Chapter 10
I check my bed carefully for horses’ heads, then climb into it so I can lie awake overthinking for a while, before falling into a dream in which Millie Mitchell is chopping down a Christmas tree, which turns into Bex Foster as I watch.
Bex falls to the ground, bright red blood pooling around her like the tulle of her dress, and I awake with a start to a mysterious tapping on the window.
Oh, please God, no. Not a mysterious tapping on the window now. Anything but that, I’m begging you.
I pull the covers aside and slip cautiously out of the giant bed, hoping that this is going to turn out to be one of those weird waking dreams; which are terrifying, sure, but still just dreams.
But no: a quick pinch of my forearm confirms that I’m very much awake – and now the tapping is coming from the door of the room, rather than the window.
I pause halfway across the bedroom floor and listen carefully, but all I can hear is my own heart hammering wildly in my chest, almost deafening me with the sound of abject terror. So at least I know what that sounds like now.
This is definitely the last time I accept an invitation to a wellness retreat; because, to be completely honest, this place is making me feel anything but ‘well’.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I listen closely, pressing my hands against my chest as if that’ll persuade my heart to pipe down a bit.
Yes, the sound is definitely coming from the door. Which is sort of a relief, because that means it most likely has a human source, whereas the only thing that could possibly have been tapping on my third-floor window would be . . . well, nothing good, let’s put it that way.
If the tapping is coming from an actual person, though, that means it’s probably the same person who’s been tormenting me in all of these other ways, too; and that thought is enough to propel me across the room, a small shriek of combined terror and outrage escaping my lips as I wrench open the door to find . . .
. . . nothing.
Well, of course there’s nothing. That’s just par for the course with me and this place, isn’t it? Although . . . wait. Is that . . . ?
I squint down the corridor, wishing I was wearing my contact lenses, because I’m almost blind without them.
At the opposite end of the hall, something small and white flickers into view, the gloom of the long corridor making it look almost like it’s floating.
Unless, of course, it is floating?
I take a cautious step forward and peer into the darkness, not sure whether my blurrier-than-usual vision is due to my poor eyesight, the champagne I had earlier, or if I’m about to faint.
Please don’t let it be the last one.
My legs start to sag beneath me as the ghostly figure of a child begins gliding silently down the corridor; and not just any old ghostly child, either, but a little ghostly girl.
And everyone knows those are the scariest kind, don’t they?
If you’d asked me before I came to this hotel what I’d do if faced with the ghostly figure of a creepy little girl in a long white nightgown, I’d have laughed and told you not to be silly, there’s no such things as ghosts.
If you asked me the same question at any point after this exact moment, however, I’d now be able to tell you with some degree of confidence that what I’d actually do is scream.
Loudly.
And also rather squeakily, actually.
The door behind me slams shut with a very loud bang, indicating that I’m now locked out of my room, too, as if I didn’t have enough to deal with right now.
‘Shhh!’ hisses the ghost, starting to run towards me. ‘Stop making so much noise! You’re going to wake everyone up. They’ll be mad.’
I sag weakly against the door, doubting the proof of my own eyes.
Ghosts can’t talk, can they?
Or run?
The thing is almost upon me now, and as it – she – approaches, I notice that what appeared from a distance to be one of those long, old-fashioned nightgowns the Victorians were so keen on, is actually a white towelling robe with the hotel’s logo sewn onto the front.
There’s one just like it hanging in my bathroom right this second. Which means . . .
‘Hello,’ says the decidedly flesh-and-blood little girl shyly as she reaches me. ‘I’m Hannah. Why are you screaming?’
* * *
A few minutes later, I’m walking Hannah back to her apartment in the staff quarters, her little hand tucked trustingly into mine as she chatters on about her day, and this one kid in her class called Billy, who once tried to climb out of the window, and got stuck halfway out and upside down.
I feel like Billy and I would have a lot in common somehow.
‘Hannah, were you knocking on my door earlier?’ I ask gently, interrupting her.
She looks up at me: big blue eyes set in a pretty little freckled face, and framed with long white-blonde hair which reaches almost to her waist.
‘Sorry,’ she says, not looking remotely sorry. ‘I just wanted to see you close up. You’re the lady who was in the hotel reception in her bathrobe, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ I agree reluctantly. ‘That was me. I was . . . well, it’s a long story.’
‘You looked really funny,’ Hannah says gleefully. ‘Your face was all red. And you had all this black stuff under your eyes.’
‘Were you watching, then?’ I ask, remembering the flicker of movement I’d thought was a ghost on the landing when I arrived.
Hannah nods cheerfully.
‘Oh, yes,’ she says. ‘I like watching people. I used to do it all the time in the olden days.’
‘The . . . the olden days? How long have you . . . lived . . . here?’ I stutter, my body cold again with renewed tension, as I wait for her to reveal that she’s been walking these corridors for two hundred years now, luring innocent guests to their doom.
‘Oh, ages,’ replies Hannah seriously. ‘Weeks and weeks. I’m seven and a half now, and when came here when I was only seven and a bit.’
‘Right,’ I say, relieved. ‘And that was before the castle was turned into a hotel?’
‘Yes,’ says Hannah. ‘The olden days. And the only people who lived here were builders, and decorators and stuff. It’s much better now. There was a lady who looked like a princess outside earlier.’
‘Yeah, that was Bex,’ I tell her. ‘She’s very . . . princessy. Is this where you live?’
