by Claryn Vaile
Of course Rebecca had to tell Lochlan about her sighting in the Silver Spoon when the judge’s revelation seemed to bring it full circle. But the story Lochlan shared in return was stranger by far.
“Rosslyn came in Sunday when I got off work. She senses the dangerous level of disturbance around here, even when she’s miles away. Somehow The Keep called to her, she said. Thought maybe she could help to reassure the spirits, restore some balance. So she brought Miranda, and we prowled around awhile.”
“Were they able to calm the ghosts?”
Lochlan dropped his gaze and shook his head. “If ghosts were all we encountered, it might have been fine” he said. “But this was something else altogether.”
Rebecca had never seen him so distraught. He wrung his hands as he paced the floor of the empty Club and avoided looking her in the eyes.
“From the moment she saw it, Roz recognized this pattern in the new carpet as a sigil.”
“A what?”
“A sigil. It’s a magical symbol which represents a fallen angel or demon. Sigils were used in the Middle Ages to conjure demons and to compel them to carry out the magician’s will and desire.”
“Sounds like what R. J. Kuhrsfeld attempted in the Grand Salon in the 1930s,” Rebecca realized with rising horror.
The look in Lochlan’s eyes as he glanced up confirmed her suspicion.
“And Stan Tagawa –“
“ -- as Joe Kuhrsfeld’s ardent pupil, would have learned about R.J.’s forays into the realm of the occult,” Lovhlan concluded. “Ancient ‘magick’ was essentially the supernatural manipulation of reality and unseen powers to carry out your bidding, Stan Tagawa may believe he can succeed where R.J. failed.”
“The guest rooms directly above the old Grand Entrance have been taken out of inventory since the remodeling began,” Rebecca reported. “919, 921, 923, 925 – all in the center of the Grand Avenue side. Front desk tells me they’ve been strictly off-limits for weeks now. Not even housekeepers are allowed in.”
“Nor engineers. We’re told the Tagawas have reserved that block of rooms for ‘confidential gatherings’ for which invited participants begin to arrive around midnight.”
“God forbid you’re right about what’s going on up there,” Rebecca almost whispered. “Could such things really go on in this day and age?”
Lochlan shook his head. “You were right to despise these new decorative features of The Keep, Rebecca. Through them, something very dark is eclipsing The Keep’s positive light. And poor Miranda suffered its assault directly.”
Rebecca remembered that Sunday had been a wildly stormy night. Sheets of wind-driven rain had lashed at her windows for hours.
“The overhead lights here in the Club were off, and the space was illuminated only by city light filtered through stained glass panes,” Lochlan began. “Just as a gust of wind rattled the northside windows, Miranda cried out. Something had grabbed her and was pulling her down. Roz hurried to her side, and I managed to snap a flash picture on my cell phone.
“The girl was on her knees, her head straining sideways toward the floor as if she were being yanked by the hair, until she toppled over completely, one side of her face smashed into the carpet. Rosslyn grasped her shoulders with both hands and tried to pull her up. The two of them rolled one over another until they were several feet from the spot – right over there. Miranda shuddered as Roz got to her feet and backed even farther away from the invisible sinkhole. I rushed over to steady her, asked if she was OK, then went to Miranda. Curled up fetal-like on the floor, she nodded that she was unhurt, but she couldn’t stop trembling.”
Rebecca tried to imagine the bizarre scene. “Can we please get out of here?” she said, hastening toward the entry way. She followed Lochlan through a door into the service stairway space where they could continue in private.
“What on earth happened, do you think?”
“Nothing on earth,” said Lochlan, clearly still mystified. “After several tense moments, Rosslyn drew a deep breath and said ‘It’s gone now. I’ve never felt anything like that. Huge. Dark. Primordial.’
“When I asked what she meant, she turned back and stared at the floor where her daughter had been pulled down. ‘I felt it when I grabbed Miranda,’ Roz said. ‘Something primitive and terrifying.’
