of course she's not alright.
“Can I fetch someone for you?” I ask, but she still doesn't respond. “Are you staying here? Can you tell me which room you're in?”
I wait, but she still has her hands over her face.
Slowly, I crouch in front of her. I want to ask her more questions, but that sense of familiarity is getting stronger by the second and I'm starting to think that this woman is...
No.
She can't be.
I tilt my head slightly, but everything about her – her clothes, her hair, her perfume – seems to be pushing me toward one inescapable conclusion. I know it's impossible, but I can't deny what's right in front of my eyes.
“Are you...”
I pause for a moment.
“Mum?” I say finally. “Is that you?”
She stops weeping. Instantly, in a flash. I can hear her sniffing behind her hands, but at least now it's clear that she heard me. I know this woman can't be my mother – my mother lives hundreds of miles away and barely ever leaves town – but somehow she seems to be right here.
“Is it you?” I whisper, as a cold fear starts spreading through my chest. “Mum?”
I wait, and slowly she begins to lower her hands. I gasp as soon as I see her tear-filled eyes, but more than that I'm shocked by her expression of utter, drained horror.
“Mum?” I say finally, still struggling to understand what's happening. “Why are -”
Suddenly she screams in my face.
Chapter Three
“Stephanie, can you take this tray up to room 119, please?”
“Just one moment,” I reply, my voice trembling with shock as I stand in the corner of the kitchen, waiting for the phone call to connect.
“Now please, Stephanie.”
“One moment!” I snap, turning to George. “I'm sorry. Sixty seconds, I promise.”
He eyes me for a moment with suspicion, and then he shrugs and heads back over to finish cleaning the oven. I know I should apologize for being so rough with him, and I will apologize, but first I need to speak to Mum and make sure she's okay. After she screamed at me upstairs a few minutes ago, she completely disappeared, leaving me horrified and alone in the corridor. I've managed to convince myself – just about – that the whole thing was a brain-fart, but I need to hear her voice, just to be sure.
“367950,” Dad says suddenly, as he picks up on the other end of the line. “Roger speaking, how -”
“Hey Dad,” I stammer, trying desperately to sound normal and un-flustered. “Can I speak to Mum, please?”
“Stephanie? What's wrong? Is everything okay?”
“Everything's fine,” I reply, aware that he must think it odd for me to be calling out of the blue like this, especially so early and so soon after I last phoned. “Sorry, I just need a really quick word with Mum. Can you put her on for me?”
“Your mother's not here at the moment, sweetheart.”
I feel a flicker of fear in my chest, but only a flicker. This is okay. Nothing's wrong.
“Morning,” mutters Martin, the hotel's caretaker as he wanders past.
I mumble something in reply, but I don't have time for pleasantries right now.
“Where is she?” I ask Dad.
“She went out to the shops about half an hour ago.”
Now it's relief. Pure, unbridled relief.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“That she went to the shops?” He sounds confused. “Well, fairly, yes. I've got to go and meet her in an hour outside Marks and Sparks. Then she wants me to drive her to Nan's for a quick visit and -”
“So she's okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mum's okay. She's not upset?”
“Why would she be upset?”
“And you saw her this morning?”
“About half an hour ago. I already told you that. What's up, Steph? You know you can tell me, don't you?”
“No, everything's fine,” I reply, swallowing back the last of my tears. If Mum was at home half an hour ago, it's physically impossible for her to have been here, hundreds of miles away, at more or less the exact same time. Which means I did imagine the whole encounter after all. “It was nothing,
I'll call another time. Tell her not to worry, and have a good time with Nan. Give her my love.”
“Is work going okay?”
“Work's going great,” I tell him. “I'll call again soon. Bye.”
With that, before he has a chance to ask any more questions, I put the phone down, and then I close my eyes and feel the relief spreading through my body. I knew deep down that Mum hadn't suddenly turned up here, and I also know that there's no such thing as ghosts. At the same time, there was a moment upstairs when that vision seemed so real, when I was sure that somehow Mum had appeared to me. I even began to worry that something might have happened to her, and that I was seeing her here as a kind of...
No.
No, that's nonsense.
Forcing myself to snap out of this strange state, I take a moment to get my head together and then I walk over to fetch the tray from the counter. In the back of my mind, I'm still thinking about the sight of Mum weeping, even though I'm trying to focus on the task at hand. I pick up the tray, which contains a breakfast order, and then I head toward the door, only to stop at the last moment as I realize that I don't remember exactly where this particular order is supposed to be delivered.
I turn to George.
“Where was this going again?”
“Huh?” He glances at me. “Room 119. I told you already.”
“Sure. 119.”
With that, I carry the tray out into the corridor and along to the reception area, and then I make my way to the stairs. I can't help glancing over toward the fireplace, and I must admit that I feel more than a little relieved to see that the strange girl is no longer there. The chessboard is still set out, and the pieces are still in play, but the girl herself is gone and for that I'm kind of glad. The way she was staring at me earlier made me feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Once I'm at the top of the stairs, I head across the landing and along the corridor that leads to room 119. This time, there's no sobbing anywhere, which is a good sign. I just have to -
Suddenly I stop dead in my tracks.
Where am I going?
I look down at the tray in my hands. I'm carrying breakfast, I'm taking it somewhere, but the room number has slipped from my mind. I look around at the nearest doors and see room 117, room 118, room 120, room 121, room 122... and more doors further along the corridor. None of them seem quite right, however, and I can't shake the nagging feeling that I've forgotten something. It's the same feeling I get when I wake up and can't remember a dream.
“Going somewhere?”
Startled, I turn and find that the girl from reception is now right behind me.
