Ghost Tour

by Claryn Vaile

  None of the lists included 864. Rebecca could only assume that the space currently so numbered had previously been subsumed into another, larger apartment to one side or the other.

  Had there been a full moon on the night in question? No, the historian-detective remembered. The Zombie Crawl had coincided with the official October full moon three nights earlier – a so-called “Blood Moon.”

  The term was new to Rebecca. The first full moon following the autumnal equinox, she learned online, had been known since ancient times as the Blood Moon. The magic of the Blood Moon is that its full-night light shines for multiple successive nights. For this reason, pagan cultures planned their nocturnal activities and rituals for the unusual series of bright nights around the Blood Moon. It was a moon of spirituality that marked a powerful time for divination and for energizing crystals.

  Spirituality. Divination. Dusk-to-dawn lunar illumination. No wonder the October moon had long been considered the harbinger of extraordinary events. Who could be sure the nocturnal rituals attuned to that phenomenon were relegated to the distant past?

  “You know I’m uncomfortable with this,” Maureen grumbled as her friend tapped a magnetic key on the lock pad of Room 864.

  “Of course I know, Mo,” Rebecca said, depressing the latch handle to open the suite. “And I’m sorry. But this room is the source of our latest report of unexplained phenomena. I’ve got to know what you make of it, while it’s still ‘fresh.’”

  Maureen was a talented intuitive. Though she rarely spoke of or tapped into her psychic ability, unexplainable perceptions had convinced Rebecca over the years that her friend’s gift was the real deal.

  “Thanks for not telling me what supposedly happened here,” Mo said. “Makes it easier to form my own impressions -- untainted, as it were, by whatever others think they may have experienced. Gawd, I hate this Art Deco stuff.”

  “That’s beside the point. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Maureen paused in the front room and breathed deeply. She turned and glanced toward the double doors in the wall opposite the sofa, then proceeded into the bedroom. Before continuing into the master bath, she stopped.

  “Whoo boy,” she said. “Here she is. This must be the spirit that’s been stirring things up. She was in that far corner by the bed, but now she’s moving back and forth between here and the bathroom -- super-snooty, very haughty. And she’s angry. She doesn’t want us here.”

  Maureen reached around the corner to switch on the light in the dressing room. It fizzled and popped as the bulb burned out. “Oh, she really, really doesn’t want us here. She’s telling me we’re not good enough for this place. None of the people you’ve been bringing in here on tours are good enough for the Griffins Keep. She seems particularly incensed by women wearing pants. And – oh wow -- tattoos. She’s appalled by people with tattoos.”

  Mo turned suddenly and looked over her shoulder. “She touched me! And now she’s actually waving us away, dismissing us from her space.”

  “’Nuff said,” Rebecca noted, as the two women headed for the door and beat their retreat. At the threshold the historian turned back toward the bedroom., “I’ll be back,” she said to the spirit. “You don’t live here anymore.”

  Maureen Wischmeyer had visited the Griffins Keep on several occasions. The first time she strode unsuspectingly into the atrium lobby, she was bowled over by the crowd of spirits swarming the hotel. In all her world travels, the only other place she had encountered such an array of spirits was the Muse d’Orsay, a former grand railway depot in Paris. Maureen sensed, as most psychics did, that some of The Keep’s spiritual sojourners belonged there, but that many others were simply passing through.

  Once, while waiting for Rebecca in the lobby, she’d had a delightful internal conversation with the spirit of a young woman from Wyoming whose husband was in town on business. The friendly ghost communicated to Mo that she was awaiting a carriage to take her to the opera, and she was certain the year was 1874. Of course, on a logical level, this did not compute. The Keep had only existed since 1890, and before that time the triangular lot had been a cow pasture. But in conversing with spirits, logic rarely comes into play.

  Maureen and Rebecca had bonded in college on a student production of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.” Mo played Mary; Rebecca played Sandy. And J. Bryce Bridger was the lecherous married art teacher, Teddy Lloyd. The young women became fast friends, just like their characters. And like their characters, Rebecca and Bryce became lovers.

