Post by Dreadlocksmile on Jul 29, 2009 22:02:07 GMT
This short was written for a competition entry for the up and coming realease of Christopher Ransom's novel 'The Birthing House'. The tale had to be themed around a haunted house, which was much to my annoyance. My short managed to come within the top 10 entries and as such, I won an impressive looking 'competition winners only' boxset of the book.
I hope you enjoy it.
Here's my story...
“I guess it all starts back here, in the St Andrews hospital for the disabled” begins Dennis Oldman, eyes downcast as he slowly starts his tale. Anthony Matthews, a young writer fresh out of university and eager to take down the story, begins scribbling his notes in shorthand.
Matthews glances up, waiting for the man’s raspy voice to continue on from this initial introduction. Far off down a near-by corridor, the squeaking rubber wheels of an aged wheelchair pierces the silence between the two men as the vexatious echoes reverberate through the ward.
The writer lets out a small deliberate cough, which seems to waken the elderly man from his thoughts.
Cautiously at first, the words begin tumbling from behind his withered lips. Like tumbleweed caught in a wind, Oldman’s words pick up pace, almost as if the tale had started telling itself. The eager young writer’s eyes darted from his notepad to that of the aged storyteller and then back down to his notepad again, as he resumed his frantic scribbling of the story that was unfolding before him. His shorthand was loose, producing seemingly erratic symbols across the page, whilst Oldman’s mind was once again reliving those horrific hours that had changed his life forever...
You see, working in these wards for so long, you scrabble for things to pass the time. I had taken to reading the monthly publications that pour into the ward in somewhat of a continuous flow. It’s the relatives you see. They don’t want to bother themselves with their disabled brothers, sisters, parents...sometimes even forgotten lovers. So to keep a lid on their guilt, they take out subscriptions on behalf of these poor unfortunates. These publications first come through to the hospital workers, who from time to time, spend portions of their shifts browsing through the endless literature that has become so readily available to them.
I worked nights back then. On my ward I had the misfortune to be responsible for an irritating little man by the name of Arthur Tuesbury. As it so happened, Tuesbury’s monthly subscription to ‘Weird Tales’ had become somewhat of a favourite late night read for me. Indeed, this was the only redeeming feature of having this irksome man within my ward. Tuesbury had it in his head that he was a writer. Not just any writer, but he had the audacity to claim on many occasion that he was once a very well respected and highly revered author of some quite influential novels of his time no less.
Of course none of us believed him. We humoured him, but never really gave the man’s inane mumblings much thought. That was true of myself too you know. That is, until Arthur Tuesbury finally passed on at the grand old age of ninety-two.
I went to sorting through the few belongings he kept in the hospital with him. Whilst collecting together what was left of his worthless possessions, I came across a leather bound book that was crammed full to bursting of hand written notes. They were more than notes actually. Within the pages were collections of tales concerning ghostly apparitions and bizarre encounters. His scrawl was difficult to read, but I was deeply intrigued, and so one night I sat down at my usual desk located in the far corner of the ward and began to read these ramblings, to see what this old fool had put down to paper.
I’m irritated to say that this fatuous imbecile’s stories were actually quite good. Not just good, they were uniquely original, and I must add, chilling to the bone. Stories of ghosts and curses.. madmen and cannibals… the crazed and the truly bizarre.
Now you see, the previous evening I had noticed this competition within the ‘Weird Tales’ publication I had been browsing. The advertisement had managed to catch my eye for some reason or another. It was possibly due to the grainy photo that accompanied the competition’s text. You see, the photograph was of this grand old Victorian hotel that looked just like it had been taken straight out of a tacky horror film. The prize for the competition was to spend an all expenses paid weekend in that very hotel.
Anyway, I had skimmed through the competition advert, and I remembered that the task at hand was to write a macabre tale involving a haunted house. Now the idea came to me. That old codger Arthur was bound to have scribbled down a tale involving a haunted house in some form or another. You must understand that I am not in the habit of plagiarising other peoples work. Nor indeed do I take any satisfaction whatsoever in taking the credit for someone else’s work. However, if I could write one myself I would have done just that. Alas, I cannot write for dirt; but who would be any the wiser if I sent in one of that old sods pieces. And the stories he had left behind would only have been thrown out anyway. That is if I didn’t take such positive action to preserve the work.