“That’s when I remembered the picture I’d snapped,” Lochlan said, withdrawing the phone from his pocket to show Rebecca. He searched for the shot he’d taken at the moment of Miranda’s attack and handed the device to Rebecca with a warning glance.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. Behind Miranda’s shoulder, blurred but nonetheless unmistakable, a claw-like shadow, looming larger than the girl herself.
“Rosslyn begged me not to let Miranda see it,” he said, gently taking back his phone and re-pocketing it, “and I never will. Only later was Roz able to speak of the terrible entity again.
“Whatever it was, she sensed that it predates Time itself,” Lochlan continued. “It’s been here since the land was covered by an ancient sea, before the mountains were pushed up. It came from a place even deeper than the source of The Keep’s well.”
“How could it reach the surface?” Rebecca almost whispered the question. “And why now?”
“Has to be connected with the alterations to the building and its contents,” Lochlan replied, “and with whatever rituals Tagawa and co-horts are practicing on the ninth floor. Miranda seems to be the random element that drew it out.”
Chapter 23
The Denver Woman’s Press Club was one of the oldest women’s press clubs in the country. It was also Rebecca’s favorite affiliation. Their mission since 1898, “To Drive Dull Care Away,” said it all. Great-Aunt Frankie had been an active member, responsible for most of the fundraising that had allowed the DWPC to purchase their historic clubhouse. She’d often invited young Becky as her guest to special press club events and programs, and the ladies had sort of adopted her. Years later, when Rebecca sold Frankie’s Cripple Creek newspaper office to the big casino company, she’d donated a large percentage of the proceeds to her great-aunt’s beloved DWPC and their scholarship fund. And when her article on the history of Griffins Keep had been accepted by Colorado Heritage magazine, Rebecca had taken advantage of her new “published writer” status to officially join.
“Thank you for inviting me this evening to present ‘Gentlewomen of the Griffins Keep,’” Rebecca began one mild spring night in early May. “I welcome this opportunity to examine that half of the population often overlooked in tales of Denver’s days of old, and of the pioneering West in general. My presentation today profiles a dozen ladies with ties to the city’s most elegant hotel. Taken together, their stories shed light on the changing personal, social, professional and political roles of women over the more than 13 decades the Griffins Keep has reigned as the Great Lady of Denver hotels.”
Her Powerpoint slides highlighted the feminine aspects of the hotel’s early history, and prominent guests including Sara Bernhardt and Queen Marie of Romania. Mrs. Dawson Thorne and Mrs. R.J. Kuhrsfeld were featured, of course, as were obscure hotel employees, such as 1930s stenographer Mrs. Wright and executive housekeeper Marjory Crispin. Rebecca’s program ended with her tribute to the first hotel historian, Charlotte Woods, “who unearthed the treasures I was privileged to mine for these wonderful stories.” Charlotte, too, had belonged to the DWPC, and many remembered her fondly.
Rebecca always reserved time at the end of her program for questions and comments. Listeners often enjoyed sharing Keep stories of their own.
“Does the hotel still have lace curtains in all the windows?” a long-retired reporter asked.
“Lace curtains? Oh, no, I’m afraid they haven’t had those in a long time. Everybody wants light-blocking shades these days.”
“What’s happening with The Keep under the new ownership?” another writer wanted to know.
Rebecca hesitated. Did she use this question to practice optimism and
objectivity? The ladies of the press club deserved to hear the truth.
“Speaking not as a hotel associate, but as an individual concerned about the future of a Denver icon, I have to tell you that the changes happening under the TITHE management are breaking my heart. History is being squelched there. Physically and strategically, they’re doing everything they can to obliterate the Keep’s past, eschewing its traditional elegance and refinement in favor of cheap entertainment.”
The DWPC audience was one of the few with whom she felt comfortable using words like eschew. It was also one she was confident would empathize with her viewpoint. Murmurs of disapproval and concern rippled through the room.
“But isn’t the building protected from alteration by its historic landmark designation?”
“That’s a common misconception,” Rebecca replied. “Landmark status only applies to exterior changes and prohibits demolition of the structure. Inside, the owners can change whatever they want.”