  Bryce Bridger had always reminded Maureen of young Michael Landon in TV’s old “Bonanza” and “Little House on the Prairie.” He had the same easy-going charm, the same gorgeous wavy hair and disarming smile. But Bryce never had quite the acting talent of Landon.

  She couldn’t tell Rebecca that, of course. As far as Becky had been concerned, the sun rose and set on Bryce. Mo knew that her friend felt flattered by the handsome aspiring actor’s attention. Becky had never had a boyfriend before Bryce. She’d never felt the way he made her feel. She would do anything for him, she’d told her roomie. Anything he asked of her.

  So Bryce had taken Becky’s virginity, willingly given. He’d taken her innocence, belatedly abandoned. And he’d taken her as his wife because he wanted to live with her. Preacher’s kids like Bryce just didn’t do that sort of thing without the prerequisite of matrimony in those days.

  Maureen had all but lost touch for several years when Bryce and Becky moved to Steamboat Springs, where he pursued an acting career – and other women.

  At about the same time that Becky’s marriage fell apart – and Becky with it – the love of Maureen’s life, Victor, was killed in a climbing accident in Boulder Canyon. The former roommates reconnected and found mutual support in their friendship. And when Rebecca’s great-aunt left her a charming old Tudor-style “cottage” in Denver’s Botanic Gardens neighborhood, the two had moved in together once again.

  Chubby as a child, Maureen still struggled with that now-inaccurate self-image. Her shoulder-length hair remained thick and believably auburn. She dressed like a lady, walked like a hiker, and laughed like a champagne overflow.

  Some people mistook the two for sisters. Maureen suspected that she and Rebecca had shared other lives together, in other relationship dynamics. She never discussed this with her friend, but Mo knew Rebecca sensed it, too. They were as comfortable together as an old married couple. And just as adept at unspoken communication.

  “Do you ever miss having a man in your life?” Lochlan casually asked the divorced historian one day at lunch. “I mean, to have steady male companionship for years and then not -- is it hard?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “My male companion was never what I’d call steady. I’m much happier living without a man than I ever was living with one.”

  “What about, you know, intimate relations? Ever miss that?”

  “You mean sex,” she clarified. “I had more than enough of that with more than enough men when I was supposedly married. Swore off it long ago. You’re single. I shouldn’t have to tell you that’s why god made hand-held shower massagers.” She smiled mischievously, enjoying his blush. “Seriously. They’re always ready when you are. Climax and clean-up in one easy step. And no agonizing relationship complications afterwards. A boon to singles everywhere.”

  Almost regretting his prying, Lochlan persisted nonetheless. “I know you had some terrible experiences with empty – or deceitful – sex in the past. But it doesn’t have to be like that,” he said earnestly. “The need for intimate connection is a basic physical craving, like hunger. It can be sated in a wide range of ways, from a drive-thru meal to a dining experience. The difference is the way the elements complement each other to become more deeply fulfilling on a higher level. It’s simple sustenance elevated to artistic expression.”

  “A sort of sensual symphony,” she said, dramatically flourishing a forkful of meatball like a conductor’s baton.

  “When it all comes
together perfectly, yes. Gourmet lovemaking, if you will, nourishes not just the body, but also the soul.”

  “Sounds delicious,” she granted. “But it costs so much more.”

  “Without question. And there are no guarantees of satisfaction. But some experiences are beyond price.”

  “I do remember tasting it,” Rebecca said, suddenly serious, “But someone always snatched my plate away before I finished.”

  “New restaurants open all the time,” he pointed out. “Tastes change. I’m simply suggesting that you take a chance and sample something new every now and then.”

  Chapter 10

  Pete Jeffries boarded the Griffins Keep public elevator on the fifth floor.

  “Going up?” Rebecca asked.

  “Sure. What the hell. Doesn’t matter.” Taking off his wire-rimmed glasses, the sandy-bearded front desk assistant manager wiped his other hand across his forehead. The usually cheerful and cordial 30-something Keep associate looked thoroughly defeated.

