Table of Contents
Cover
What This Book is About...
Dedication
THE GHOST HAD AN EARLY CHECK-OUT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
VIP Offer
About the Author
Also by Josh Lanyon
Thank you, Patrons!
copyright
To live and draw in LA.
Now living in Los Angeles with former Navy SEAL Nick Reno, artist Perry Foster comes to the rescue of elderly and eccentric Horace Daly, the legendary film star of such horror classics as Why Won’t You Die, My Darling?
Horace owns the famous, but now run-down, Hollywood hotel Angel’s Rest, rumored to be haunted. But as far as Perry can tell, the scariest thing about Angel’s Rest is the cast of crazy tenants—one of whom seems determined to bring down the final curtain on Horace—and anyone else who gets in the way.
To Sabine—with love and thanks.
THE GHOST HAD AN EARLY CHECK-OUT
Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
“Help! Help!”
A scream split the autumn afternoon.
Perry, precariously perched on the twisted limb of a dying oak tree, lost his balance, dropped his sketch pad, and nearly followed its fluttering descent into the tall, yellowing grass growing on the other side of the chain-link fence that was supposed to keep people like himself from trespassing on the grounds of the former Angel’s Rest hotel.
The voice was thin and hoarse, sexless. There was no sign of anyone, but the cries bounced off the chipped gargoyles, crumbling stairs, and broken fountains, echoed off the pointed towers and mansard rooftops of the eight-story building. The ravens flocking on the east tower window ledge took flight.
Recovering his balance, Perry scooted along the thick branch until he was safely over the barbed top of the fence, and then jumped down into the waist-high weeds and grass.
“Help!”
Heart pounding, Perry ran toward the voice—or at least where he guessed the voice was coming from. He still couldn’t see anyone.
This back section of the property had never been landscaped. Thirsty scrub oaks, bramble bushes, webs of potentially ankle-snapping weeds covered a couple of sunbaked acres. It was unseasonably hot for late October.
When he reached the wall of towering, mostly dead hedges, he covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm and shoved his way through, trying not to inhale dust or pollen.
Small, sharp dried leaves whispered as they scratched his bare skin, crumbling against his clothes. He scraped through and found himself in the ruins of the actual hotel garden.
Which meant he was…where in relation to the voice?
Without his leafy vantage point, he had no clue. Rusted lanterns hung from withered tree branches. A couple of short stone staircases led nowhere. An ornate, but oxidized, iron patio chair was shoved into the hedge, and a little farther on, an overturned patio table lay on its back, four legs sticking straight up out of the tall weeds like a dead animal. A black and white checkered cement square was carpeted in broken branches and debris. A giant gameboard? More likely an outdoors dance floor.
Too bad there was no time to get some of this derelict grandeur down on paper…
Finally, he spotted an overgrown path leading through a pair of moribund Japanese cedars—so ossified they looked like wood carvings—and jogged on toward the hotel.
The voice had fallen silent.
Perry slowed to an uneasy stop, listening. His breathing was the loudest sound in the artificial glade. Should he go on? You couldn’t—shouldn’t—ignore a cry for help, but maybe the emergency was over?
Or maybe the emergency had gotten so much worse, whoever had been yelling was now unconscious.
Far overhead, the tops of the trees made a distant rustling sound, though there was no breeze down here in the petrified forest. He could see broken beer bottles along the path, cigarette butts, and something that appeared to be a used condom.
Ugh.
The hotel would be a magnet for vagrants and delinquents alike. His heart still pounded in that adrenaline rush, and he was breathing hard, but it was simply normal exertion. He was uneasy, of course, but there was no reason he couldn’t go on. He was not the one in distress.
One thing for sure: Nick would not hesitate one instant to offer help to someone in need—although he also would not be crazy about Perry charging into potential trouble.
Perry continued down the path. Actually, it was more of a trail, and it ended abruptly at the top of the terraced hillside. There didn’t seem to be another way down, so he just plowed through the desiccated brush, trying not to lose his footing amid the loose earth and broken stones.
At last—well, it felt like at last, but it was probably no more than two or three minutes—he reached the bottom of the first of three wide, shallow flights of steps, which surely led to the back entrance of the hotel.
Now what?
Aside from his own footfalls and raspy breathing, it was eerily silent.
He began to feel a little foolish.
Had he misunderstood those cries? Maybe he’d been fooled by the noise of a bunch of kids roughhousing. Maybe what he’d heard had been the rantings of a crazy homeless person. There was a lot of that in LA.
Maybe there had been real trouble, but the situation was now resolved.
He’d been sketching Angel’s Rest for the past week—ever since he’d seen photos of it during his friend Dorian’s exhibition the previous Saturday—so he knew that technically there were several tenants (or maybe just squatters) in the old hotel. In which case, maybe someone had already rushed to the rescue.
Then again, maybe someone was dying while he stood here trying to make his mind up.