“But what about The Keep’s legendary service and high standards of excellence? Surely those endure.”
She knew it was disloyal, even risky, to reveal anything negative about her employers. But the encouragement implicit in this conclave of like-minded women overruled Rebecca’s cautionary instincts. She spilled. The lowered housekeeping standards, chronic short staffing, discontinuation of Afternoon Tea and live music, abandonment of all the special little touches that once distinguished the Griffins Keep -- all came tumbling out. The reaction was predictable outrage.
“Well, it’s obvious we have to do something about this before it goes any further,” one outspoken magazine editor declared. The group at large applauded her intention. Everyone had fond memories of The Keep, none of which included bouncy castles.
“No, please, ladies! I couldn’t agree with you more. But we really need to think this through before doing anything rash or antagonizing.”
“Who’s antagonizing?” demanded a prominent local author. “I’d call it challenging. Objecting. Protesting. That’s our right – and our responsibility -- as concerned citizens when we learn about something we love going to shit.”
Going to shit. The ember of a subversive idea began to glow in Rebecca’s mind.
“Now, we don’t want to make things difficult on the job for Becky,” another older member said, appealing to the cooler heads among them. Turning to Rebecca, she continued, “Don’t you worry, dear. You just think about what we can do to help bring the Keep’s plight to the attention of others who care about the hotel’s reputation and its future, and then let us know. We’re all behind you.”
It was just what Rebecca needed to hear. The ghost of Great-Aunt Frankie prodded her to action. Drive dull care away. She smiled conspiratorially and began, “Well, if you’re up for a little passive-aggressive demonstration, I do have a suggestion.”
Afternoon Tea in the Griffins Keep lobby had been discontinued altogether. But groups meeting in the hotel could still request Afternoon Tea as a catering option on Fridays and Sundays. Within the week, the DWPC had booked their event.
“We have reserved the Griffins Keep Silver Spoon Club from 1:00 to 2:00 next Friday for AfternoonTea,” reported the e-newsletter. “Hats are strongly encouraged – the bigger the better. And bags large enough to conceal our ‘ammunition’ are a must. Come one, come all, to make your disapproval known. And be sure to get the word out to your media friends that the 2:15 photo opp is not to be missed.”
RSVPs were so numerous that the smaller Silver Spoon venue had to be upgraded to the former Grand Salon to accommodate the more than 60 press club ladies and their invited guests. Like every other space in The Keep, the Grand Salon had been “reimagined.” It was now the Throne Room. The Victorian-style loomed carpet had been replaced by slate tiles. The imposing center bay window, once framed with damask and lace panels, was now draped in cheap red velveteen. On either side, elevated, exaggerated regal chairs dominated the décor. Gilded with garish gold spray paint and glitter, the “thrones” looked more like old shoeshine chairs than royal perches. Perfect props for selfies and posers.
“I remember when a bunch of us did sit-ins in the old Silver Spoon back in the 70s, before they allowed women in the place,” a retired lawyer-turned-writer recalled wistfully. “What a scandal we created!”
Ninety-six-year-old columnist and local legend Polly Patterson, who had known Rebecca’s great-aunt well, was less sentimental. “I remember when this city aspired to the aesthetic and the sublime. Looking around downtown and The Keep today, that vision seems tragically absent. I’m just glad Frankie didn’t live to see this place settle for tacky mediocrity.”
Rebecca distanced herself from the DWPC Tea for plausible deniability. She was scheduled to do a site tour for some important potential clients at 2:00. The press club had intentionally timed their own agenda to coincide. It also just so happened that the Governor typically wrapped- up his usual Friday lunch at the Pirates Pub right around 2:00.
“Thank you so much for a lovely Tea,” the ladies made a point to tell the staff as they trickled out of the Throne Room, resisting the urge to add how much the ambiance left to be desired.
Some went to the mezzanine Powder Room; others made their way directly to the elevators. Within 15 minutes, all 60+ saboteurs had made their way to the seventh-floor. They positioned themselves around the balcony to completely surround the atrium. Frankie’s old colleague, Polly, had been given the honor of signaling the commencement.
