Harper's Hotel Ghost Girl

by Amy Cross

  “Maybe you just don't -”

  “I'm not pregnant,” I say again, more firmly this time. “Believe me, I know that for a fact.”

  “Okay, well...” His voice trails off for a moment, and then he heads to the door and pulls it open. “See you downstairs. Everyone has an off day now and again, but try not to let this happen again. The boss won't like it if he thinks you're going to cause as mess for the guests.”

  “I'll be down soon,” I tell him, turning to open the wardrobe but then hesitating for a moment. “Manfred?”

  I hear a loud sigh.

  “What?”

  Turning, I see him watching me from out in the corridor.

  “Who found me?” I ask.

  “One of the guests.”

  “A girl?”

  He furrows his brow.

  “Was it a girl?” I continue. “The one who sits in reception and plays chess. You must have seen her.”

  “I haven't seen any girl sitting in reception and playing chess,” he replies. “And besides, it was a guy who found you. I think his name's Wallace, something like that. He's in 105 or 109, I can't remember which. He heard a clattering sound as he came out of his room, and he looked along just in time to see you flat on the carpet. I think you gave him quite a scare.”

  “And she wasn't with me?”

  “Who?”

  I hesitate, but then I realize that I don't want to sound any more crazy or freaked-out than I do already. Manfred's already looking at me as if I'm pretty nuts, and I know how the guys downstairs like to gossip about even the slightest incident. For a moment I try to think of something funny to say, so I can shrug the whole thing off, but I've never been a very funny person so finally all I manage is a smile.

  “See you downstairs in ten,” I tell him.

  “Huh,” is all he says in reply, and then he walks away.

  I take a clean uniform from the wardrobe, then I push the door shut and start getting changed. As I do so, I can't help glancing at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Get a grip,” I mutter. “You're really starting to go off the rails today.”

  By the time I'm ready to go back down to work, I've just about managed to get my thoughts together. I pause for a moment, standing in complete silence, reminding myself that I mustn't get flustered, and then I open the door and head out into the corridor. At the very last moment, however, I remember the little enamel badge on my old uniform, so I go back and fumble for a moment to take it off.

  And then I freeze, as I see that the badge is in the shape of a parrot with blue and green feathers.

  Wasn't this...

  I hesitate, trying to work out what's going on, but then I realize I really just need to stay laser-focused. So I pin the badge to my new uniform, and then I head back out of the room.

  Chapter Five

  She's not here.

  That's the first thing I notice as I head down the main staircase. For some reason, I'd expected the strange girl to be back in one of the big leather chairs, focused on her game of chess. But she's not there, and I have to admit that I feel a little relieved as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  I should go through to the kitchen immediately and apologize to George, but there's no-one on the reception desk right now – which is odd in itself – and for a moment I hesitate as I glance over at the chessboard.

  I look around, just to make sure that I'm alone, and then I head over to get a better view of the game.

  Stopping next to one of the chairs, I stare down at the chessboard and see that there's a pretty complex game going on. I haven't played chess for a few years, but my father's an avid player so I picked up a lot by osmosis while I was a kid. Tilting my head, I try to analyze the positions of the two sides, but I quickly realize that this particular game is way, way above anything I understand. There are smatterings of recognized gambits, and sections of the board that make sense, but then there are other areas where the pieces seem ranged against one another in almost random patterns. I know enough about chess to know when I don't understand great play, and I definitely don't understand this game right now. Either these players are completely insane, or they're absolutely brilliant.

  Slowly, without really knowing why, I reach out toward one of the pieces.

  Suddenly hearing footsteps stomping down the staircase, I turn to see a man storming over to the reception desk, and my heart sinks as soon as I realize that it's Martin. For as long as I've been here, Martin has been a pain; he's the janitor, and he has a tendency to angrily confront anyone who gets in his way.

  As soon as he reaches the desk, he rings the bell, and then he sighs as he looks around.

  “Well?” he says finally.

  “I...”

  My voice trails off.

  “Let me guess,” he continues. “They're all busy.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, as I make my way over to join him. I think I already know the answer to that question, of course, but I suppose I should at least try to be polite.

  “Some idiot left a note in my office,” he complains, “reminding me to fix the sink in one of the rooms, except the note didn't say which bloody room. There are thirty-six rooms in this hotel, and they've each got a sink in them. What am I supposed to do? Go around and check them all?”

  “Maybe there's something about it in the diary,” I suggest, heading around to the other side of the desk and grabbing the large, tattered green notebook that Manfred uses to jot down minor details.

  “It's not like I've got all day,” he grumbles. “Do you know how many stupid little jobs I have to get done? There are towel rails that need fixing, and toilet seats that need tightening, and light bulbs that need replacing. And that's before you get to the boiler, and I can assure you that there's nothing fun about trying to figure out what's wrong with that bloody thing.” He seems to be in full-on rant mode now. “Everyone keeps telling me to fix the bloody thing, but they're conveniently ignoring the fact that it can't be fixed. It needs to be replaced, but will old Harper pay for that? Of course not. The man's never going to do anything that costs him money. One day, someone's going to have to open his eyes for him and make him see what's really going on in this hotel.”

