The Second-Best Haunted Hotel on Mercer Street

by Cory Putman Oakes

  “I meant to tell you, Willow,” Chef Antonia said, retrieving her thrown dishrag and using it to wipe her forehead. “But I kept forgetting. I haven’t been myself lately. Not since I started Fading.”

  “Fading?” Willow exclaimed. “Not you too, Antonia!” She darted over and looked frantically at the chef’s hands. They appeared solid. “Show me your feet!”

  “No, Willow, my sweet,” Antonia said gently. “It is not my body that is going but my mind. My brain, my talent. My very essence. There is more than one way to Fade, you see.”

  “That can’t be right!” But when Willow looked around the nearly empty kitchen and thought about how much lasagna had been on the menu lately, it was hard to argue with the chef’s logic.

  Francesca took her aunt’s hands in hers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. You either, Willow.” Antonia smiled kindly in Willow’s direction, then turned back to her niece. “This is why we can’t afford to waste time on silly nutrition fads. You must learn all I have to teach, and quickly. You must be ready. When I am gone, you must be the one to take over this kitchen. And my show.”

  Francesca’s chin wobbled. Willow felt her eyes fill with tears.

  Antonia dropped Francesca’s hands and readjusted her chef’s hat. “Pull it together, both of you. You’re not to worry about me. Death is a part of life, and Fading is a part of death. All we need to worry about at the moment is what we’re going to serve for lunch.”

  “I think there are some fish sticks in the freezer,” Francesca said, wiping her nose. “I could fry some up on the stove?”

  “Fish sticks it is,” Willow said with a forced smile. “Yum.”

  Willow trudged back to the front desk. The thought that Leo and Antonia were both Fading felt like a lead weight on her back. She walked slowly through her favorite hallway on the first floor—the one lined with portraits of all the past Ivans. The first portrait was of Gracey Ivan, who had founded the Hotel Ivan more than four hundred years ago.

  Willow looked up at her portrait.

  Gracey Ivan had had a great swirl of silver hair, a heavily lined, no-nonsense face, and a slightly jutting chin that Willow recognized from looking in mirrors. The painting had obviously been done later in life, once the Ivan had already become a success, and Willow wondered what Gracey had looked like when she was young. If only she’d come back as a ghost, she could have haunted the hotel and helped run it for all time.

  But Gracey Ivan hadn’t come back as a ghost. No Ivan ever had.

  Not until Willow’s mother.

  “Do you have any advice, Gracey?” Willow whispered. “’Cause I could really use some.”

  Gracey Ivan remained silent.

  Willow returned to the front desk and found Pierce on the phone again.

  “Is that still the linen service? I can talk to them now—”

  “It’s not the linen service. It’s the police.”

  “What?”

  “The Freelings still haven’t returned from their trail ride. I think Molly must have gotten lost. Three people have called the sheriff to report seeing them by the Overlook Mine. I’m trying to tell them we’ll go retrieve them—”

  “Yes! Please tell them that!” Willow ran a shaky hand over her curls, wondering how they could possibly get to Molly and the guests before the police did.

  “I’m on hold,” Pierce explained, then hesitated. “Have we really not been paying our bills?”

  “My father said we were.”

  “We’re not.”

  Bree came out of her office. Today, she was wearing a smart suit over a shirt that said THE FUTURE IS FEMALE, and her Afro was gathered into a side puff. She set one of the Ivan’s accounting ledgers in front of Willow. “He didn’t want to worry you,” Bree explained. “But it’s gotten pretty bad.”

  Willow closed her eyes briefly and wished people would worry less about worrying her. When she opened her eyes again, she blinked, trying to make sense of the dizzying columns of letters, vendor ID numbers, and bank names in the ledger.

  “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the only column that seemed to have a positive number at the bottom.

  “Oh, that’s the Rainy Day Fund,” Bree told her.

  “The what?”

  “Your parents set it up a long time ago, around when you were born,” Bree said, closing the book abruptly. “Don’t worry, nobody’s allowed to touch the money in that account. I’ve made sure of that.”