With drill team precision, the ladies of the press – and a few gentleman friends – prepared for the assault. From bags and briefcases they withdrew rolls of toilet paper. Each grasped the sheet at the end of the roll. When Polly raised her hand and snapped her fingers, they tossed the rolls out into the open atrium space.
The simultaneous unfurling of so many streamers of tissue was magical. By the time they reached the lobby 90 feet below, all that remained of most of the rolls was the cardboard tubes. Confused and curious onlookers, including many members of the media, picked up the tubes and found them pre-stuffed with propaganda.
“Don’t Crap Out the Keep”
“Stop the History Wipe”
“Chic is Shit”
“Don’t Piss on the Past”
“Join the T.P. Party – Boycott Griffins Keep!”
Bemused visitors and staff shuffled through drifts of unspooled tissue. Many of them looked up and waved at the unrepentant vandals or gave thumbs-up salutes. The spectacle was captured by at least two local TV news crews and several media photographers. Within minutes, it was all over Facebook and YouTube.
The Governor retrieved a cardboard tube from the floor and chuckled as he read the message inside. “’Bout time somebody said it,” he commented to his entourage.
TITHE management was not amused.
“That group is never allowed in the Griffins Keep again,” Ms. Jordan declared in concluding the weekly sales team meeting the next Monday morning.
“But how exactly will that work?” Dawn asked innocently. “Of course we’ll never book another event for the women’s press club, but how can you keep them out, really? The building is open to the public, day and night. Is Security going to make everyone show their club membership cards? Search every bag for rolls of T.P.?”
“All any of you need to know is that we’re working on a procedure for dealing with this kind of publicity stunt,” Ms. Jordan snapped. “Now that’s all for this morning. Back to work, everybody.”
Having been seated on the far side of the room, Rebecca was the last to leave Ms. Jordan’s office. As the manager shuffled papers and stuffed them in a file folder, she said, “These Denver people seem to think they have some personal stake in what happens with the hotel. An absurd proprietary sense, like it’s any of their business. You’d think we were defacing the place with obscene graffiti or something. I just don’t get it.”
“No,” the former hotel historian agreed quietly, “You don’t.”
For the time being, at least, TITHE was keeping its hands off the Spa. Remodeling disruptions aside, business there continued as usual, luxurious and lucrative. Their overpriced line of haircare products was the only one that Rebecca’s thinning hair seemed to benefit from. Heading across the lobby to replenish her supplies that morning, she had to give a wide berth to the workmen ripping up chunks of the floor for the installation of some new TITHE feature, the specifics of which were being kept secret.
Approaching the Spa entrance, Rebecca marveled again at the craftsmanship of the polished onyx which once framed the Keep’s Grand Fireplace. She envisioned the only historic photograph which showed the griffin originally mounted above the mantel. For the first time, it occurred to the historian that, of all the griffins depicted around The Keep, the fireplace guardian was the only one with its sword pointing downward, rather than held upright.
Pointing….. Pointing to what?
Mentally recreating the mythological creature’s position, her mind’s eye plotted an invisible line from its sword tip to the right hand side of the Spa entrance – and to the enigmatic darker pattern in the semi-precious stone, reverently identified by the old Hispanic woman months ago.
It had been right there, in plain sight all along. The secret posed by Edward Brooking’s riddle. “The stone Madonna’s heart of gold, O’rsees a cache of wealth untold.”
The magnitude of the epiphany staggered her. The legendary treasure buried beneath the Griffins Keep and guarded by Knights Templar for more than a century -- It had to be here, somewhere below the sacred image revealed and deliberately placed by master stone masons – Freemasons.
Rebecca glanced with trepidation at the workmen tearing up the floor. Did they know how close they were? Was that the explanation for their mysterious project? No. TITHE couldn’t know. They didn’t have the clue. They didn’t have the vision to put the pieces together. Rebecca did. At last she understood. And she believed.