Harper's Hotel Ghost Girl Read online

  “I mean it this time.”

  “But -”

  “Where is it?”

  “He only wanted a croissant, jam and some juice,” he replies cautiously. “It'll take me a couple of minutes to get it all together, but honestly, I can take it up to him. You're -”

  “I'm doing it,” I say firmly, as I feel fear rising through my chest. “I've never been so sure of anything in my life. I'll take the tray up to room 119.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Reaching out, I knock hard on the door to room 119.

  As soon as that's done, I feel a flurry of fear in my chest. All the way up here, carrying the tray, I felt certain that I was making the right choice. After all, I can't let the world fall apart every night. I can't let my parents experience that over and over again. Now that I'm here, however, I'm starting to feel an immense sense of horror rising through my chest, reminding me of the terrible pain I felt a few hours ago when an invisible knife seemed to be slicing through my body.

  I've felt like this before, though.

  I've come to room 119, and backed away.

  I've forgotten what I was doing.

  But not today.

  Today I made it here without forgetting anything. And now, as I stand here and listen to footsteps approaching the other side of the door, I realize that – despite my fear – I can do this.

  I glance both ways, just in case Hannah is around. She'd try to stop me, I'm sure of that. She'd promise to fix things, she'd tell me she only needs a little more time.

  But time's up.

  I look at the door again, and I hear a chain being unhooked on the other side.

  Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that this is the right choice. Maybe there's an insane serial killer in this room, maybe there's not, but at least I'll know for sure. And at least, finally, I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing what Hannah couldn't. I'm breaking the loop.

  The door's handle clicks, then turns, then opens.

  I see the face of a friendly, smiling old man staring up at me from behind thick glasses.

  “Hi,” I say, scrambling for anything that will make sense. What was I expecting? A raging homicidal maniac who'd drag me into the room? A gibbering wreck, muttering dark threats about skinning me alive? Maybe I've watched too many horror films on late-night TV. “I have your breakfast.”

  He looks down at the tray, and then he looks up at me again.

  “It's late,” he says dourly.

  “I'm sorry,” I stammer, “that was my fault. Would... Would you like me to bring it inside for you?”

  He stares at me for longer than seems necessary, and then he mutters something before stepping back and slowly pulling the door open, revealing the inside of his room.

  At first, I don't dare go through. I look at the neatly-made bed – did he not sleep in it last night, or did a maid come already? - and then at the closed window, and then I spot a single suitcase on a chair next to the wardrobe. What's in that suitcase? Knives? Saws? Chloroform? A million possibilities run through my head, and then finally I spot the old man's face peering at me from behind the door. He might not seem too dangerous, not yet, but he's certainly a little weird. Then again, maybe I'm just being judgmental.

  “Are you coming in?” he asks.

  I step through, entering the room, but now my knees feel as if they're going to buckle at any moment. Then, to make matters worse, I hear the door clicking shut behind me. Turning, I see the old man once again smiling up at me.

  “You can put it anywhere you like,” he drawls. “It really doesn't make any difference to me.”

  I look around, panicking, and then I spot some free space on the table near the window. Walking over, I set the tray down, and then I hesitate for a moment before turning to the man again.

  He's staring at me.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” I ask.

  “What kind of jam did you bring up?”

  “Um...”

  I look down at the tray.

  “Strawberry,” I say cautiously, “and orange.”

  I turn back to him.

  “That's fine,” he says. “There's nothing else.”

  I wait.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Fairly.”

  “You don't...”

  I'd built this moment up so much, and now I genuinely have no idea what I'm supposed to do next.

  The man continues to stare at me, although after a moment I notice that he's frantically rubbing his fingers together. Finally, I start to pick up a sense of nervousness from him, and I can't help thinking that he seems scared. He keeps glancing past me, too, even though there's nobody else in the room. I turn and look, but all I see is the window. Turning back to look at the man, I'm about to ask him if he's really okay, but then I spot something moving in the mirror on top of the dresser.

  The curtain is swaying slightly. I tell myself that there's no reason to be worried, but then I realize that there seems to be a shape behind the fabric, almost as if...

  “I'm sorry,” the old man says calmly. “I don't really think that it's me you've come to see.” He pauses, and then he takes a step toward me. “I've really been here for far too long.”

  In an instant, he suddenly looks a little older, and to my horror I see that there's a dark, knotted line of torn flesh around his throat.

  “It's her,” he adds, his voice croaking slightly, and then he tilts his head as he fades into thin air.

  “What the -”

  Taking a step forward, I suddenly remember Mr. Harper mentioning to me once that only one person has ever died in this hotel. What was the story, again? A lawyer, many years ago, who checked in and then put a noose around his neck in his room? Was that in here, in room 119? In which case...

  I look over at the mirror, but now I can't see the curtain. I turn and look directly, and this time there's clearly nobody there.

  Suddenly a hand touches my shoulder, and I'm pulled back as a knife flashes before my eyes.