  “But why—”

  Pierce, still on hold, slapped a pile of envelopes down on the front desk. “The mail also came. There’s another letter from the Truancy Board. And something from the Zagged Guide—”

  Willow tossed the first letter in the bin and ripped open the second. “Dear Hotel Ivan Staff,” she read aloud, “It’s my duty to inform you that in light of the anticipated opening of the Mercer Street Hauntery, your designation as the number-one haunted hotel in your area has been temporarily revoked. Revoked?”

  “That means taken away,” Pierce explained.

  “I know what it means!” Willow snapped, returning to the letter. “A Zagged hotel inspector will be dispatched shortly to conduct a detailed evaluation of both properties. They will then make a determination as to the definitive rankings of both hotels. You will be notified of the results in due course, and your entry in our official Zagged publication will be adjusted accordingly. Sincerely, Freddy Thompson, editor of the Zagged Guide.”

  Willow suddenly felt weak in the knees. “A hotel inspector,” she said feebly. “We’ve never had one of those before.”

  “What are we going to do?” Bree asked shakily.

  Willow put the paper facedown on the desk and took a deep breath. “First we have to find Molly and the adult Freelings. Then I’ll think of something to keep the kids occupied until their parents come—” She cut herself off as she spotted Alford walking by in full World War I uniform, gingerly leading one of the Freeling children up the stairs. “Alford! Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking him to his room,” Alford explained. “He’s feeling sick. I think the milk in the hot chocolate may have been off . . .”

  Willow shuddered, thinking of the warm refrigerator. Then she thought of something else. “Alford, if you’re not watching the other kids, who is?”

  “She said she’d look after them—”

  “She?” Willow bolted from the lobby, ran around the corner to the music room, and skidded to a dead halt.

  Her mother was standing in the middle of the room, right beside the piano. Her nightgown ballooned around her, fluttering as though she were standing in a breeze. A crowd of tiny Freeling children sat eagerly at her feet, paying her rapt attention.

  “Are you really dead?” an intent boy with close-set black eyes asked eagerly.

  Willow’s mother nodded, staring over the child’s head toward a patch of wall to the right of the doorway Willow was standing in. “Yes, I think so . . .”

  “How did you die?” the same child pressed.

  Willow’s mother frowned. “I don’t know.”

  The children groaned.

  “Sure you do!” the same little brat shouted. “Come on, tell us!”

  “I was checking in a guest,” Willow’s mother mused. “It was an ordinary day. Tuesday, I think. Wednesday, maybe . . .”

  “Friday,” Willow put in, unable to help herself. Seeing her mother here in this room, the room that had once been their room . . . Willow couldn’t even look at the piano.

  “Yes, Friday,” Willow’s mother said, although her eyes didn’t focus on Willow. “I put them in room three. Queen bed with room for a rollaway. Nice couple. With a daughter. I had a daughter, too . . . I think I did . . .”

  Willow’s hands froze on either side of the doorway.

  “Then what?” the child asked, leaning forward.

  “Then I had a headache. A little headache. But sharp. Pierce told me to go lie down. I didn’t wa
nt to . . . There was so much to do . . .”

  Willow swallowed. She wanted to go. She wanted to stay. She wanted to kick the stupid kid who kept asking questions. But she was trapped in the doorway.

  “The pain got worse . . . my head . . . such a sharp, sharp pain.”

  An aneurism. That’s what the doctor at the hospital had called it.

  “Then . . .”

  “Then?” the boy repeated urgently.

  “Then nothing.”

  “Nothing?” the boy repeated, and the crowd of children all drew back as one, disappointed.

  “Nothing. Something. Then I was here, but not here. Here, but not—”

  The boy made a loud retching sound and then bent double, throwing up into his lap. He was quickly joined by the two girls to his right, the older boy to his left, and then every other child in the huddle.

  Willow’s mother looked off into the distance, as though watching something of great importance. She slowly floated right through the piano and out through the back wall, seemingly unconcerned that her entire audience was now vomiting curdled hot chocolate and half-digested pancakes all over the floor of what had once been her favorite room in the hotel.