  “Rough morning?”

  “Angry guests. Berserk guests. Too few employees trying to handle too many crises.”

  “Wanna hide out in the archives for awhile?”

  “God, yes.” Pete jumped at the chance.

  “You’ve been up there, before, haven’t you?”

  “Just that once when I helped you carry up some stuff you’d had out for people to see.”

  “So you know it’s the hotel ‘attic’ where all the treasures are hidden,” she said, pushing through an inconspicuous door in the ninth floor wall that led to the service staircase. “Look at the intricate iron scrollwork on these railings. They’ve always been behind the scenes, but the builders took pains to embellish them nonetheless.” The railings must have been beautiful before someone thoughtlessly spray-painted them silver. Now they looked as tacky as the surrounding walls of pealing plaster painted public-pool turquoise.

  “A sad reminder of a time long past when pride in the details mattered here,” Pete said as they climbed to the rooftop repository

  On the tenth floor of the nine-story building, the historian unlocked the door with a peephole installed by request at her eye-level. “Can you believe that when I started here, this door had a sign broadcasting ‘Hotel Archives?’ They might as well have just added ‘Welcome Thieves!’” Getting rid of that sign had been Rebecca’s first order of business as historian.

  Gesturing toward the vinyl covered footrest, she offered Pete a seat. “This room, the old upholstery shop next door, and the area where the restrooms are now, was all the Executive Housekeeper’s ‘penthouse’ apartment in the 1940s and 50s.”

  She pulled a folder from the file cabinets and handed Pete a large black-and-white glossy photograph. “This is what this space looked like when she lived here. She had almost as many shelves for her own collections as the archives has now. And here’s a photo of her from sometime in the 1940s. Marjory Crispin. Doesn’t she have a smile that could sell toothpaste?”

  Pete studied the pictures appreciatively. “These are cool. She looks nice.”

  Rebecca lifted the light-blocking Roman shade in the corner for a look outside. “Check out this old screen door. It opened out onto the rooftop patio where Marjory threw private parties for friends on full-moon summer nights. She had potted trees and flowers all around her lawn furniture. Must have been quite the view before all the HVAC stuff cluttered up the roof.”

  “And before all the skyscrapers surrounded the place,” Pete added, peering out. “Yeah, I totally know that screen door. I started out in Engineering when I first worked here. Sometimes I’d go out there and sit on the roof ledge. Nobody can see it from the street, so nobody would think I was going to jump or anything. Just a good place to get away for a break and a smoke.” A thought occurred to him, and he turned to Rebecca. “It must have been her who closed the door!”

  “Marjory?”

  “Must have been. One time when I went out on the roof here, I came back to find this screen door closed and latched. And that door doesn’t close by itself. In fact, it’s really hard to close. Sticks open, like it is now. The hinges are rusted stiff. But somebody – or something – shut me out there. I swear I heard a woman’s voice in my ear saying, ‘Back to work’ and the door opened -- all by itself Had to be that housekeeper. Makes sense.”

  Rebecca hesitantly considered his theory. “Maybe Marjory’s spirit is still up here,” she said, surprised at herself. “On several occasions, when I’ve gone to use the ladies room, I’ve pushed on the door to go in and, from inside the empty bathroom, someone’s pushed back. Pushed back hard. It’s unmistakable.”

  The two of them looked at each other and smiled slyly, like children sharing a secret.

  “Probably just a weird air pressure thing,” Rebecca offered sensibly.

  “Yeah, probably,” Pete said, “Unless it’s not.”

  “It’s not scary or anything,” Rebecca hastened to add. “Just unexpected and-- I don’t know -- unexplainable.”

  Pete agreed. “I find myself wishing whatever spirits are here would show themselves. It would be awesome to actually see them.”

  Rebecca screwed up her mouth and shook her head. “Mixed feelings on that,” she said. “But I like to imagine Marjory is a guardian spirit of this place. She’d definitely be a good ghost. I’m not sure all of them are.”