“Just do it,” Perry muttered, and started up the steps toward the hotel.
The back entrance to the building had to be up there somewhere. The pool was over to the left behind another wall of brown hedges, but it was nearly empty, and if someone had fallen off the side of that, they would probably be dead. The conservatory, vines growing out the top and broken glass winking in the sun, was to the right behind still more hedges. That was another potential deathtrap, but he’d never seen anyone out there either. In fact, he had never seen anyone outside the hotel at all. The only reason he knew the place was inhabited was because of the scattered lights that went on at dusk and the occasional scent of cooking food on the breeze.
Halfway up the first flight, a scrape of sound—footsteps on pavement—reached him. Perry raised his head as three figures crested the top. He froze. His breath caught. His heart seemed to tumble through his chest as he stared in disbelief.
Three figures. They wore long black capes and skeleton masks. They carried swords.
Swords.
It was…unexpected.
Okay, fucking terrifying. Skeleton men carrying swords was definitely an unexpected and unnerving sight.
His thoughts were jumbled. Was someone filming a movie? Pretty much everywhere you went in LA someone was filming something. Was this a trial run for Halloween? The holiday was only two days away. Were they bank robbers? He had some experience of bank robbers, so the thought wasn’t as random as it might see
m.
Was he dreaming?
No. He could feel the October sun beating down on his head, smell the dust and pollen rising from the cement. Perspiration trickled slowly down his spine to his tailbone. His heart banged against his ribs. His breathing was too fast and getting shallow. He was definitely not dreaming.
The fact that it was broad daylight made it worse somehow. Surreal. The blaze of sunlight lancing off pale stone, the dark fireball shadows thrown by the towering palm trees, the tall black-and-white figures sweeping down the stairs toward him…
It should have been a dream. If felt like a dream.
“Hey!” Perry shouted. He was a little surprised by his ferocity. Mostly that was him trying to get past his apprehension with a show of force. Plus, he had to say something.
The skeleton men were also running and did not notice Perry until he yelled. By then they were almost on top of him. They didn’t speak, but he had an impression of surprised alarm. Being an artist, he automatically paid attention to movement, to body language, to facial expressions. Well, there was no facial expression on those grinning, gaping skeleton faces, but three different sets of body language revealed varying degrees of shock. One of the skeletons veered left, the other veered right. The middle skeleton, who was a few steps behind the other two, raised his sword and charged straight at Perry.
No. This is not happening. This cannot be happening…
But the point of that sword was headed straight for his chest.
For a stricken instant, Perry couldn’t seem to process, but getting skewered for trespassing was not something he wanted to explain to Nick, and the thought galvanized him. Instinctively, he dived and tackled the other around his legs.
The skeleton man pitched forward, his hand locking on the collar of Perry’s T-shirt, dragging Perry with him. Perry ducked his head protectively against his shoulder, still trying to hang on to his assailant.
Hard muscles bunched beneath his hands. The other grunted but did not call out as they bumped their way down the steps, turning over and over. As they rolled, Perry got flashes of blue sky, sparkling bits of broken limestone step, a razor-burned throat, brown leaves, clouds, scuffed army boots…
He could smell BO and cigarettes and musty wool.
The sword clattered noisily in front of them. It sounded like wood.
He’d heard Nick talk about how time seemed to both speed up and move in slow motion when you were in a fight, and that was exactly how it felt. He had time to register the little details of sight, smell, sound, but they went past in a confused rush, like a racing freight train.
Nick had been right about something else too. He was already exhausted. His heart clamored in his chest, his lungs burned, his muscles shook. Punches thumped down on his shoulder and back, but that pain felt more distant than his instant and immediate physical distress.
What the fuck was he going to do with this asshole once they reached the bottom?
The skeleton man tried to knee Perry in the groin, tried to bang his head against the steps. Perry, his hands otherwise engaged, tried to head-butt him. His forehead collided with the guy’s chin.
Thunk.
Ouch.
Bad decision. It seemed pretty straightforward when demonstrated by Nick, but was not so simple in execution. Slamming his forehead into the other’s masked face made him see stars—while having no visible effect on his opponent.
But it also knocked some sense into Perry.
He did not want to land at the feet of the other two skeleton men. That would not be a good plan.
He let go of the man’s cape and costume and tried to stop his own rolling descent, which…momentum was not his friend. He did manage to shove the guy off and come to a stop. Shakily, he started to pick himself up, watching warily as the other tumbled the rest of the way to the foot of the steps.
Perry’s arms wobbled, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. That was fatigue, not asthma, although with the number of stressors he was experiencing, that situation might change any minute.
He had worse problems. His sprawled foe crawled around on his knees, scrabbling for his fallen sword.
Perry’s stomach did an unhappy flop. Really? More? He was not ready for round two.
As the skeleton’s hand closed around the hilt, he was dragged to his feet by his cohorts, one of whom panted, “Forget it, man. Leave him.”
