Harper's Hotel Ghost Girl Read online

  Chapter Ten

  15 years earlier

  “Tell me about your feelings, Stephanie,” Doctor Douglas says as he adjusts the clipboard on his knee. “Have they changed much over the past few weeks?”

  I don't know what he means, so I don't say anything.

  “It was your tenth birthday a little while ago, wasn't it?” He looks down at his notes for a moment. “Yes, just a few weeks ago.” He glances at me again. “Your parents tell me that you've been unsettled for a while. Troubled. They described it as being like your dreams were spilling over into your waking life. Do you think that describes what you've been going through?”

  I wait, but I know he wants an answer.

  “I don't know,” I say finally.

  “Your mother says that it all began not long after you got back from a holiday. Do you remember that holiday, Stephanie?”

  I nod.

  “Where did you go?”

  “We went somewhere by car.”

  “How long for?”

  “A week.” I pause, struck by the feeling that it wasn't a week at all. Looking back, the holiday feels as if it lasted longer, but I remember Mummy and Daddy describing it as a week, and they wouldn't lie.

  I'm starting to get a slight headache.

  “Did anything happen to you during that holiday, Stephanie?” Doctor Douglas asks.

  “It was fun.”

  “Nothing bad happened?”

  I shake my head.

  “Your parents say that you seemed upset on the last day. Do you remember that?”

  I pause, before nodding.

  “Do you remember what upset you?”

  I shake my head.

  “It's okay, Stephanie,” he continues, “you won't be in any trouble. Anything you tell me will be strictly between the two of us. So if something did upset you, you can tell me without getting into any trouble.”

  He stares at me, but I don't know how to respond.

  “Do you ever see things that you don't think are real?” he asks suddenly.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “I don't know, Stephanie. You tell me.”

  I almost say something, but then I decide to stay quiet. I'm so sick of people asking me silly questions, and I just want them to stop.

  “Do you see monsters at night?” he asks.

  “No.”

  Did I just lie?

  They're not monsters, exactly. They're more like... people.

  “Do you hear voices?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Voices of people who you know don't exist?”

  “I can't see them,” I admit.

  “Do you ever talk to them?” he asks.

  I think about that for a moment, before shaking my head.

  “Why not, Stephanie?”

  “They're not real,” I remind him, “so it wouldn't be sensible to talk to them. Mummy told me that.”

  “Your mother wanted you to pretend these things weren't really there?”

  I nod.

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  I think about that for a moment.

  “I don't know.”

  “Do you think it's possible that you've forgotten something that happened to you?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something important. When bad things happen, or things we don't understand, sometimes we hide them away instead of facing them. Do you think that maybe you could have done something like that?”

  “No,” I tell him, but deep down I feel something strange in my tummy. It's like I think I'm lying, even though I know I'm not lying.

  I haven't forgotten anything important.

  Chapter Eleven

  September 12th, 1987

  “Of course I could see it,” the strange girl says, as we stand out at the rear of the hotel, in the yard next to the bins. “Other people couldn't, but you were making it more and more real by the second. I got a glimpse.”

  “I'm insane,” I reply, staring at the brick wall opposite, lost in my own fear. “That's the only explanation. I've lost my mind.”

  “Nearly, but not quite.”

  “I need help,” I continue. “I have to go and see a doctor. A psychiatrist. Maybe I need medication. I've snapped.”

  “I'm sorry,” she says, “but it's a little more complicated than that.”

  “You don't understand,” I tell her. “I've seen a doctor before. I had pills before. I -”

  Suddenly I turn to her, and for a moment I feel as if I've seen this strange girl before. Not just recently, but maybe a long time ago. Or is she just another illusion? Is she part of my madness? I want to reach out and touch her, to check whether or not she's real, but I really don't want to make myself seem even crazier.

  “What?” she says suddenly.

  “What?” I reply.

  “You're giving me a weird look.”

  “No, I'm not.”

  “I promise you, you are.”

  I tilt my head slightly.

  “I'm real!” she says suddenly, before sighing. “Oh, come on, are you serious? You think you've imagined me?”

  “I think I can't trust anything I'm seeing today,” I tell her. “Maybe you're my subconscious mind, talking to me.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “How do I know you're not?” I ask, my voice starting to tremble once more with fear.

  “Look at me!” she says, before sighing again and heading over to the kitchen window. Reaching up, she taps on the glass.

  “What are you doing?” I gasp. “There's no -”

  Suddenly the window creaks open, and an angry-looking George leans out. He glares at me, but then he looks down at the girl.

  “What?” he snaps. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Stephanie's,” the girl replies. “You can see me, right?”

  “See you?” He furrows his brow. “What kind of stupidity is this? I'm in the middle of making soup, I haven't got time for dumb games.” He turns to me. “You're not pulling your weight today, Stephanie. I'm serious, I need you back in the kitchen within the next ten minutes, or you and me and gonna have serious words. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” I reply, “I'll just -”

  “Thank you!” the girl says brightly, before shutting the window in George's face. “Now do you accept that I'm real?”