So that very night I filled in the application form, and copied out word for word the closest tale I could decipher that included the ghostly haunting of a house. The one I selected from amongst the stack left involved a child who had become trapped within a deserted old house. The story pulsed with dark tension, as it seemed to swallow up the child and the reader as one. I duly signed the last page and left it in one of the outbound post trays.
Two weeks later, after reflecting that the whole thing had been a waste of time, I received a letter from the publishers informing me that my short story was exactly what they were after. Not only that, but the editor proclaimed that the story had kept him up half the night afterwards. I too thought back how impressed I had been by the previously unperceived talents of our former patient.
So I quickly replied to the letter, setting out the proposed dates for my lodgings, and began gearing myself up for a weekend of luxury in one of the finest hotels I had ever laid eyes on.
A few weeks passed by until finally the weekend of my break to the Hanbury Hotel was upon me. The ward manager at the time was a royal oaf by the name of Trevor. He had it in for me, always had. Anyway, I was forced to work the entirety of the evening shift that last Friday night, putting my expected time of arrival for my weekend at the Hanbury Hotel back to at least after eleven at night.
As it turned out, a train ran to the nearest village that was located just a few miles along some winding country lanes from the Hotel. This small, two carriage excuse for a train departed at a very unprecedented yet unbelievably convenient time for me; considering my apparently inflexible work commitments. So after catching a further ride from the train station in what must have been the most decrepit taxi left running, I finally arrived at the grand entrance to Hanbury Hotel.
As I remember, the night air had a chill to it that seeped through the fabric of my rain coat, so I ascended the aged stone steps to the hotel entrance with somewhat of a brisk pace. With every step up towards the vast entranceway of the hotel that I took, more of the intricate stonework and glorious archaeological artistry became apparent to my eyes. The outside of the hotel truly was a sight to behold, let alone the ostentatious lobby that awaited my arrival at the peak of the stairs.
The lobby was empty as I entered the warmth of the hotel. A fire was crackling away in the centre of the far wall, bursting with warmth and stately charm. I cautiously approached the reception desk, unsure whether ringing the bell at this hour would be deemed somewhat socially unacceptable. Not being particularly endowed with wealth in anyway whatsoever, I was constantly conscious that I was outside of my usual customary surroundings, lodging within such a luxurious and palatial establishment.
I did not have long to wait as I stood there deliberating whether or not to use the service bell, before a smartly dressed gentleman entered the lobby by way of a magnificent solid oak door, set off at one of the room sides. The middle aged man was dressed in a thick tweed suit, a finely pressed shirt and an inconspicuous brown tie. He nodded in way of acknowledgement at me, then put on a brisk stroll in my direction, hand outstretched in a very gentlemanly greeting. After this courteous welcome, he introduced himself as the hotel’s owner and asked if a reservation had been made. I started to explain that this had all been done via the editors of a certain publication I had written for, when a sudden look of delight spread across the man’s face. I was assured that my reservation was all in order and that indeed the hotel had been expecting me. I was shown the checking-in book, in which I scrawled my slightly illegible signature in, I must say, a more flamboyant fashion than is normal for me, and I was then ushered to the grand staircase that wound its way from the far edge of the lobby’s hallway. My eyes followed the staircase as it twisted back on itself, ascending upwards to the first floor corridor that no doubt overlooked the hotels ample front courtyard.
After handing my small and well worn suitcase to the manager, I followed the man at a brisk pace, as we mounted each of the huge carpet covered stairs. Conversation as I remember was minimal between us, yet still with a polite air to it. After making our way through a labyrinth of ornately decorated corridors, each displaying a number of intricate oil paintings, we eventually came to the room which I was informed would be my residence for the next two nights.
The manager unlocked the room’s solid oak door that bore one-hundred-and-thirty-eight in gold numbers on its front. He pushed the door open whilst standing to the side, in one smooth and well rehearsed motion. As I stepped into the room, the manager flicked a switch to the inside and left of the door, and the room was suddenly illuminated from the numerous elegant lights that were mounted along each wall, revealing a large and luxurious room that was spread out before me.
As I entered further into the plush room, my shoes sinking into the thick pile of the carpet, I was brushed aside in a friendly manner by the hotel manager as he skirted past me to unburden himself of my luggage onto the bed top.