It seemed touch-and-go, but then the skeleton man jabbed his hand at Perry. Even without words, the message was clearly, You’re dead!
Before he could make good on the threat, he was hustled away, and the three took off running, disappearing into the overgrown jungle of crumbling rosebushes and run-amuck ornamental grasses.
For a few shocked moments Perry stared after them, not moving, simply trying to catch his breath. What the hell had just happened?
At the sound of low moans coming from overhead, he pushed upright and limped hurriedly up the stairs.
There was an arched entrance at the top of the steps. The archway led into the ruins of a walled garden. Shriveled vines hung like threadbare draperies. In the center of the courtyard was a cracked, dirty fountain, ringed by curved benches. On the far side of the yard was another doorway leading to a terrace with tall Palladian-style doors, which must open into what would once have been the hotel foyer.
An elderly man slumped against the base of the fountain, clutching his midriff and groaning quietly. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt. His hair was silver and shoulder-length. His beard was also silver and worn Van Dyke style.
Perry stumbled forward, expecting to see blood gushing from beneath the clasped hands. “Are you all right?” he gulped. “Did they get you?”
The old man’s eyes shot open, and he half sat up. To Perry’s relief, there did not appear to be any sign of gore on his hands or clothes.
“Who are you?” The voice sounded much stronger than the moans indicated. “Where did you come from?”
“Perry Foster. I heard you yelling for help.”
“You…”
“Are you badly hurt?” Perry asked. “Do you need an ambulance?”
The old man was staring at him as though Perry was an apparition. He had very blue eyes. Not the deep marine blue of Nick’s. A pale, glittery blue like gemstones. With that high, elegant bone structure, he had probably been very, very handsome in his youth. He was still striking even as he gawked wide-eyed at Perry.
“Did you see them?” he demanded.
“Yes. I saw them. Do you want me to call someone? Should I call the police?”
“You saw them?”
They would have been hard to miss, wouldn’t they?
“Yes,” Perry said. “We ran into each other on the stairs.”
Still clutching his midsection, the old man struggled to stand. Perry went to his aid. A bony hand fastened on his shoulder, and the old man peered into his eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“Perry,” Perry repeated. “Perry Foster.”
“Do I know you?”
“Well, no.”
The old man continued to peer at him. “Perry, you said?”
“Perry Foster.”
“And you say you saw them. What did you see?”
Old though he was, he had a beautiful, deep voice. A commanding voice. A trained voice?
Perry answered obediently, “I saw three figures—male; at least, I’m sure two of them were male—dressed up in skeleton costumes and capes. They had swords.” He recalled the clatter of the sword bouncing down the steps. “Wooden swords, I think.”
“Oh, thank God.” The old man shut his eyes and swayed. “Thank. God.”
“Here, you better sit down.” Perry helped him to one of the marble benches. He was tall, taller than Perry, but willowy. All at once he seemed very frail.
The old man rested his face in his hands and shook his head. Then he raised his head. “You don’t understand.” He shook his head again. Tears shimmered in his eyes
. He covered his face.
Perry looked around for help, but there was no sign of anyone. He waited for a couple of moments while the old guy tried to compose himself.
“Is there someone inside?” Perry asked finally. “Is there someone I can get for you?”
“No, no.” The old man wiped his eyes without self-consciousness. “How did you get here, Perry? Where did you come from?”
Oh, that. Perry grimaced. The moment of truth. “Well, you see… I’ve been sketching Angel’s Rest. The building.”
There was no comprehension on the face in front of him—and why would there be?
Perry persisted. “Maybe I should have asked permission. I didn’t really think about it until now. There’s an oak tree in the back on the other side of the property line. The branches grow over the fence, and I was sitting up there.”
The old man frowned. “What do you mean you were sketching the building? Why?”
“Because it’s…beautiful. The bones of the structure, I mean. The architecture.”
Instead of replying, the old man once more dropped his head to his hands.
Perry glanced back at the tall, dark windows of the hotel. Why was no one coming out? How was it possible that no one had heard any of this commotion?
The man lifted his head and glared at Perry with unexpectedly hard blue eyes.
“If you’re an artist, where are your paints or pencils? Where is your easel or your sketchbook?”
The sudden suspicion was startling. Why would he lie about sketching the property? After all, he could have come up with all kinds of fake excuses for being on the grounds, if that’s what the old guy was hinting at.
Perry said, “I dropped my gear when you yelled.”
“I see. Then it will still be where you left it.” The distrust was still there, bright and shining.
“Yes. It should still be lying there in the grass.” Then again, the way things were going? Perry added, “I hope.”
“Show me.”
Perry stepped back warily as his rescuee rose. “Okay, but wouldn’t it make more sense to call the police?”
The old man gave a short, bitter laugh. “Would it? No. Show me where you left your things when you raced to my rescue.”
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