  I pause for a moment, as I start to realize that I have no idea what's happening.

  “Hannah,” she says, stepping closer and holding out a hand for me to shake. “I thought I mentioned that earlier, but maybe you weren't in much of a state to take anything in. Or maybe I'm getting confused. Either way, my name's Hannah and I'm here to help you. At least, I think that's why I'm here. It's a little hard to be sure. I don't have my usual resources to check.”

  Shaking her hand, I can't help but notice that her skin feels cold and a little clammy. In a way, however, that's good, since it makes her feel more real.

  “Who are you?” I ask finally.

  “I'm a friend.”

  “I've never met you before.”

  “Oh, you have. A lot of times.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Before today, I'd never seen you.”

  “Well, that's certainly true,” she replies, and now there's a faint smile on her lips. “The question, though, is how many times we've both lived through today.”

  “You're not making any sense,” I point out.

  “Nice badge.”

  It takes a moment before I realize what she means. Looking down at my chest, I see to my surprise that this time it hasn't changed; it's still a reddish, slightly orange bird. A phoenix, I think.

  “I know this is going to sound nuts,” I say after a few seconds, “but this badge... It keeps changing.”

  “How does it change?”

  “It was a bee earlier,” I tell her, “and a parrot, and a butterfly, and a whole lot of different things.”

  “You remember that?”

/>   I look at her.

  “Interesting,” she continues, and now her smile has faded. “I think maybe my latest theory was right after all. Your memories are starting to leak.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Okay, let me put this in the simplest terms. I've explained it to you before, many times, and I've figured out the best way. Call it trial and error.” She takes a deep breath. “Today is the twelfth of September, 1987. You agree with that, don't you?”

  “Of course.”

  “How would you feel,” she continues, “if I told you that you've already relived this day more than a thousand times? Going through it over and over, like you're stuck in a loop. Never ending, just looping round and round and enduring it countless times.”

  “That's ridiculous,” I point out.

  “Tell me about it,” she says. “At least your memory is reset each time. I'm stuck in the loop with you, and I actually remember each and every time. Well, most of them. Do you have any idea how many times I've watched the same episode of Crossroads? To be honest, it's getting a little tricky to keep track of everything, which is why I started doing the little trick with the enamel badge.”

  “What trick?”

  “It's a way of marking each new day,” she continues. “It doesn't really matter to you, it's not important, but it helps me keep track of which day was which. I guess I just work best with visual reminders.” She looks at the badge. “Each morning, when the day resets, I leave a different badge outside your room. And each day, without fail, you see the badge and pick it up and wear it.”

  “The badge was a butterfly this morning,” I tell her. “It's been changing all day.”

  She shakes her head.

  “It has!” I protest.

  “That's just how you're remembering it,” she explains. “It's interesting, how your mind is processing all of this You shouldn't have any memory from previous loops, but obviously your awareness is starting to grow.” She pauses again. “The badge was a butterfly, on one of the days, but that was about five hundred days ago. And it was a parrot on one of the days too, but that was three hundred days ago. The bee was only about ten days ago, and the phoenix is today. The interesting thing is that you're remembering fragments of each of those days, and your mind is understandably piecing them together and assuming that they're all parts of today. What seems to you to have been a weird morning at work so far, is actually a mashed-together set of memories from many, many days. All sewn together, like a patchwork quilt. Now do you understand?”

  I stare at her for a moment.

  “You're insane,” I say finally.

  “There's no need to worry,” she replies. “I'm figuring it all out. I know what's causing the loop, and I think I know why I was sent here for my punishment. Something's gone very wrong with this day, and I have to find a way to fix it. And I think I understand what I need to change.”

  “I don't know what you're -”

  “Your death, Stephanie,” she adds, interrupting me. “September the twelfth, 1987, is the day you're supposed to die.”

  “I'm supposed to...”

  My voice trails off as I realize the implication of what she just said. She seems completely serious, too, and a shudder passes through my chest as I start to realize that she might be crazier than I'd guessed.

  “Haven't you figured out yet,” she continues, “who's staying in room 119?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You feel it, don't you?” Hannah asks as we stand in the corridor, looking toward the door that leads into room 119. “Even from this far back, from several meters away, you can sense something. You might not be able to put it into words, but it's true.”

  “I...”

  I want to tell her that she's wrong, but – as I stand here now and look at the door – I can't deny that I feel a powerful sense of fear. I didn't realize until now, but I think this has happened before; I think I've been avoiding room 119, and I even remember collapsing out here once. That memory feels as if it's from just a few hours ago, but I'm starting to wonder whether Hannah was right when she told me that my memories are all over the place.