“I'm sorry,” I stammer, taking a step back, relieved that I didn't drop the tray. “I didn't hear you coming over.”
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I'm delivering something to a room,” I explain, before stepping aside. “Please, you can go first.”
“I don't want to go first.”
“I'm very sorry,” I reply, forcing a smile, “but I really think...”
My voice trails off. I want to walk away, but I still can't quite remember where I'm supposed to walk to.
“Which room are you heading to?” the girl asks, before looking at the nearest door. “117?”
“No.”
“118?”
“No, I -”
“119?”
“I -”
Suddenly I realize that she's right. Of course she is. How could I have been so stupid? I look along the corridor and see the door to room 119, and then I look back down at the tray, and then I turn to the girl again.
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound calm and firm. “Is that your room?”
“Absolutely not,” she replies, before leaning against the wall and crossing her arms against her chest. “Please, don't let me stop you. You have work to do.”
“Of course,” I mutter, before turning and heading toward the door.
And then I stop again, as I realize that – again – I've somehow forgotten where I'm going. I remembered a moment ago but now, as I look at the doors to the different rooms, I feel as if the crucial information has simply dribbled out of my mind and left my head altogether. I glance around at the various doors – there's room 118, and 120, and 121, and 122 – but they don't seem quite right. I look again, still feeling as if I've forgotten something important.
“119?” the girl says.
I turn to her.
“Isn't that where you're going?” she continues. “Room 119.”
“Yes,” I say, and now I can tell that I sound flustered. “I know that. 119.”
I hesitate for a moment, wondering how I managed to forget the room number twice in as many minutes, and then I turn to once again make my way along the corridor. And then, after just a couple of steps, I stop as I realize that it's gone again. The number. It's as if I can't keep the room number in my thoughts. Was it 118? 120? I try to think of all the possibilities, and then I look at the nearby doors. For a moment I feel a little dizzy, but I'm determined to not let this weird girl see that anything's wrong. When I turn to her again, however, I realize that I can't ask her which room I'm supposed to go to with the tray.
From the way she's looking at me, it's clear that she already knows something's wrong.
“Room 119,” she says suddenly. “Right behind you.”
“I know that!” I snap, before turning and – this time – stepping toward room 119 before I have a chance to forget.
And then it hits me.
I freeze as a wall of pure fear rushes against my body and soaks into my skin. I've never felt anything like this before. I try to push it back, to pretend that it's not happening, but now I can feel my muscles starting to seize up and refusing to move. This is completely ridiculous, of course, but the sensation continues even as I force myself to stare at the door ahead.
119.
Three brass numbers sit screwed to the door, shining in the corridor's morning light.
119.
Now the numbers are starting to look blurry, and they jump slightly every time I really try to focus on them.
119.
I try again to step forward, and in an instant I'm enveloped by a kind of hysterical fear. I want to scream, to turn around and run, and I swear it's as if I know that something absolutely terrible is about to happen. My heart is pounding, my head is throbbing, and I'm starting to feel really nauseous. I close my eyes, trying to reset myself, but then I open them again and I still see those same three brass numbers, except this time I can also just about make out my own reflection in the metal. I think I'm swaying, barely managing to stay on my feet at all, and it's as if there are lots of little hooks inside my skin, each being pulled down by a length of string.
The girl behind me is saying something, but I can't make out her words. Finally my knees buckle and I fall, and the last thing I feel – before losing consciousness – is the tray of breakfast landing on my chest.
Chapter Four
“Stephanie?”
Gasping, I open my eyes and see a pale, featureless ceiling above. I blink, and then I turn and find that Manfred – the hotel's senior porter – is sitting on a chair next to the bed and staring at me.
“Good, you're awake,” he says, and then he gets to his feet. “Feel okay?”
“I...”
For a moment, I have no idea what can have happened. Sitting up, I look around and find that I'm back in my room, but then I realize that I'm wearing my uniform. Looking down, I see dark stained patches on the uniform's front, and it's only now that I remember carrying the breakfast tray up to one of the rooms. Then I felt dizzy, and then...
What happened to me?
“You fainted,” Manfred says, as if he's able to read my mind. “Do you remember that?”
“I... no.”
That's partially true, at least. I don't remember collapsing, but I do remember being terrified. I remember a feeling of absolute dread that seemed to creep all through my body until
I couldn't stand it for a moment longer. I remember the fear building and building until suddenly it vanished. And that, I suppose, must have been the moment when I fainted.
“You landed with a whole English breakfast all over you,” Manfred explains. “I thought about getting you out of that uniform, but then I figured that might be a little inappropriate, so I wiped it off. George in the kitchen isn't very happy with you, though. He had to cook up a whole new breakfast for the man in 119, and that's after he'd begun to put everything away and prepare for lunch.”
“119?” I reply, as I think back to that moment in the corridor. “What about 119?”
“That's where you were taking breakfast,” he says. “You remember, don't you?”
“I think so,” I reply, before realizing that I need to get back to work. “Of course. I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened.”
I start climbing off the bed and, although I still feel a little unsteady, I find that I'm able to stand without any assistance. At least the fear is gone, and I'm left with a palpable sense of relief.
“The boss said you can take the morning off,” Manfred explains, “and then see how you feel in the afternoon. I think he's worried about you throwing any more food around the place. To be fair, he might have a point.”
“I'm fine,” I murmur, before looking down at my uniform again. “I'll just change and stick this in the wash, and then I'll come back downstairs. How long was I out for?”
He glances at his watch.
“About thirty minutes,” he says with a sigh. “Not too long. Do you know what might have caused it? The guys in reception are running a sweep-stake. A few of them reckon maybe you're pregnant.”
“I'm not pregnant,” I tell him.