“Will sir be dining at all tonight?” questioned the manager in his smooth, finely polished voice that I expect he had perfected over the years of his working here.
I had barely eaten a thing since lunch, but with the strong feeling of being out of place within such an establishment, I did not want to make a fuss at such a late hour. I also knew that stashed within the depths of my newly acquired suitcase (courtesy of our previously long-standing patient to whom I owed this whole weekend), was a half eaten packet of biscuits and a flask of now, no doubt, cold soup. However, these items would surely see me through until the morning when standard meal times would make me more at ease.
I thanked the manger anyway, offering up a small untruth that I had managed to eat on my journey up here. With that he nodded a farewell and left me to my own devices within the luxurious confines of the room.
That night I dined on the biscuits and cold soup. Then with the hour approaching midnight, I finished unpacking and settled myself in the bed for a very good nights sleep.
Morning woke me by way of a glorious ray of sunshine that cut through the room from between the smallest of gaps left by the thick curtains.
As I swung my legs out from beneath the sheets, my feet caressed the soft surface of the carpet and I became aware of the sounds of life that emanated from directly below my room. Stretching to rid myself of the after effects of a long and deep sleep, I began the morning rituals of washing, shaving and generally preparing myself for the day.
Throughout these chores, I was constantly aware of the chaotic noise that penetrated upwards through the floorboards and which seemed to reverberate around the confines of my room. I couldn’t help but think of how thin the floorboards must be for the sound to travel so well, especially with such a lush and thick carpet laid over them. For a hotel of such high calibre, I was somewhat taken aback by the whole scenario.
Without any real focus on the sounds, it was obvious that the room sat directly above the hotel’s kitchen, with the sound of pans and crockery and kitchen staff talking; all clear as day to my ears.
I left the room after not too long, at first retracing my steps of last night, in search of the dining room area, whereby I could enjoy one of the luxuries of staying in such a hotel; with a hearty full English breakfast. After a couple of steps I noticed a sign that declared the dining room to be in the opposite direction from which I was walking.
Turning back, I made my way past the room that I was staying and after passing a few more guest rooms, I was confronted with a door, which once opened revealed a large wooden staircase that descended to what was obviously the dining room.
Following these steps downwards, I was greeted by a waitress upon my arrival of the ground floor. I was asked if I was partaking in breakfast and after confirming that I would be, I was taken to a small table by a window that overlooked the great expanse of the hotel’s luscious gardens.
I ate well, consuming more than I should have and indeed more than I have done for quite some time. When I had finished and my plate had been taken away, a different, younger looking waitress approached my table, offering a refill for my now half empty coffee.
I accepted with thanks, and as it was being poured the waitress looked up from my coffee cup smiling at me.
“You’re the one who won that literary competition, aren’t you?” the waitress’s confident voice declared with a sparkle of something close to mischief in her eyes.
Slightly taken aback, I looked up to see the girl’s pretty features beaming down at me with a warming smile that showed the question was of true interest to her and not just an attempt at polite conversation.
A slight glimmer of uncertainty darted across her face for a second as I stared at her blankly, until my shocked silence was suddenly broken when my brain finally kicked in.
“Oh...yes! That’s me. It was just a short story competition I entered” I proclaimed with a hefty underlying pride shimmering through my words. “How did you know it was me?” I enquired, a little bemused by the girl’s assumption.
Another thin smile crept over the waitress’s face, as she placed the pot of coffee down onto my table and swept some loose hair back behind her ear.
“An educated guess! Well, that and the simple fact that yours is a new face this weekend. There aren’t many other guests staying here this weekend, apart from a handful that’ve been here for the majority of the week so far.”
“I see.” I replied glancing around the mostly empty dining room.
“It’s always the same this time of year. People only want to stay in a hotel like this when the weathers got at least a fifty-fifty chance of being half decent.”
“Well, that’s understandable I guess”. My thoughts returned back to the girl’s introductory enquiry regarding my reason for being here. “So, you heard about the competition then?” I asked, trying my best to sound only half-interested.
“Oh yes. It’s been quite the talk of the hotel for the last few weeks. What with it being a competition on a ghost story and all.” With that said, the young waitress leaned forward and started collecting together the remaining dirty cutlery that lay on my table.