  “Lots of people have this sense,” Hannah continues. “To some degree, at least. Most of them don't notice it, because it's too weak, but deep down they have an instinctive fear of their own impending death. For example, haven't you ever changed your plan for something at the last moment, for no real reason?”

  “Sure,” I reply, “but that's not unusual. Everyone does it sometimes.”

  “Exactly. And what if I told you that sometimes you'd picked up on the whiff of death. On a subconscious level, you realized that something bad would happen if you stuck to plan A, so you switched to plan B and went on with your life.”

  “People can't smell their own impending death,” I point out.

  “Smell's the wrong word,” she replies. “It's more of an instinctive thing. You, however, seem to have that sense turned all the way up to eleven, to the point that you're constantly making excuses to avoid going into that room.”

  “What's in there?” I ask, before turning to her. “I'm not saying I believe you, because I don't. But if you're right, what's in that room? Or who?”

  I wait for her to answer, but now there's a kind of sadness in her eyes.

  “Who's in there?” I ask again, before feeling a flicker of frustration. “Fine. I'll find out for myself.”

  I turn and step toward the door, but immediately I'm overcome by that same sense of fear that I felt before. In fact, it's more than fear: I feel pure, pulsing terror at the thought of going any closer to room 119, and finally – instinctively – I take a step back. I want to try again, to show this Hannah girl that she's wrong about everything, but the thought of approaching that door again is too much. Finally, unable to muster any excuses, I turn to see Hannah watching me from nearby.

  “Who's in there?” I ask, and now my voice is trembling so much that I can barely get any words out.

  “Who do you think?” she replies. “The person who's supposed to murder you.”

  “Murder me?”

  “We've lived this day more than a thousand times,” she continues. “You might not remember, or at least you only remember flashes, but trust me, I've had plenty of opportunities to test various theories. Behind that door, there's someone who seems destined to attack you. As far as I can tell, it's some kind of serial killer, although I might be wrong.” She looks toward the door. “For some reason,” she adds, “I can't go in there myself and confront the killer. There are a few rules in place in this hotel, and that's one of them. My jurisdiction end at that doorway.”

  Staring at her, I start to realize that she's insane. After all, that's the only possible explanation for the ridiculous things she keeps saying.

  “Sometimes I think this killer is the one who's playing chess with me,” she says, sounding a little agitated now, “but lately I've come to understand that it'd be impossible. I was sent to this hotel to be punished, you see. I did a few things wrong, I don't really remember what, and then I screwed up a job and I had to call in some help. At least I managed to help Bonnie Bromley, but to do that I had to cross a few red lines. I thought I'd be taken to some terrible inquisition, but instead I ended up here. It took a while before I realized that the days were on repeat, but then I quickly zeroed in on you and -”

  “Stop,” I say suddenly.

  “I can help you,” she continues, taking a step toward me. “I just need to -”

  “Please!” I say firmly. “Just stop talking!”

  “Why?”

  “Because you're driving me out of my mind!” I tell her. “None of this is possible. I don't know why you're saying these things, but I'm not going to be your guinea pig. Have you been toying with me all day? Is that what's been setting me off? You're sick and twisted!”

  “Fine,” she replies. “You don't believe me. Let me ask you one question, then.”

  “I don't have to be -”
r />   “What animal is on your enamel badge?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but at the last moment I hesitate.

  “What do you remember it being, Stephanie?” she continues. “Last time you looked at it, what was it?”

  “A phoenix,” I stammer, resisting the urge to look down again and confirm the shape for myself. “It was a... I mean, I know what it is. It's a phoenix.”

  “That was the other day,” she replies. “That was the first day when you admitted to me that you were remembering multiple loops. We've had a few days since then.”

  “No.”

  “If you don't believe me, look at the badge.”

  I shake my head.

  “Because you know I'm telling the truth,” she adds.

  “Because I'm not playing this game!” I snap. “I don't know why you're doing this, but I want you to leave me alone. Do you understand?”

  “Look at the badge, Stephanie.”

  “I don't have to!” I yell. “Leave me alone, or I'll have you removed from the hotel. Do you understand?”

  “Reality will fall apart,” she replies. “It happens every single time this day repeats. All of reality, all of existence and time, is destroyed if you make it to midnight without dying. And then the day starts all over again, and I still haven't figured out how to fix things, but I will. Please, just trust me. I promise I'll find a way to untie this knot, and I'll make sure that you survive. I just need a little more time to figure a few things out.”

  “Leave me alone,” I say firmly. “I won't warn you again.”

  With that, I turn and storm away, ignoring her when she calls after me. I'm suddenly filled with anger that this dumb girl has been playing with my mind; anger at her, but also anger at myself for being so easily manipulated. By the time I reach the stairs, I'm tempted to go back and give her a piece of my mind, but somehow I manage to restrain myself and instead I hurry down to the reception area, where Manfred is working at the desk.

  “There you are,” he says, sounding skeptical already. “You're a hard one to track down today. Was that you shouting upstairs a moment ago?”