The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel

by Amy Cross

  “Getting a taste for it, are you?” he mutters, casting an amused glance toward me.

  I don't reply.

  Instead, I simply take yet another, even longer sip, and this time the burning sensation actually feels good. Perhaps whiskey has its uses, after all.

  “Every boy needs a shock,” Father continues. “Did you know that, Maurice? Every boy, when he's young, needs a shock that brings out his true nature. There's no need to be scared of the world. You're lucky, you're too sick to be shipped off to the trenches. There are people who think this war'll never end, but mark my words, it'll be over some day. And when it is, there'll be opportunities for the likes of you.”

  I drink some more whiskey from the bottle. “What kind of opportunities?” I ask.

  “That's for you to figure out. But the world is changing fast, and it'll change faster in years to come. The smart ones, the ones who make money, will be the ones who can keep up.”

  “Maybe the war'll last long enough that I will get to go and fight,” I continue. “I wouldn't mind that. It seems wrong for me to be left behind.”

  “Aye, well, they'll have to be getting pretty desperate if they call up someone like you. With your gammy leg and all those illnesses you've had, you'd be the first to drop and get ground into the mud.”

  “You don't know that,” I mutter darkly, instinctively taking another sip.

  He smiles.

  “You don't!” I hiss.

  “Getting confident now, are you?”

  “Maybe I'll go and fight anyway,” I tell him. “Maybe I can use a false name, and maybe I can hide my bad leg and my poor lungs, and maybe I can get to the trenches in France and fight!”

  He starts laughing. A deep, rumbling belly laugh.

  “Maybe I'll go and do it tomorrow,” I continue, feeling as if signing up to fight might be my only way out of this place.

  “You will, will you?”

  “There can be nothing nobler than to fight for your country,” I point out. “You're not so old, Father. Why aren't you fighting? You're not even sick, so -”

  Suddenly Father bursts from his chair and lunges at me, grabbing me by the collar and hauling me up. He lets out a grunt of anger as he slams me against the wall, and then he crashes his knee into my belly so hard that I cry out. Pulling me back, he shoves me to the floor, and then he stands over me as I roll onto my side.

  “What was that?” he asks breathlessly. “Were you questioning my honor, boy? Were you calling me a coward?”

  “No!” I gasp, wincing as I feel a tightening sense of pain in my chest. “I swear!”

  “Oh, I'm going to teach you,” he continues, picking up the spilled bottle of whiskey and pouring the last dregs down his throat. “You're getting cocky, are you? You think once you're a real man, you'll be able to put your old man in the shade.” He looks at the bottle for a moment, before walking over to the fireplace. Stopping, he peers at his own reflection in the dusty, scratched mirror. “When I told you to grow up, boy, I didn't mean for you to lose respect for your betters. You're stuck here with me, like I was stuck here with my father, and like he was stuck here with his father before him. You're too stupid to find a way out.”

  “Of course, Father,” I whisper, wondering whether it's safe for me to try getting up yet. “I'm sorry, Father.”

  “Don't apologize,” he replies, eyeing me carefully. “This is your last night as a boy. Soon, you'll be a man. Do you know how the great change will take place?”

  “I...”

  My voice trails off. I swear, my heart is pounding so fast, I fear it might suddenly fail.

  “I don't know,” I stammer finally. “Father, I carried the coal. You gave me that job, and I did it. Perhaps I wasn't quick enough, but I shall carry a sack of coal every day until it feels almost weightless, and then I shall start carrying two sacks a day, then three, then four until -”

  “Shut up!” he sneers.

  I open my mouth to continue, but now Father is once again examining the empty bottle.

  “People don't change in gradual steps, Maurice,” he says eventually, with a heavy sigh. “No, they change in sudden jolts. Some never experience one of those jolts, of course, while some change several times in a lifetime. You haven't changed yet. In your fourteen years, you've more or less stayed the same. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe there's no hope left for you. You're my only son, so I've clung to hope, but now I realize that I was wrong. You have no potential, Maurice. You'll never amount to anything more than a disappointment, not unless I force the issue.”