  “How could they be? If ghosts are the spirits of people, and obviously people come in good and bad,” Pete reasoned. “But the general aura – I think that’s the right word -- of The Keep is very positive – almost like magic sometimes. Things that shouldn’t work out somehow do work out. Potential disasters are mysteriously averted. I think anyone who’s worked here for a while has a story like that. It’s weird but wonderful.”

  “Lochlan has an astrologer friend who did The Keep’s horoscope. She says it has always attracted good fortune,” Rebecca said. “But she also predicted that the last part of this year will begin a time of major upheaval for the hotel.”

  “No surprise there, what with TITHE taking over. Who knows what the new owners will do to the place. Could be change for the better.”

  “Could be,” Rebecca tried to sound optimistic. “But you were in that TITHE marketing meeting. Saw that commercial. Doesn’t bode well, if you ask me.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Pete said. “That crap made it so obvious these new guys don’t get what makes The Keep special. If I ever run into that Chad Tagawa, I’m gonna ask him ‘Why’d you buy this hotel when you obviously hate history?’”

  “The astrologer says the stars indicate some sort of terrible imbalance ahead. Sometimes lately, I almost think I feel that coming. Crazy, huh?”

  “You feel it, too?” Pete was serious. “I’ve had that sense for about three months now. Vaguely disturbing…”

  The ensuing moment of pensive silence was broken by Rebecca. “Wanna see the most amazing treasure of the archives?”

  She hurried over to the wooden cupboard opposite a bank of filing cabinets and withdrew the topmost container from a stack of identical plastic storage tubs. Setting it on the vinyl footrest, she unsealed the lid and lifted it off, leaning it against the cupboard. Carefully, she parted the folds of a hotel towel lining the tub and lifted out a tissue wrapped object, about a foot long. From another sheet of tissue, she unwrapped a small fur hat with a purple plume.

  Rebecca gingerly removed the tissue from the object and stood it on the island worktable. She placed the hat on its head and stepped back, appraising it with a sad smile.

  “It’s…it’s a doll,” Pete said, moving closer to inspect it. “A soldier, with a trumpet.”

  “A coronet, to be exact. Isn’t he gorgeous? He’s just one of a 14-piece military band, handcrafted by a French dollmaker while he was imprisoned during the Revolution. His uniform is made from actual uniform scraps of the time, as is his fur hat. Each bandsman holds a different instrument,” Rebeeca said. “But the most amazing thing is that eac
h face was carved to look like one of his fellow prisoners.”

  “Whoa. You can totally see his personality. Looks like a mischievous young man trying hard to be serious,” Pete said, slowly turning the figure on its square wooden base to admire the button and braid details. “How’d these come to be at The Keep, anyway?

  “Kuhrsfelds acquired them on their world travels, along with the other French Revolutionary knick-knacks to decorate their new restaurant. The entire band was displayed for years in one of the glass cases in the Versailles Room. They’re one of a kind, more than 200 years old.”

  “Why have I never seen these before?”

  Rebecca pointed to the figure and directed, “Look closely. They haven’t been cared for properly. Decades of exposure to light and dust. No temperature or humidity control. This one’s boots are flaking. His scabbard is shredding. His hat is splitting. His uniform is pocked with insect damage. And he’s in better shape than most of them. Every time I open these tubs, I can smell faint decay.”

  “Can they be saved?”

  The historian began to gently rewrap the bandsman in acid-free tissue. “They could be stabilized, even restored by professional conservationists,” she said. “I had the complete set of figures assessed about a year ago. Gave the report with the estimates to Mr. Beaumont. He sent it right back to me with a sticky note: ‘Take good care of these until our profits improve.’”

  Reverently, she laid the artifact in his towel-lined coffin and resealed the lid. “It’s the same story for so many things here in the archives – the blueprints, the guest registers, the scrapbooks. They’re fragile, perishable, steadily degrading, in desperate need of professional rehab. But they’re completely off the radar when the owners and managers set the annual budget. It breaks my historian heart.”