  “I'm sure you're very busy,” I tell him, but now I'm starting to feel a sharp pain in my head, bursting and throbbing through my thoughts. It's as if this man's voice is carving through my mind. “Let me see if -”

  “There's nothing you can do!” he booms, slightly theatrically. “I've already wasted half an hour trying to figure this out.”

  “Perhaps -”

  “It's a disgrace, I tell you!” he continues, his voice booming in my head, every word shredding my thoughts as the pain gets stronger and stronger. I try to force a smile, but I think I'm starting to sweat now. “That Manfred guy's an asshole. That's the problem here.”

  “Manfred's always very -”

  “He looks down on me, you know,” he continues. “He thinks I'm beneath him. It's snobbery, and nothing more. Pure, old-fashioned snobbery.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that there's nothing in the notebook, but the pain twists in my head and I feel as if I'm about to -

  Suddenly a scream rings out from far off in the hotel.

  I turn and look toward the door that leads into the dining room. The scream continues for a moment longer, before fading to become a kind of low, persistent wailing sound.

  “Well?” Martin asks after a moment. “Don't you have anything to say?”

  I turn to him.

  “Well?” He rolls his eyes.

  “You heard that, right?” I stammer, feeling as if pinpricks of cold sweat are breaking out all across my body. At the same time, I can't help noticing that there's no sound of anyone running to see what's wrong.

  “Heard what?” Manfred asks.

  “The scream.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And the sobbing,” I continue, looking back toward the door. “Tell m
e you can hear that.”

  “I don't have a bloody clue what you're driveling on about,” he sighs. “You know what? Forget it, you lot up here clearly don't know what you're doing.” Turning, he heads toward the door. “I'll find that bloody tap without any help. Just like always.”

  “I -”

  “NO!” a woman's voice screams, echoing out through the entire reception area.

  Startled, I step back until I bump against the wall.

  “And tell Manfred I'm looking for him,” Martin says, stopping and glancing back at me. “Do you hear? Tell him I'm not happy.”

  I turn to see that he looks completely unaware of the scream.

  “You didn't hear that?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure of what?” he replies. “Did you hear what I said? I want you to tell Manfred that I'm furious.”

  “Excuse me,” I mutter, before turning and hurrying across the room, heading to the doorway at the far end. “I have to check on something.”

  “Where are you going?” Martin calls after me. “What kind of bloody awful hotel are we all working in here? Am I the only one who actually cares about getting things done?”

  Reaching the dining room, I'm surprised to find that there's no sign of Manfred, George or any of the others. It's as if all the other members of staff have vanished from the hotel, even though it's mid-morning now and everyone has things they need to get done before lunch. I look around, hoping to spot a sign of movement somewhere, but then I realize I can hear the sobbing sound again. I look toward the other end of the dining room, where the large windows afford a view of the garden, but again there's no hint of anyone nearby.

  “NO!” the woman shouts suddenly. “IT'S NOT TRUE!”

  “Mum?” I whisper, stepping forward, filled once more with the fear that somehow something's happening to my mother. “Are you here?” I call out, as the sobbing continues. “Mum, it's me! Where are you?”

  Stopping for a moment, I suddenly realize that I can hear shuffling footsteps. I look around, but there's still no sign of anyone, yet the footsteps are getting closer and it's almost as if someone is about to walk straight into me. Then, just as I worry that I'm about to be bumped, I realize I can hear whispering voices coming from over my shoulder.

  I turn and look at one of the large round tables near the windows. There's nobody sitting there, but the whispering sound is growing and I'm starting to pick out several distinct voices.

  “I don't know what to say,” one of them murmurs, briefly rising above the others before fading again.

  “They'll be here soon,” says another.

  “I don't know what to do,” a third adds. “I just don't know. There's no -”

  Suddenly another scream bursts through the voices, shattering the silence.

  “Mum!” I yell, rushing forward, convinced that she's in trouble, only to reach the table and find that there's still nobody here. The voices are still whispering, but the scream has stopped and – as I look around – I see only a set of empty chairs.

  I wait, but I feel certain that the scream is going to return at any moment. Something's wrong with Mum and -

  “Stephanie?”

  I let out a startled cry as I spin around, only to find George standing right behind me.

  “Why are you yelling in an empty room?” he asks. “There's a man having a meltdown in reception about a newspaper, and you're in here shouting after your Mum.”

  “I'm fine,” I stammer, “I just -”

  “I'm really sorry, Steph,” he continues, “but someone must have mentioned something to the old man. I was just given a message to pass to you. Mr. Harper himself wants to see you. He's waiting in his office.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Some days,” Mr. Harper says, as he leans forward in his creaking leather chair and rests his elbows against the desk, “just seem to go on forever, don't they?”

  I smile and fidget slightly, but I don't quite know what to say. I'm pretty sure I'm about to get fired, and to be honest I don't know how to defend myself. I mean, I've screwed up a few times in the past and now I've screwed up twice in one day. Deep down, I guess I deserve to get fired.

  “Some days,” he continues, “just don't work, do they? It doesn't matter what you do. Some days are just a mess, right from the start. You find that to be the case sometimes, don't you?”

