Chapter 13
“Dad, look.” Simon leaned on his father’s work desk, showing him the blue plastic handheld console.
Dad took off his glasses, tearing his attention away from the computer screen. “I said we’ll take it for fixing on Monday,” he said in a gentle, patient voice. “Can’t do much over the weekend.”
“No, I fixed it myself.” Simon turned the console on. “See? And I made it cooler, too. Turns out you can tune the chip beyond its programmed storage capacity, so now I can have more games on it, and I can even put on older games.”
“You did this?” Dad turned the console in his hands, nodding approvingly.
“Yup.”
“Nicely done.” When Dad gave him a full-blown smile—the one that made his mustache stretch all the way into his cheeks—Simon always felt like he was on top of the world.
Maybe one day, he thought as he skipped back to his room with the console in his hands, he could be on top of the tech world.
***
Simon stared at the stuffed deer head mounted on the wall, its glassy eyes staring him back.
A town straight out of the Old Wild West was not something he’d expected from Ross, given it was on the other side of the world.
When they arrived, Shanna was immediately drawn to its historic hotel, boasting a sunny yellow facade with forest green and ruby red detailing around the windows and columns.
On the inside, the hotel was more of a bar, with dark wood paneled walls and a real brick fireplace, continuing into the main room stuffed with paraphernalia.
An antique piano with an animal skull on it, a not-so-antique pool table left in the middle of a game, and walls covered in old prints, drawings, and stuffed animals.
Primarily birds, except for the creepy deer.
Shanna stepped next to him, holding a glass of ginger ale, her gaze following his to the stuffed head. “Wow, look at that guy. I can’t decide if he’s creepy or majestic. And his eyes. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something, and I’m not sure I want to know.”
“I don’t suppose the secret he’s trying to divulge are your mom’s whereabouts?”
She shook her head. “The vibes aren’t getting any more specific. It was somewhere in this hotel.”
At least they knew it was Ross; but figuring out what happened twenty years ago in a place like this, even as small as it was, seemed nearly impossible.
“That’s a dope deer.” Chris, holding a beer, occupied Simon’s other side.
Simon grabbed the beer from her.
“Hey!”
“You’re not old enough to drink.”
“They didn’t ask. So, who cares?”
“I do. And this one is getting donated to the first person who comes through the door.”
“Did you figure out where your mom was?” Chris asked Shanna.
“Not yet. But they have rooms available here. Perhaps if we stay through the night, something will come to me.”
“Maybe she went on the gold-panning tour,” Chris said. “Like, we could also go.” She added a shrug, the slight rise of her voice indicating she was interested but didn’t want to appear too eager.
“I’ll ask for a room,” Shanna said. Simon followed her.
The receptionist-doubling barman, with his fade hairstyle and a simple t-shirt, looked bizarrely out of place for the historic hotel. “We’ve got some rooms available,” he said. “Do you mind ghosts?”
Shanna scrunched up her nose. “Excuse me?”
“A couple of rooms are haunted, so if you don’t want those, let me know … unless you don’t believe in ghosts, in which case, never mind.”
“Oh, no, I love ghosts,” Shanna said. “I mean—yes, I believe in them! Do they have a schedule?”
Now it was the barman’s turn to look confused.
“The ghosts,” Shanna repeated. “Would you be able to tell me when they appear?”
Simon gently held her by the arm. “I think that’s above his pay grade,” he whispered.
“I’ll take a room with a ghost,” she said.
“Are the rooms close enough together? Less than a hundred feet between two available ones?” Simon asked.
The barman, who still hadn’t recovered from Shanna’s question, flustered and scratched his neck. “Probably?”
“Another room next to hers, please,” Simon said. “And the third one, wherever in the building.”
“A basement, if possible,” Chris said, appearing behind Simon. “Or the attic. No preference as long as it’s maximum creepy.”
“They’re all on the second floor,” the barman peeped.
They got their rooms and keys—real vintage ones, with a heavy brass plate etched with the room’s number—and headed up the narrow staircase.
The rooms fit the rest of the hotel. A bed with a darkwood frame, with a blanket in an antique pattern of black, bronze, and red laid over it; a console table with a porcelain pitcher and coffee cups; a creaky wardrobe with a carved wooden door.
Simon had half-expected to find a chamber pot in the bathroom instead of a real toilet, but the amenities were modern—though cleverly designed to meld in with the rest.