  “But -”

  Suddenly he storms across the room, heading straight for me. As he does so, he raises the empty whiskey bottle, and I quickly realize what he intends.

  “Father, no! I -”

  Before I can finish, he smashes the bottle against the side of my head, knocking me out cold.

  ***

  It's the smell that wakes me.

  The foul, rotten stench. Filling my nostrils, filling my mouth too. Even before my eyes have opened, I feel my stomach tighten with nausea, and the air somehow seems moist and cold. Once my eyes are open, however, I find myself in pitch darkness, although something is pressing hard against my left shoulder. I immediately try to sit up, only for my head to bump hard against some form of low wooden board.

  “What -”

  Reaching out, I find that my right hand hits another board, while my left hand brushes against some kind of fabric. I turn and try once more to get to my feet, but I seem to be in some form of tight, enclosed space. Turning again, I hear a close, hollow bumping sound as my shoulder hits the wooden sides, and already the air in this place is becoming much thinner. I cannot fathom where I am, although a moment later I feel a throbbing pain on the side of my head and I remember Father hitting me with the bottle.

  “Father?” I stammer, fumbling for some way out of this space. Perhaps I am in a wardrobe, or the drawer of a dresser, or -

  Suddenly my left hand brushes against a human face.

  I freeze, with my fingers lifting from the face and holding in the cold air for a few seconds. My heart is beating faster than ever as I slowly move my hand down and feel the face once more. My fingertips brush against cold, gummy flesh that has lines of wrinkles running in every direction, and a moment later I feel what seems to be the edge of an open mouth. As the smell becomes increasingly sweet and pungent, I feel the cold grip of fear in my chest as I start to realize where I have woken.

  “Grandmother?” I stammer, before reaching out and feeling the sides of the coffin. “No, please...”

  I push against the wooden above my head, but it budges not one inch.

  “Let me out of here!” I scream, filled with a sense of pure panic. “Father! Help me!”

  Chapter Eight

  Despite the pain in my ankle, I cannot stop myself. I continue to kick as hard as I can, and I think that perhaps the wood is finally starting to split. I cannot see, of course, not in this dark interior, but finally I reach down past Grandmother's dead feet and run my fingers against the coffin's lower end.

  I was right!

  After kicking so hard for so long, I have finally managed to start breaking the coffin apart.

  “Help me!” I shout, even though my throat feels sore and bloodied. “Father!”

  I start kicking again, unable to help myself. I have felt panic in my chest before, of course, but never for so long all at once. Even now, as I continue to try forcing my way out of the coffin, I can feel myself pressed close to Grandmother's corpse, and I cannot help but brush against her cold flesh. There are tears in my eyes, and I know that Father is most likely standing outside the coffin and laughing at me. We are probably in his work-shed, and he means to teach me a lesson. This is what he was planning last night, while he was trying to get me drunk. This is his way of turning me into a man.

  His coffins are usually poorly made. This one, however, must have been strengthened for my benefit.

  Finally I feel the woo
d split again, this time with more force. Although I cannot fully turn around in this confined space, I manage to reach down, and sure enough I quickly feel that the wood is damaged. I start pulling splinters away, desperately waiting to see some sliver of light, but a moment later I feel something cold and moist running between my fingers like crumbs.

  Soil.

  No, it cannot be soil.

  Soil would mean...

  Forcing my fingertips between the sections of broken wood, I feel more soil on the other side, packed tight. I try to dig some away, but all I feel is more dirt. This time, I cannot hold back the fear and panic in my chest, and I start kicking harder and harder.

  “Let me out!” I scream. “Father, let me out of here!”

  Pausing, I realize that my voice sounds so hollow and constrained.

  “Father!” I cry out again, as tears start running down my face. “Please!”