  “I... suppose so,” I tell him.

  “And do you notice those days, when they arrive?”

  I pause, and then I nod slowly.

  “Are you having one of those days now, Miss...”

  “Lawson,” I tell him. “Stephanie Lawson. And yes. I mean, I think so.”

  He grins and starts nodding.

  “It's okay, though,” I continue. “I can fix it. I won't make any more mistakes, I promise.”

  “Don't make promises you can't keep,” he replies. “In my experience, such days can't be beaten. The important thing is to just get through them and reach tomorrow as soon as you can. Does that make sense?”

  “It does,” I tell him, even though I'm not entirely sure that I understand what he's on about.

  “That's a lovely little brooch, by the way,” he continues, squinting slightly. “I can't quite see what it is.”

  “Oh, it's a...”

  Looking down, I see that it's a bumblebee.

  “It's a bee,” I say cautiously, still feeling that something isn't quite right. Wasn't the badge a parrot earlier? Or a butterfly? Or maybe a monkey?

  And then I see the blood.

  I swear, a moment ago the carpet was beige and clean, but now there's blood everywhere. I look round and see that the blood is spreading, and that it's already at the walls. For a moment, I can only stare in horror, until suddenly I blink and all the blood is gone.

  “It's very charming,” Mr. Harper replies, and I look at him again. He's still staring at the badge. “I like little dashes of individuality on the uniform. Not that they should be forced, of course. They must come naturally.”

  “I won't let you down,” I say suddenly.

  “Let me down?”

  “I won't make any more mistakes.”

  “Nobody can promise such a thing.”

  “I can,” I tell him, desperately keen to stay in his good books. “Please don't fire me, Mr. Harper. I know I can do better, I just need to be given the chance.”

  “Fire you?” He stares at me for a moment, and then his smile grows. “I didn't ask you up here so that I could fire you. I merely heard that you'd suffered a bad day, and I wanted to let you know that you have my full support. And then, later, I'm going to cut your throat and watch as your blood drains out onto the carpet.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, “I really -”

  Stopping suddenly, I feel a shudder pass through my chest as I realize what he just said.

  “Ms. Lawson?” he continues. “Is everything alright?”

  “What did you just say?” I ask.

  “I told you that I invited you here because I want you to know that you're a very valued member of this hotel's staff. And I want you to believe in yourself a little more. Do you think you can do that?”

  Staring at him, I tell myself that I must have misheard that comment about cutting my neck and making me bleed.

  “Sure,” I say finally, still trying to pretend that nothing's wrong. “I promise I won't ever let you down again. Sorry, Mr. Harper. And thank you. I'll do better, I promise.”

  I pause for a moment, before heading to the door. I can't help glancing at the carpet once again, but the blood's gone and I guess that must have just been a brief hallucination. As I pull the door open, I tell myself that I really need to get my head sorted.

  Suddenly I gasp as I find Martin standing right outside the door.

  “Are you done?” he asks, raising an irritated eyebrow. “Can I get in there now?”

  “Sorry,” I stammer, stepping outside, only for him to immediately barge past me.

  “What do you wa
nt now?” Mr. Harper asks him, sounding annoyed.

  Martin hesitates, before turning and glaring at me, and then he swings the door shut.

  I wait outside for a moment, and I realize I can hear raised voices coming from inside the office. I have no idea what Martin and Mr. Harper can be talking about, but I'm surprised Martin would be so rude to our boss. Still, I don't want to loiter out here and eavesdrop, so I force myself to head along the corridor. As I walk, I smooth the front of my uniform, making sure that I look presentable. From this moment on, I'm determined to be the best employee this hotel has ever had. As I walk down the stairs, however, I realize that first there's one other thing that I still need to do, just to put my mind at rest.

  ***

  “Stephanie, are you sure nothing's wrong?” Dad asks a short while later, as I stand once more at the phone in the kitchen. “Anything you can tell your mother, you can tell me too.”

  “I thought you were going to pick her up,” I tell him.

  “I was, but then she phoned and said she'd need longer in town. I think she's going to get the bus back, or maybe a taxi. You know what your mother's like. She bumps into people and then she ends up talking for hours on end. Frankly, I'm just relieved that she doesn't insist on dragging me around with her. I quite like having the odd morning to myself. I enjoy just watching some telly and reading the papers.”

  “But you definitely spoke to her?” I continue. “You promise?”

  “What's this all about?”

  For a moment, I think back to the sound of Mum sobbing in the dining room. In a way, that felt even more real than the sight of her up in the corridor. I know I must be going crazy, but so far I can't figure out how I'm supposed to pull myself together. There are tears in my eyes and I feel like I'm losing my mind. Like I'm going round in circles.

  “Please get her to call me,” I say finally, “as soon as she gets home. I know this must seem silly, but I need you to promise that you'll do it.”

  “Of course, but -”

  “I just need to know that she's okay.”

  “Stephanie, I'm your father,” he replies. “Like it or not, I know you, and I know when something's wrong.” He pauses. “You sound like you're holding back. You're scaring me right now.”