“This hotel’s haunted you know” the girl suddenly proclaimed, almost as something of a side-thought. “So says most of the staff. That and a number of the guests who’ve stayed here that is. Some of ‘em reckon they’ve seen this ghostly apparition that’s supposed to haunt the place.”
“Is that so?” I asked, my mind mulling over the idea as I stared down at my freshly re-filled coffee.
“Yeah...it’s what they say. God’s honest truth. Supposed to be one of the previous managers of the hotel from many years ago. He apparently found out that one of his employees had been having this long standing affair with his wife. When he went to confront him in the hotel kitchen, he only went and caught the guy thieving some of the expensive silver cutlery from one of the drawers as well. That just rubbed salt into the wound further, if you know what I mean. The manager flipped his lid and beat the guy unconscious right there and then. Then, and so the story goes, he apparently cut off this fella’s arms and legs with a butchers cleaver. Made him into a complete vegetable. Then he went and done himself in. He was found hanging from one of the beams within the kitchen’s storeroom, by a length of rope or something. So the story goes anyway.”
I noticed that I had been sitting completely still throughout the story, transfixed by the tale of the hotel’s apparent haunting. Slightly embarrassed, all I could think of to say was to repeat my “is that so?” comment.
“Like I said…It’s what they say anyway. Tell you what. Why don’t you have a chat with the manager later on about it? He loves talking about it; hyping it up and all. He thinks it could actually be good for business here. Not the other way round as most people assume. Over the years he’s actually got kind of obsessed about the whole thing. I reckon it’s because he’s one of the few who works here who hasn’t actually seen it”.
“Have you?” I interrupted.
“I think so. I’m not sure really. I saw something one night, but I can’t be sure what it was, if you know what I mean.”
“Anyone ever try to document it? Photograph it, or take some sort of scientific readings or something?” I asked, now truly intrigued by the whole affair.
“Well, the manager goes through phases of trying to catch a glimpse of the ghost. He often leaves his camera set up in the kitchen in case he gets the chance to snap a few pictures of it. It’s always seen in the kitchen you see; never anywhere else. That’s where the ghost’s supposed to haunt. That’s why they reckon it’s this ex-manager who’s haunting the place. The kitchen’s apparently where he cut up that thieving chap and where he then killed himself afterwards.”
“All sounds a bit too far fetched to me”. As soon as I said the words I regretted them. That’s one of my problems. I never think before I talk. Still, my comment didn’t seem to bother the girl whilst she went about picking up the remaining items from my table.
“Like I said, speak to the manager. He can tell you more about it all than I can. You never know; could inspire you to do some more writing on the subject. You’ve obviously got some talent for it; otherwise you wouldn’t have won that competition”.
I smiled and told her that I might well do just that as she left the table making a straight line towards a big set of double doors that obviously lead to the kitchen area. I sat there and thought...that was the kitchen that she had just been talking about. The hotel’s supposedly haunted kitchen.
I sat there pondering the story the waitress had just told me, unsure whether to take any truth from it or not. It all seemed to me to be constructed more from hearsay, rather than that of true fact. Nevertheless it made for an interesting tale that had managed to ensnare me by its intriguing nature.
As the day wore on I found my thoughts returning to the story of the ex-hotel manager and the haunting in the hotel’s kitchen. For some reason the tale had struck a chord with me. There was something that seemed so unfeasibly genuine about the story; something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something that at the back of my mind made me think that maybe there was some truth lurking behind the whole thing after all.
I spent the rest of the day roaming the expansive gardens that encircled the hotel. I took a notepad around with me in the vain attempt of keeping up the impression that I was a serious writer. Every now and again, when I thought someone was watching, I would unhook the pen from behind my ear and proceed to jot down some gibberish that to others would have the appearance of sudden inspiration for a novel in progress. Indeed, if that was really the case, almost my entire day would have been taken up by sudden flashes of inspiration.
Later on, as the sun began sinking behind the hills, I returned to the hotel in the hope of catching the manager. Not once had I stumbled across him during the day. I presumed that he must be busy with running his various errands and the general upkeep of the hotel and its grounds. I still wished to question him regarding the ghostly sightings that had played on my mind all day long.
Dusk soon took hold and before long the blackness of night had crept in and still no sign of the illusive manger. As I ate in the hotel’s dining room, I kept an eye out for either the manager or the young waitress that had spoken to me that morning. It soon became apparent that the waitress had finished her shift at some stage during the course of the day and had gone home; whereas the manager simply wasn’t to be seen anywhere.