  And then I freeze as I hear a faint guttural rasping sound. Turning my head in the darkness, I cannot see anything, but the hissing persists and I am certain it must be coming from somewhere near Grandmother's face. A moment later, the hissing falters slightly, as if it might stop altogether, but then it returns as a kind of slow, twisted groan. At the same time, I feel a cold sweat break out across my entire body as the sound seems to fill the darkness all around me.

  I wait, telling myself that some other explanation will surely arise. I am sure that dead bodies, even when they have been dead several days, can make certain noises as gases are released. It will stop soon.

  Yet the sound continues, stuttering a little but refusing to die away.

  “What are you?” I whisper, even though I am beginning to feel very short of breath. “Why -”

  No.

  No, I must not let my mind fill with fear.

  Any sound I hear is just some normal process caused by her body breaking down.

  “I am not a fool,” I say out loud, trying to keep myself strong. “I will not -”

  The sound suddenly becomes choked, as if the air is struggling to escape. Despite the absolute darkness of this confined space, in my mind's eye I cannot help but see Grandmother's dead face with her wide-open mouth, and I am certain that this sound must be coming from her throat.

  “You're dead,” I continue, hoping to conjure up some hidden strength from deep within my chest, even as tears gather in my eyes. “You're dead, Grandmother, you -”

  Suddenly she lets out a louder sound, like a kind of hacking cough. I instinctively pull back, only to bump against the side of the coffin, but all I can do now is listen as the sound continues. I remember the long weeks of Grandmother's illness, when she seemed at times to be choking on her own saliva, and I also remember the sudden sense of peace and calm that filled the house once she was dead. Now her death rattle has returned, several days after she drew her final breath, yet I know that such a thing is impossible.

  “You're dead,” I remind her, as if she might realize I'm right and fall silent. “I saw you, you died and -”

  Her cough suddenly becomes louder, and I swear I think I even hear her trying to form words. At the same time, her body briefly shuddered.

  “No!” I shout, filled with a sudden rush of panic. “You're dead!”

  I try to pull away in the darkness, yet there is nowhere for me to go. And then, just as I feel certain that my pounding heart must be about to rip itself to shreds, the coughing sound stops and I find myself once again in absolute silence.

  I wait, not daring to move.

  Grandmother's corpse is silent and still.

  Eventually, once I start to believe that maybe the sound was just some imagined thing, I realize that I need to focus on getting out of here. I refuse to accept that Father simply threw me down here in a grave with Grandmother for no reason, so there has to be some method to his madness. Reaching around, I try as much as possible to avoid touching Grandmother's body, while also taking care to check the coffin for some kind of tool that I might be able to use. After all, if Father truly means for me to prove myself, he must have left me a chance. He might be a cruel man, but he is not without reason.

  Yet there is nothing.

  I check again, but still I can find nothing that might prove useful. The air is getting thinner and thinner, to the extent that I can feel myself becoming short of breath, and I tell myself that panicking will only make me suffocate faster. At the same time, I cannot help but think of the crushing weight above me, and of the fact that I cannot possibly crawl my way out of a full, six-foot grave. Perhaps in his drunkenness, Father decided to do away with me entirely, and now he sleeps in a stupor while I am left to die down here. Even if he relents once he's sober, I might not last long enough.

  A moment later, as I shift my weight again, I realize I can feel something small and hard in one of my pockets. I reach down, and to my surprise I find that a small box of self-igniting matches has been left for me. Feeling a rush of hope, I immediately slip one of the matches out and strike it against the box's side, and to my immense relief the match brings a bright flame that casts flickering light throughout the coffin.

  Hope turns to horror, however, as soon as I see Grandmother's dead, veiny bare feet at the coffin's far end. I cannot stop staring at her toes, and at the nails that seem to have grown significantly since her death, until suddenly the match burns to my fingertips and I have to quickly blow it out.