  CHAPTER 8

  EVIE

  Flick. Flick. Flick.

  A guest had left a pen on one of the side tables in the lobby. Evie bent over it, flicking her forefinger over her thumb, aiming for the tip.

  Back when she was Living, she’d spun pens without even thinking about it. But now, her finger kept going right through the stupid thing. No matter how many times she flicked, the pen refused to move. Until . . .

  Ping.

  The very tip of Evie’s fingernail hit the cap, and the pen made a lazy counterclockwise circle on the desk.

  Evie stared, not daring to look away as the pen spun around twice more, then stopped in the exact same position she’d found it in.

  It had moved, hadn’t it? She wasn’t just seeing things because she wanted it so badly?

  Evie bent down to try again.

  “You’re not even dressed,” came Louise’s accusing voice from behind her.

  Evie looked over her shoulder at her cousin, then glanced pointedly down at her jeans and T-shirt.

  “Really? I’m so confused. I thought these were clothes?”

  “They’re not your costume,” Louise amended, folding her arms over her pink dress and snapping the heels of her shiny Mary Janes together.

  “We don’t have any hauntings scheduled until four. It’s not even noon.”

  “You didn’t read the new policy?”

  When Evie shook her head, the corners of Louise’s lips rose into a smirk.

  “Mr. Fox posted it this morning. Didn’t you see it in the break room? The policy says all Hauntery ghosts are expected to be in costume and in character at all times when on Hauntery property.”

  “But we live on Hauntery property,” Evie protested, then felt her stomach drop. “Are you saying I have to be a Spooky Little Girl all the time now? We don’t get any breaks when we can just be ourselves?”

  Louise shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Of course not,” Evie muttered. Then she turned back to the pen.

  “Ahem,” Louise chided her.

  Evie closed her eyes, bit her tongue, and reluctantly exchanged her jeans for the pink dress. Then she resumed her efforts at flicking the pen, trying not to imagine the satisfied grin on Louise’s face as she walked away.

  After another twenty minutes and countless flicks, Evie hadn’t been able to make the pen spin a second time. But she didn’t care.

  I touched it. I know I did.

  The thought brought her almost as much joy as the knowledge that there was a library full of Deena Morales novels just down the street. She was making progress. And even the ohhhhs and ahhhhs of some of the guests as they came out of the brunch room and spotted the Spooky Little Girl in the lobby couldn’t dampen her spirits.

  Evie could think of only one person at the Hauntery she could share her good news with. The only person nice enough, dead enough, and good enough at moving Living objects to help her take the next step.

  Evie headed down to the kitchen.

  “Has anybody seen Patricia?”

  Two waiters heard her question but scooted away without answering. Evie could have sworn that one of them had red, swollen eyes, like he’d been crying.

  “Patricia?” Evie tried again, this time to the line cook.

  He shook his head sadly. “Sorry, Evie. Patricia’s not here.”

  “Is she off today?”

  “No . . .” The line cook set down his spatula. “Evie, Patricia isn’t going to be around anymore.”

  “Why not?” Evie squeaked.

  “She—” the line cook began, and Evie could have sworn he was about to cry. Then his eyes widened at something over Evie’s shoulder, and he cleared his throat. “She’s been transferred,” the line cook said hurriedly.

  “To another Hauntery property,” added a familiar voice.

  Evie turned to face Mr. Fox.

  The cook snapped up his spatula and started busily scraping the grill.

  “Transferred? Why?” Evie asked.

  Mr. Fox shrugged. His bald head looked especially shiny this morning, and Evie briefly had the oddest thought that if she were to float up nose-to-nose with him, she would probably be able to see her reflection in Mr. Fox’s pallid but polished forehead. “The Hauntery’s Corporate headquarters often moves its non-corporeal assets from property to property when the need arises.”

  “Non-corporeal assets?” Evie repeated. The line cook shook his head slightly at her, but she ignored him. “Is that what we are to you? Things you can move around whenever you want?”