When another young looking, but not quite so pretty waitress came over with the desert menu, I enquired after the manager. At first her reaction was a worried one, until I put her mind at ease by informing her that it wasn’t to make a complaint or anything of the sort. I simply wished to enquire about a small matter that I thought he could help me with. I didn’t want to make it known to the girl that I was enquiring after the local ghost stories, for fear of being laughed at by a possible non-believer.
I was informed that the manager had gone out for a while, but would be back in an hour or two. I was asked if I would like to leave a message for him, which she would make sure was passed on. I declined her kind offer, preferring to wait until I had the opportunity to speak to the man in person myself.
I retired to the guests lounge, planning on catching up with the day’s news and events from one of the daily rags that were left in there for the guests use. A few other guests had decided upon the same idea and so I found myself engaged in spurts of conversation with these other residents. Talk mainly revolved around articles they had read in the newspapers and other such current events they apparently deemed of interest to us all.
The evening drew on until finally I decided that I would make one final attempt to locate the manager before I headed off to bed.
I headed for the lobby area where I had first met the hotel manager. As I approached the large oak doors that I believed would lead into the lobby itself, I stumbled across the waitress I had spoken to a few hours ago in the dining room.
When she asked me if I had managed to speak to the manager, I told her that I hadn’t made a particularly concerted effort to track him down thus far. I informed her that my query wasn’t of any great importance, but that I was actually on my way to see if I could find him now. I asked if she might have any idea as to his current whereabouts. The girl apologised again on the manager’s behalf, which seemed slightly unnecessary to me, but I was sure it was only a matter of good manners. She explained that the manager had recently been suffering from a very mild case of insomnia and had taken to early nights by way of attempting to counteract it.
I thanked her for her time and said I would seek him out first thing in the morning. She in turn informed me that she would let the manager know that I had been looking for him. I thanked her once again and made my way back to the room I was staying in, where I could put my head down for another very good night’s sleep.
As it turned out, a very good night’s sleep would be a lot harder than I thought.
As I lay in the comfort of the large double bed, blankets pulled up tight to my head, I was awoken by a slight thumping noise that seemed to be emanating from somewhere directly below me. I reached for the lamp that stood perched on the bedside table, and with the sudden glare of the light, I sat up in bed squinting at the clock face on my pocket watch. The time read a few minutes after two in the morning. That was no time for someone to be crashing around in such a fashion, with paying guests trying to sleep on the floors above.
With a sudden realisation, it hit me. Directly below the room I was staying in was the kitchen area. The kitchen that I had been informed was supposedly haunted.
I sat there holding my breath, eager to hear another sound from below. What seemed like an eternity passed before suddenly, there it was again; a dull thumping noise that echoed around the silent confines of my room.
I had not been mistaken. Sure enough, someone or something was down there. How long the noises had been carrying on for, I had no way of knowing, for I have always been somewhat of a heavy sleeper. Nevertheless, the volume of whatever was going on downstairs in the kitchen was sufficient enough to have awakened me from my deep slumber.
I made up my mind to investigate the source of this commotion; paranormal or not, I was intent on knowing the answer. I spun my legs out from under the bed’s blankets and collected together my dressing gown which I threw on over my pyjamas.
Clothed enough for the late night investigation ahead of me, I opened the door to my room, dropped the key in my pocket and moved into the hallway.
As I turned towards the doorway at the end of the passageway, I was just quick enough to glimpse the sight of the hotel manager through the glass of the door, as he started to descend the stairs that led on to the dining room area below.
I put on a brisk jog, my bare feet landing in the lightest possible way for this speed, in an attempt to catch up with the manager. Swinging the door open, I bounded down the stairs two at a time, and as I approached the descending figure, he turned to see who was pursuing him so eagerly at this time of the night.
Recognising me, the startled expression on the manager’s face was quickly replaced by an insincere smile that cleverly hid his obvious bewilderment of the current situation.
I slowed my pace now that I had been seen, and was slightly taken aback when the manager quietly beckoned me onwards with his right hand and turning his back on me, carried on with his route towards the kitchens.
Bemused but still intrigued, I continued on down the stairs and across the hotel’s dining room. With each step I took I was only marginally gaining on the manager, as his long legs strode across the deserted dining room.