  Once again in darkness, I contemplate striking another match, yet I hesitate as I realize that I would have to see Grandmother's body again. At the same time, I feel that perhaps Father left me the matches so that I might find some way out of here, so I force myself to be strong and I light another mother before turning and looking toward the coffin's other end.

  I cannot be a coward. Not this time.

  A shudder passes through my chest as soon as I see the match's warm glow flickering against Grandmother's dead face. Her eyes are wide open, albeit having sunk deeper into their sockets, and her mouth is agape. I know I should use the light to search for a way out of here, yet I cannot help staring at Grandmother's features until I feel the match burning down. I blow the flame out, and then -

  At the very last moment, just as the light dies and I'm plunged back into darkness, I see Grandmother's head turn slightly, accompanied by a brief creaking sound.

  Holding my breath, I wait, but now the coffin is once again dark and silent.

  She can't have moved.

  I must have imagined the whole thing, yet I feel certain that at the very last moment I saw her shift slightly. Taking another match from the box, I find that my hands are trembling terribly, but I know I must have a little more light so that I can be sure Grandmother did not move. I must banish that fear. I cannot quite bring myself to strike the match, however, and a moment later I hear the creaking sound once again, for just a fraction of a second before it stops.

  Did she turn to me again in the darkness?

  “No!” I say firmly, trying to calm my racing heart. “I am not weak! I shall not surrender to foolish delusions! I know you're dead! I know you're...”

  My voice trails off as I stare into the darkness and imagine her sunken eyes staring back at me.

  Perhaps this is what Father meant. Perhaps he is testing me, and I am failing as wild, impossible visions flood my senses.

  The creaking returns for a few more seconds, before stopping once more.

  “Give me strength,” I whisper. “Let me prove that bastard wrong.”

  I hesitate, before striking the match.

  Grandmother's face is staring straight at me, and her shoulders are raised slightly, as if she began to turn in my direction. I pull back against the coffin's side, and at the same time the match falls from my hand. Too shocked to even think straight, I look into Grandmother's dead eyes, and it takes a moment before I realize that the fallen match has set light to her white dress.

  I quickly pat the flames out, and now I am in darkness again. Still, in my mind's eye I can see her awful
, shriveled face looking straight at me. There is no doubt, no doubt in my mind at all, that she has begun to rise.

  And then I hear another faint creaking sound, coming from just a few inches away.

  “No!” I say again, as if somehow my words might force her back. “Stop! No!”

  The creaking continues for a moment, before fading to nothing.

  “This isn't real,” I continue, as tears stream down my face. “It's an illusion, or a trick, or a dream.”

  Even as the words leave my lips, however, I know that I do not believe them.

  “It's not real,” I say again, hoping to get my thoughts under control. “It can't be!”

  I wait in silence, too scared to light another match, too scared to do anything except listen for the merest hint of movement. No matter how hard I try to focus on rational thoughts, and how fervently I tell myself over and over that my senses must be deceiving me, I cannot help but think of that wretched face still staring at me through the darkness. I want so desperately to feel strength in my heart, to really believe that my senses have betrayed me, yet I cannot force the lingering doubt from my mind.

  What if Grandmother has really returned?

  So I wait.

  Silence.

  Please, let it not be true.

  For several minutes, I barely even dare breathe. I simply stay completely still, listening to the silence and waiting in case there is any hint of movement. Even the slightest creaking sound would set my mind racing again, but the ongoing silence is actually starting to become a little comforting. If I have regained control over my senses, I can begin to think of some other way out of here. I just have to wait a little longer, staring into the absolute darkness, so that I can be absolutely sure there is nothing to fear.

  Silence.

  Utter, blessed silence.

  And then slowly, I feel a set of wrinkled fingertips press against my face.

  Chapter Nine

  Suddenly a vast, freezing shock rushes against my face. Opening my eyes, I see a kind of shimmering pale light, accompanied by a flood of bubbles. A moment later, something tugs hard on the back of my head, and I am pulled back from the barrel and sent crashing to the muddy ground as Father laughs heartily.