  “I'm sorry,” a woman's voice says, and I can't help thinking that she sounds vaguely familiar, “but there really isn't any other way.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly a blade slices into my belly. As the pain bursts up through my body, I lean forward and try to pull away, but she's already stabbing me again. I try to twist again, but an arm wraps tight around my neck and holds me up, and I shudder violently as the knife slices into me again and again. Somehow I manage to keep my eyes open, staring at the closed door ahead, and now there's a thick crunching sound as the knife is driven into my back. Finally the blade is pulled away, and I can feel hot breath against the side of my neck as blood soaks down my uniform.

  “At least now we can get on with things,” the familiar voice says, whispering directly into my ear. “There were times when even I doubted that this could happen.”

  “Stephanie!” Hannah suddenly shouts, and I hear her fists banging on the door. “Don't do this! Get out!”

  The voice next to my ear laughs. But it can't be who it sounds like. It can't be her, it's impossible, because -

  “Wait,” I gasp, hoping that Hannah outside the door can hear me. “I -”

  Suddenly the knife slices straight up into my jaw, cutting through into my skull. As I scream and everything goes black, the last thing I realize is that this feels exactly like the pain I felt earlier downstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  No pain.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Suddenly I open my eyes and let out a shocked gasp.

  Sitting up, I'm momentarily lost. My heart is racing and I'm sweating, and it takes a few more seconds before I realize that I'm in my bed. I was dreaming, that much I know, but all my memories of the dream have slipped away, leaving me with only the sensation of running, of being scared, of hiding and then...

  Then what happened?

  This is stupid.

  I wipe my brow and feel sweat running down my forehead. Glancing at the cl
ock by my bed, I see that it's already 6.01am, which means there's no point trying to get back to sleep. I rub my eyes, and I try one more time to remember the dream, and then I climb out of bed and head through to the en-suite bathroom. Once the light's on, I take a moment to start filling the sink and then I look at my reflection. I look tired, but my skin's okay this morning and that cold sore on my lip is starting to fade. Small mercies.

  I lean down to the washbasin, but at the last moment I freeze. Still looking at my reflection in the mirror, I realize that I'm not in pain. Wasn't something wrong a moment ago? I have a strong, striking memory of extreme pain, and fear too. For a few seconds I'm utterly confused, and it takes a real effort to jolt myself back to the here and now. I tell myself to stop being so stupid, to stay focused on getting ready.

  But...

  Something's different.

  Looking down at the water in the sink, I hesitate for a moment before slowly dipping the tips of my fingers beneath the surface. I can feel the water, but it's not the same as usual, and I can't help noticing that there are no ripples. I move my hand around, but the surface of the water remains flat and calm.

  Feeling a little dazed, I turn and head back through to the room, so that I can change into my uniform. As I reach the wardrobe, however, I suddenly realize that I'm already wearing the uniform. Did I sleep in it last night? I look down, and for a moment I'm surprised to see the clean, undamaged fabric covering my belly. For some reason, I feel as though the uniform should be ripped, and maybe even stained. Why is that?

  Reaching down, I touch the front of my uniform, and at that moment I feel a flicker of pain. It's like something's stabbing into me.

  Glancing at the clock, I see that I'm still early for work, but I guess that's better than being late. I head to the door and pull it open, but then as I head along the corridor I suddenly stop and look down at the carpet. I have no idea why, but I expected there to be something right next to my foot. Something small. Something that had been dropped. I glance around, still filled with the belief that I'm missing something. There's nothing, though. There's nothing at all. Should there be?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Look, it's clear!” Manfred is saying angrily at the reception desk, as several police officers stand next to him as they all watch the computer screen. “Room 119 has been empty for over a week. There's no-one booked in there.”

  “So how did someone call down a room service order?” one of the officers asks. “Didn't that ring any alarm bells?”

  “We don't double-check every little thing like that,” Manfred replies. “Sure, if I'd noticed, that would have been great, but I didn't. Nobody did. The customer on the phone said he'd pay cash, so we didn't need to check the account. The order was simply sent through to the kitchen.”

  “Is everything okay?” I ask as I reach the bottom of the stairs and head over to join them.

  “So if no-one was in the room,” one of the other officers says, “when's the last time anyone would have gone in there and checked it over?”

  “It would have been cleaned after the previous guest vacated,” Manfred explains. “That would have been nine days ago.”

  “And after that?”

  “No-one would have gone in, I suppose,” he replies. “There'd be a check before the next guests use the room, but I have no idea when that would have been. But if you're implying for one moment that someone could have been secretly staying in one of our rooms, undetected, then I'm going to have to stop you immediately. That's impossible.”

  “Seems to be what happened, though.”

  “What's wrong?” I ask. “Manfred, is everything okay?”

  “Someone gained access to that room,” the officer says, “and we need to know who that person is. As I explained before, none of your guests will be allowed to leave until we've conducted preliminary interviews. I'm sorry, but this is going to take quite some time.”

  “Manfred, what's happening?” I ask, starting to panic as I run around the desk and touch his arm. “Why -”

  Before I can finish, my hand passes straight through his arm. I stare down at my hand in horror, and then I try again to touch Manfred, only for the same thing to happen again.