We’ve stopped outside a large wooden door marked ‘STAFF’, which Hannah immediately pushes open.
I hesitate, remembering what Sabrina said this morning about not going into the private areas of the building.
The last thing I want to do is risk incurring the wrath of the cantankerous old Lord Glenmuir; and, let’s face it, that would also be very much on brand for me this week, so I dig in my heels, determined not to cause any more trouble.
‘I think I better just leave you here, Hannah,’ I tell the little girl gently. ‘I’m not allowed to go any further. You know how to get back to your apartment from here, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ she says scornfully. ‘I know how to get everywhere. I told you, I’ve lived here for ages. I want you to come with me, though, Rosie. Please,’ she adds beseechingly, her eyes very wide. ‘I did a drawing of you after I saw you in the lobby. I really want to show you.’
‘Maybe you could show me tomorrow?’ I suggest. ‘It must be way past your bedtime by now. It’s definitely past mine.’
‘I’m scared,’ says Hannah, who doesn’t look like anything scares her. ‘I need an adult to look after me.’
I sigh, knowing perfectly well that I’m being shamelessly manipulated, but also knowing I’m probably going to let her get away with it, because who could refuse a cute little girl who claims to be scared?
‘OK,’ I say, relenting. ‘But very quickly, OK? I’m not supposed to be here.’
‘It’s fine,’ Hannah replies, forgetting she’s supposed to be scared as she grins at me. ‘You’re with me.’
Taking my hand again, she pulls me through the door, which – surprise, surprise – leads to another corridor.
It’s darker here than it is in the public parts of the hotel, and I’m relieved to find we only have to walk a short distance before stopping outside yet another door, which Hannah unlocks with a key she pulls from the pocket of her dressing gown.
‘You have a key to get in and out?’ I ask, surprised. ‘I assumed your parents were in the apartment, and you sneaked out?’
‘I just live with my daddy,’ she replies sadly. ‘And he’s busy working. So I have a key.’
‘Oh.’
I’m not quite sure what to say to this, but I definitely don’t feel comfortable leaving her on her own now, so I allow her to lead me into the little apartment, which is small and mildly chaotic, with a large number of books piled on the various surfaces and a small mountain of laundry rising up precariously next to an ironing board, which has been set up in front of the TV.
There’s a couple of acoustic guitars lined neatly up against the sofa, and almost as many vinyl records as there are books scattered around.
‘Let me show you my drawing,’ says Hannah, dashing off excitedly towards what I’m assuming is the door to her bedroom.
A few seconds later, she’s back again, handing me a sheet of paper on which she’s drawn a very round person with a magenta face and two thick black lines under the eyes.
The circle-woman’s mouth is wide open, showing an extremely large set of tonsils, and she appears to be completely naked.
‘Very accurate,’ I tell her, smiling in spite of myself. ‘I love it.’
‘You can keep it if you like,’ she replies, pleased. ‘I can always do another one.’
‘Well, thank you very much, Hannah,’ I reply, folding up the drawing and slipping it into the pocket on the front of my pyjama top. ‘I’ll treasure this. Now, I think it’s probably time we got you into bed, don’t you? It’s very late.’
Hannah puts up a token protest at this suggestion, but allows me to accompany her to her room (which is much tidier than the rest of the flat, and decorated with bright pink bedding and cushions) and tuck her into bed.
‘You will stay, won’t you, Rosie?’ she says pleadingly, as I finish arranging her staggeringly large collection of stuffed animals around her in an order that corresponds exactly to her extremely detailed instructions. ‘You’re not going to leave me on my own, are you?’
I look at her sceptically. I’m pretty sure she isn’t even the tiniest bit scared of being on her own but, at the same time, it doesn’t feel right to just leave her here.
What was her father thinking of, leaving a seven-year-old girl alone at this time of night?
Making up my mind to hang around at least until I can ask him this question myself, I smile reassuringly at her.
‘Sure,’ I tell her. ‘Now get to sleep.’
I turn to leave, but then another thought occurs to me, prompted by the thought of Hannah being the ghost I thought I’d seen when I arrived.
‘Hannah?’ I ask, halfway through the door. ‘You didn’t go into my room this morning by any chance, did you?’
‘Your room?’ She peeks at me over the top of the covers. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, really,’ I reply, not wanting to scare her.
‘It’s just . . . I thought I’d lost some of my clothes for a bit; but then they turned up again.
It was quite funny, really. I wondered if you might have moved them?
You know, as a prank? You can tell me if you did,’ I add quickly. ‘I won’t be angry.’
‘I’m not allowed to go into the guest rooms,’ Hannah replies, shaking her head vehemently. ‘I’d get into so much trouble. And I couldn’t, anyway. Dante always locks the spare keys away. He has a special box he keeps them in.’
‘Ah, I see,’ I reply, filing this piece of information away in case I need it later. ‘Oh well, never mind. I just wondered if you might know anything about it. It was probably just me being silly.’
‘Probably,’ says Hannah, snuggling back down. ‘Either that or Dante took them. He’s always sneaking around.’
‘Is he?’
‘Oh, yes. I see him sometimes. He doesn’t see me, though.’
She gives me a cheeky wink, and I smile back before closing the bedroom door, already thinking about how to find out what Dante was up to today; because while I can think of no earthly reason why he’d want to mess around with a guest’s clothes, the fact remains, someone did it.
And wouldn’t the man with access to all the spare room keys be the number one suspect?