A Haunting at Keystone Manor (The Ghosts of Keystone Manor #1)

Keystone Manor

Chapter one

Alex

“Okay, Alex, take twelve. You can do this,” I mutter to myself as I attempt to wipe a smudge off the mirror, huffing in frustration as my hand goes right through it again. With a sigh, I walk over to the bed and plop down.

Being dead sucks.

I didn’t used to think about death a lot, but now it’s all I think about, in all its many forms. Heart attack. Cancer. Sledgehammer to the head. It’s always been an abstract concept to me, something that happens to other people. I’ve never considered my death.

So, imagine my surprise when on one perfectly average day, in the middle of my perfectly average job, I was quite literally smacked in the face with it.

I don’t remember much about the circumstances of my death, but I’ve been trying to make the best of it.

I don’t even know how long I’ve been dead.

Time has no place in this manor anymore.

I watch the new cleaning lady flit about the room, getting it ready for our newest guest. Normally, it would be me getting the room ready for them. But I’m dead now and can’t exactly tell my manager Kayla that I’ll be calling out of work indefinitely.

“You need to wipe down the baseboards, I saw a bit of dust earlier,” I point out. Being dead doesn’t excuse you from providing quality customer service.

There are a few things they don’t tell you about being a ghost. First, it’s lonely as fuck. I can see people, but they can’t see me. I haven’t seen any other ghosts wandering around, so I’m pretty sure it’s just me.

For a while, I tried my hand at good old-fashioned hauntings, but it turns out no one can hear me either.

Ghost stories are bullshit, apparently. So, I started listening to the conversations guests have when they think no one is around.

There’s Bob and Martha, newly retired and here on the first vacation they’ve had away from the grandkids in six years.

They have a bag full of toys and pills they can’t wait to use tonight.

Brandon Sinclair is here on a “writer’s workshop retreat” because he wants to be the next Stephen King and thinks a bit of solitude is the key to unlocking literary genius. It’s the cocaine, buddy.

I watch as the cleaning lady wipes down the baseboards.

“Ugh.” I inspect the freshly made bed I’ve been perched on while watching her.

The comforter is off white and covered in intricate red flowers.

It looks like something my grandmother would have in her house.

Luckily, I’m not wrinkling the bedding. That’s one benefit to not having a body, I guess.

What would she think if she knew I was here, judging her?

“There’s a hair on the pillow, just so you know. You missed it,” I tell her, knowing full well she can’t hear me. Sigh.

What is a lonely ghost to do? Another thing no one mentions about being dead is that there is nothing to do.

Due to my incorporeal form I can’t so much as hold a remote to turn on a shitty daytime soap.

Not that I watch those. Kayla’s a news junkie, so that’s the only thing that’s ever on the TV’s around here.

At first, I thought being a ghost would be awesome, but now I’m bored.

Of the monotony, of the boring guests and their boring problems. Of missing Days of Our Lives.

I wish I had a way to let my twelve YouTube subscribers know there would be no new Clean with Me episode this week.

Instead of working on building my career and increasing my subscriber count, I’m stuck in this hotel.

The cleaning lady interrupts my darkening thoughts when she leans over me to lint roll the pillows, collecting the hair I pointed out to her. I lean back to avoid her before remembering she can’t touch me.

“What the fuck? Can you hear me?” I stand up and wave my hand in front of her face as she puts the lint roller back in her cleaning caddy.

“Hellooooo?” Nothing. Double sigh. I sit back down on the edge of the bed and watch her tidy up the rest of the room, not wanting to admit that she’s doing an annoyingly good job.

She’s very thorough. I’d give her five stars.

“You’re lucky I’m dead, lady. I don’t like competition. Make sure you get that smudge on the mirror—yep, you got it.” I stand up and head to the door.

I’ve got a new guest to meet.