  “Stephanie was a lovely girl,” he says to the officers. “She'd been with us for a while, and everyone loved her. I honestly don't remember anyone so popular working here. She was just a good, honest worker who kept her head down and got on with things.” He pauses for a moment, and now there are tears in his eyes. “I don't know what's going on, but I can promise you one thing. Nobody here at the hotel would have hurt her. Not a member of the staff, at least. It must have been...”

  His voice trails off.

  “A guest?” one of the officers asks.

  “What's going on?” I stammer, trying again and again to touch Manfred's arm, but still not having any luck. “Why can't I touch anyone? Why's no-one talking to me? Why -”

  Before I can finish, I spot Hannah standing over by the fireplace, watching me with her back to the chessboard.

  “Hannah!” I shout, rushing over to her. “You have to help me!”

  As I get closer, however, I see that there's a cold, stony look on her face.

  “Something's wrong,” I continue, stumbling over my words a little as I desperately try to explain what's happening. “The police are here, and I can't touch anything.” I reach out and try to touch her arm, but – as I expected – my hands passes right through her. “See? It's as if I'm not really here. Am I dreaming? Tell me I'm dreaming!”

  I wait, but then she slowly looks down at the chessboard.

  I follow her gaze, and suddenly I see that the pieces have moved again, and that the white king has been tipped over. I open my mouth to ask what that means, but then I realize that the game is over. Black has won, although I can't quite see how that could have happened. It's as if there was a secret trap that had been set all along.

  “Why did you do this?” Hannah asks, her voice tense with anger.

  I turn to her.

  “I was going to fix it,” she continues, and now there are tears in her eyes. “I spent so long working on how to save you, and I was getting close. I just needed a little more time.”

  “But -”

  “And then you went and did this?” she snaps.

  “I -”

  Before I can finish, I suddenly remember going into room 119. Everything after that is a little hazy, but after a moment I look down at my chest as I remember the knife sliding into my body over and over again. I tell myself that I'm wrong, that I must be remembering a dream, but I can feel echoes of the pain and finally I realize that I did go into room 119 yesterday, and someone did attack me, which means...

  I reach out and try once again to touch Hannah.

  “Why can't I touch anyone?” I ask cautiously. “What's going on?”

  Suddenly she steps past me, and I turn to watch as she heads to the staircase.

  “Hannah?” I call out. “Tell me what's happening!”

  She starts going up the stairs, so I follow. I still don't understand any of this, but I'm certain that Hannah will be able to explain it all. As we reach the first floor, however, my mind is racing and I'm starting to worry that this is way more serious than just a dream. Then, as I follow Hannah along the corridor, I suddenly look ahead and see that we're heading toward room 119, where the door is open and two police officers are conferring outside.

  Hannah stops and looks into the room, and then she turns to me.

  “Well?” she says. “Aren't you going to come and look?”

  “At what?” I ask, feeling a flickering sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. “It's just a room.”

  She turns and looks inside, just as a camera's flash picks out the edge of her face.

  I can hear voices coming from inside the room. I want to go and see what's happening, of course, but somehow I can't quite manage to make myself step forward. It's as if I can sense something in room 119, some
thing that fills me with absolute horror. After a moment, a man emerges from the room and stops to talk to one of the police officers, and I take a step closer so that I can perhaps hear what they're saying.

  “We can move her now,” the man explains. “After that, they'll need to go over the room in case the killer left anything behind. There'll be some people coming around eleven, to conduct some tests on the stains. Meanwhile, I need you to get as many men as possible to join the search for the knife. We need to find that weapon.”

  I open my mouth to ask what happened, but I think deep down I already know.

  “You should come and take a look,” Hannah says calmly, still staring into the room. “It'll help you. Once you get over the shock, at least. I've had to help people look at these things before. Looking seems to be the best bet.”

  I take another step closer, despite the growing sense of fear. Then, after one more step, I look through the door and see that there's blood all over the carpet, with splatters on the wall as well. As I peer around the edge of the door, I suddenly spot a bloodied arm coming into view, and I freeze.

  “This didn't have to happen,” Hannah says. “I would have fixed everything eventually. That's what I do, it's why I was sent here. My punishment was to fix this, no matter how long it took, and I would have got there eventually. Instead, you ignored me and did this.”

  “I didn't do anything,” I stammer, as I try to remember exactly what happened last night. “What are you talking about? What do you think I did?”

  She turns to me, and then suddenly she looks past me.

  “No!” a familiar voice shouts, and I turn to see Mum and Dad storming along the corridor, heading this way.

  “What the -”

  “You're all idiots!” Mum snaps, her eyes filled with tears as Dad tries to hold her back. “Why do you keep saying such awful things? Of course it's not her, she'd never let anything like this happen to her. She's far too smart.”

  “Mum,” I say, “what -”

  Before I can finish, she rushes past me and hurries into the room, and then she freezes as she stares down at the dead body on the carpet.