10. Silent as the Grave #3
“Honestly, now it’s a matter of pride,” I say. And dignity, and sheer mulishness.
I end up half sliding, half windmilling down the rest of the steps. Once we reach the bottom, I jump upright and smooth out my ExorSquad uniform.
“You’re a natural,” Trystan says through a suppressed smirk.
“Being a ghost is frankly a lot harder than it looks.”
We don’t bother to find the door. Apparently, “doors are for fleshies,” so we simply float through the hotel’s external wall. Thick grey granite whites out my vision momentarily before the setting sun pokes me violently in the eyes.
The weather’s nothing like the storms of last night.
There’s not a cloud in the sky today and it’s actually warm.
I can feel the sun’s rays on my . . . well, not skin because I don’t have that any more, but my .
. . essence? My spirit? Soul? It feels good.
Somehow, I’d forgotten all about these tiny pleasures.
“This way,” Trystan says, float-walking towards the edge of the cliff.
I follow along behind him, searching for some kind of final destination. A chalet, a hut, or a path that will lead us down to the beach. Please, god, not more steps.
“Jeanie has the honeymoon suite,” he says, as we draw closer and closer to the craggy drop.
“Pixie’s space is the largest dressing room connected to the stage.
Peter’ll stay close to Helga, in her office usually.
Camille has the forest room in the spa. Stove sticks to the caves under the hotel, and Josh likes the ‘Teen Zone’ on the first floor next to the kids’ club, but he can often be found lurking wherever a group of teenage girls might congregate. And Elsie—”
“Elsie?” I suddenly remember the list. Pixie had it last and hadn’t given it back to me, but when I plunge my hand into my back pocket, my fingers close around the note once again. It’s uncrinkled and no longer bears the tiny star I scribbled in the corner. Damn. “Elsie Maplethorpe?”
There are at least three names on this paper whose spirits I didn’t meet earlier.
“Elsie’s in a looooong stasis. She told us only to wake her if something interesting happened, like someone dying again . . . Crumb bums, we should let her know about you.”
“What about these guys, Saul and Jason?” I ask.
“Not all people remain as ghosts. Saul and Jason disappeared on the same night, but nobody ever met their spirits. I guess they both just . . . moved on.”
“They didn’t have any unfinished business?” I suggest.
“Yeah, probably,” Trystan agrees.
“Okay, but what about this half a guy?” I point to the fifth line down.
4.5. Unidentified male guest (lower half) ??? – 06/06/2012. Cause of death: unknown
“Ohhh, that’s Magnus. Magnus is . . . what’s the polite way to say certifiably batshit bonkers?”
“I believe the PC term is that he’s a character,” I say.
Trystan laughs. “Yup, he certainly is a character. So, one day, Pixie and I were taking a stroll through the gardens, and this guy comes running across the tennis courts, screaming at the top of his lungs. He’s buck ass naked.
That was Magnus, and now he’s doomed to spend his afterlife swinging free.
He’ll occasionally hang about with us if we’re doing group shit, but he rarely bothers.
He thinks we’re all conspiracy theorists because we know we were murdered. ”
“How did he die?” I ask, stopping in my tracks because we’ve reached the edge of the cliff and there’s not a path in sight, not even any dreaded steps.
“His story changes. The last time I asked, he was a stunt man piloting a helicopter, and he pressed the ejector-seat button too soon.” Trystan shrugs.
“I don’t know too much about helicopters, but I’m fairly certain an ejector seat, if it exists, would not send its passenger upwards into rotating blades. ”
“Good point,” I say.
Trystan stares over the side of the cliff.
For the most part, it’s a sheer drop of about a hundred metres, but nearer to the bottom, craggy “shelves” jut out at random angles, like teeth from a rusty chainsaw blade.
After the rocks, there is nothing but golden sand for maybe half a kilometre.
From this height, the holiday makers, surfers, and dog walkers look like tiny specks.
“So, remember when I asked you before if you wanted to be carried down the stairs?” he says, eyes still fixed on the beachgoers.
“Oh . . . wait . . . No, I don’t think—”
“Hop in.” He finally turns to me, arms out again.
Damn, I want to. I really, really want to. But . . .
“Or you can take the steps down. I know how fond of those you are. There are three hundred and twelve of them, known locally as Jacob’s Ladder, and they start all the way from over there.” He points to the left.
I have to squint to see the signposted archway indicating the top of the steps. “Uh . . .”
I mean, I can’t die again. Can I? Maybe from shame.
“Okay?” I say.
Trystan scoops me into his arms like he’s the hunky lifeguard come to pluck me out of the ocean to save me. “Good lad,” he says, then he jumps off the edge.