  “Precisely, Ms. MacNeil. I’m glad we’re starting to understand one another.”

  Mr. Fox grinned, picked up a cinnamon roll, then turned and swept out of the kitchen.

  “The Living,” Evie muttered at his back, eyeing an orange on the counter and dearly wishing she could throw it at him. But now that Patricia was gone, how was she ever going to learn to do that?

  “You’re looking for trouble there,” the line cook said to Evie, pointing his spatula at her. “Best mind your business and not ask questions. Especially about ghosts being transferred.”

  “Why? What happened to Patricia? Why shouldn’t I ask about her?”

  The cook shook his head. “Take some advice from an old ghost who’s been around for a good while: Keep your head down, little Evie. And don’t ask questions you don’t really want to know the answers to.”

  ***

  Since there was nobody to practice moving objects with, no hauntings on her schedule until that afternoon, and an absurd new rule about what clothing she was allowed to wear on Hauntery property, Evie could think of nothing to do but go back to the library. It was only Monday, so she was surprised to find Willow sitting in the high-backed chair in the middle of the children’s section.

  “I thought we were meeting on Thursday?”

  “We are,” Willow said, and held up her book. It was Deena Morales Mystery #6, The Phantom of Pine Street. “I’m saving The Secret of the Ruby Dagger to read with you, but I couldn’t wait until Thursday to come back here. I had a really bad day today.”

  “Me too,” Evie said. “What happened to you?”

  Willow put her book down. “We lost some guests. And we gave a bunch of others food poisoning.”

  “Guests?” Evie asked, not sure she’d heard her correctly.

  “Oh, yeah, I work at a hotel. You know the Ivan?”

  Evie swallowed and tried unsuccessfully to forget the time Mr. Fox had called the Ivan a two-bit, family-run, fleabag bed-and-breakfast.

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said thinly.

  “My family owns it,” Willow continued. “I’m sort of in charge these days.”

  “That must be nice.”

  Willow snorted with laughter. “It’s not as fun as you�
�d think. Especially on days like today.”

  “Did you find your guests?” Evie asked.

  “Yeah. Our Headless Horsewoman eventually found her head and led everybody back to the hotel. But they all decided to check out the moment they got back. I’m not sure if it was because of the getting lost or the smell—”

  “The smell?”

  “From the vomit.” Willow put her head in her hands. “There was so much vomit.”

  “Oh . . .” Evie wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  “They’re probably all checking into the Hauntery right now,” Willow added grimly.

  “The—the Hauntery?”

  “This fancy new hotel down the street.” Willow raised her head and made a face. “You know the type—big, beautiful, but full of second-rate ghosts and greedy managers who only care about money? They’re trying to put us out of business.”

  Evie, who couldn’t help but bristle a bit at the “second-rate” comment, still found herself nodding sympathetically. “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah.” Willow rubbed her nose, then shook her head to clear it. “But enough about me. What made your day so bad?”

  “Um . . .” Evie thought fast. “My parents—it’s like they both see me in this one way, you know? They won’t let me do the job I want to do because they don’t think I’m terrifying.”

  Willow bit her lower lip. “Are you terrifying?” she asked gently.

  “Yes,” Evie said irritably, standing up straighter. “I mean, I know I’m not terrifying right now. But I can be. When I want to be.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Willow said.

  She had probably meant to sound encouraging, but Evie winced at the skepticism in her tone. She looked away, and as she did, she spotted a little boy halfway down the next aisle. He looked about eight years old, and he was ripping the title page out of a book.

  “I’m sick of being treated like a little kid,” Evie went on. Little Evie, she thought to herself as the boy crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it onto the ground. Smiles. Giggles. She looked away from the boy, toward the book in Willow’s lap. “Nobody ever treats Deena Morales like a little kid.”

  “True, but she’s Deena Morales. You and I are just . . . us,” Willow said wistfully. Then they both flinched as the boy noisily ripped another page out of the book.