As he stepped into the hallway, Shanna also exited her room. “They’re charming, aren’t they? Do you want to come and talk to some ghosts with me?”
He opened his mouth, unsure of how to respond.
“See, I got this idea.” Her eyes shone with enthusiasm, and Simon knew he wasn’t going to say no, even if she suggested they go bungee jumping over some nearby gorge.
“Nobody remembers Mom. No human, that is, because too much time has passed. But time doesn’t work the same for ghosts!
They don’t age! They don’t exist in our world, but in one in between. And maybe they would remember her.”
“So you’re going to ask them.”
“Exactly.” She grinned. “Coming?”
Gorge or ghosts, it didn’t matter. “Sure.”
She led him into her room, mirroring his in amenities and decor, except that she’d cleared the blanket off the bed and laid down a napkin with a circle marking.
“You can sit wherever.” She sat, cross-legged, on the bed next to the napkin. She also positioned a few crystals around the napkin and lit an incense stick, the smell of sandalwood spreading through the small room.
Simon sat on the edge of the bed, extending out his leg with the injured ankle. It was getting better, and according to Chris, he was supposed to put weight on it as soon as possible so the injury could heal well, but it still twinged occasionally.
“Stay quiet,” Shanna instructed him. “I’ll try to contact them.”
She closed her eyes and began to softly murmur foreign words. For a few minutes, nothing happened, but then, as Shanna still murmured, sitting in the same unmoving position as if she’d been petrified, something cold touched Simon’s back.
He swiftly turned, but there was nothing there. He took a deep breath. A nervousness spread through his stomach, and he wondered why he’d be nervous all of a sudden until he realized it wasn’t nervousness.
It was dread.
For three years, he’d been something—perhaps a ghost, perhaps something else immaterial—and an entity in this room knew it. It was like a sliver of that Simon remained, and the entity was trying to connect to it; not with malice, he figured, but more with the excitement of an old friend.
It didn’t make him any less scared, though.
A light smile spread across Shanna’s lips. She kept her eyes closed as she said, in a soft, almost laughing tone, “No, not him. You talk to me, yes? He’s mine.”
She was in a trance, so he probably shouldn’t ascribe too much meaning to her words, but his fear subsided nonetheless, replaced with a brief stint of joy.
His thanks, regarding her saving his life, had been genuine, but until now, Simon’s hadn’t properly worked out through the absolutely insane idea that Shanna had literally raised him from the dead.
She’d not only saved his life—she gave him a new one.
And all he wanted to do was bury his head in her soft, warm lap, and ask her to protect him always.
“Twenty years, yes,” Shanna continued. “A lot like me. Same eyes, same hair color. Oh, really? Where?”
She stood up and headed for the door, walking smoothly, even with closed eyes.
Simon hurried up and opened the door for her.
Ghost-vision or not, he assumed she couldn’t walk through solid objects.
Down the stairs she went, with no problem, even though he shadowed her and was ready to catch her if she stumbled, and into the main room.
Luckily for them, it was midday, so the bar wasn’t in full party mode yet, and only one patron threw a curious glance at Shanna as she reached for the dartboard above the piano, removed it, and picked at the wall behind.
“Monthly inspection,” Simon said to the patron, stepping into his line of sight so he wouldn’t see what Shanna was doing.
Speaking of which—“Shanna,” he whispered, “what are you doing?”
She kept picking at the wall. There was a rectangular crack in it—a hidden compartment.
“Hold on, let me help you.” Simon hopped across the room to the open kitchen counter, picking up a knife from the utensil holder. He returned to Shanna and ran the edge of the knife around the crack until the compartment sprung open.
It was a tiny space—an inch between the wooden panel and the stone wall foundation—but still enough to hide a paper envelope wrapped with a string.
Shanna picked it up. “That’s the one? Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” Simon replied, before he realized she was talking to the ghosts and not him.
With a sharp intake of breath, Shanna opened her eyes. She looked around, orienting herself, gaze finally landing on him. “Hi! I got this!” She lifted the envelope.
“I know.”
“Oh. Of course.” She giggled. “The ghosts remembered! Well, there was one ghost, Nelly. She died here at the end of the gold rush and—never mind. What’s important is that she remembered Mom and told me she’d left something here for me.”
“Not to rain on your parade or anything, because obviously, someone did leave something here,” Simon said, “but how did the ghost know that one woman was your mother?”
Shanna pressed the envelope to her chest. “Because Mom got in contact with Nelly and told her to wait for me and tell me where to find this.”