As I reached the double doors that would open out to the hotel kitchens, the manager was just pushing open one of the doors. The noise that was emanating from within increased dramatically in volume with the removal of the door as a sound barrier.
Standing in the open doorway, I stood side-by-side with the stationary manager who was silently peering into the large expanse of the kitchen within.
We watched amazed as the figure of a man, whom I had not seen before, moved around the kitchen, oblivious to our watchful gaze.
As we stared, the man continued moving utensils from one side of the kitchen to the other; sometimes positioning, then repositioning the items; until entirely happy with their final destination.
After watching the man move from one end of the kitchen to the other a few times, the manager motioned for me to step aside so that he could enter the kitchen area. I obliged, and followed the man in after a short and apprehensive pause.
Carefully closing the door behind me fearing the noise of it swinging shut, we moved across the kitchen floor in single file, approaching the stationary figure of the man who had remained with his back turned to us, oblivious of our approach. Our footsteps were silent within the room, the only noise was emanating from the smartly dressed figure before us.
As we neared this mysterious intruder, the manager’s shadow crept forwards, alerting the man to our advancing presence, as it cast over the work surface before him.
He turned to face us with a look of alarm across his face. Clutched firmly in his right hand, was the unmistakeable shape of a large steel carving knife. My attention was quickly diverted to the gleam of the hefty blade as it swung around in the man’s hand. This time there was no trace of recognition from the manager by my side, as there had been when he met me on the stairs a minute ago. This simple fact set further alarm bells ringing throughout my head.
Panic struck me, as the sudden realisation of our foolhardy predicament became apparent. We were standing in the middle of a supposedly haunted kitchen, in the dead of night, with a man before us, paranormal or not, who was clutching a large carving knife.
I would in no way class myself as a coward, but seeing this figure before me holding a blade of such length, put me in a state of sheer panic. In one swift motion, I turned and fled from the figure, hurtling towards the door that stood opposite me. The sound of feet pounding on the tiled kitchen floor behind me transformed my panic into an uncontrollable fear for my life.
I ripped at the door handle, throwing it open in one forceful tug and darted into the darkness beyond. This was no dining room. In my panic induced confusion, I had mistakenly taken the wrong door and now found myself within the confines of a small darkened room.
I turned, heart pounding in my chest, to see the approaching figure of the hotel manager hurtling towards the open door. I was relieved for a second that the pursuing footsteps were those of the manager and not the knife wielding stranger. Then, as the manager leapt through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him, the room was submerged into total blackness.
A split second before the door had closed, I had managed to glimpse a slight outline of our current surroundings, from the small amount of light that was cast through the open doorway. We had obviously thrown ourselves into some sort of walk-in storeroom. Shelves stacked high with all kinds of assorted packets and tinned foods, towered upwards on either side of us.
No sound appeared to come from beyond the door. I stood there waiting in the pitch black for something to happen, but nothing came. Then, without any warning, light shattered the darkness away, revealing the figure of the manager, his finger pressed against the light switch on the wall by the doorway.
As my eyes adjusted to the sudden surge of light, I watched as the manager produced a sturdy looking key from his pocket, inserted it into the door’s keyhole and then twisted it clockwise. A soft but reassuring clunk came from the door. Seconds later the handle began to lift and drop, as the person on the other side attempted to gain access.
“Who the hell is that?” I shouted towards the manager as I pointed onwards in the direction of the storeroom door.
The manager stood completely still, his back now pressed against the door, his wide eyes staring across at me.
“That’s him isn’t it?” I screamed at the silent man before me. “That’s the ghost! That’s the ghost of the murderous manager! God help us, its going to kill us isn’t it?”
All of a sudden the door handle abruptly stopped its incessant dance and instead, rattling sounds began to come from within the mechanics of the door’s lock.
I dashed forwards, hands outstretched for the key that protruded from the door lock. Shoving the manager aside, I gripped the key in my trembling hand. I could feel a slight tremor through the metal, as an attempt for another key to be inserted into the lock on the other side of the door was obviously being made.
Desperately clutching the protruding key’s length in my hand, I felt another surge of movement against it, then nothing. Behind the door no further sound came. No further attempts to open the door followed. There was nothing but silence once again.
A sudden wave of relief washed over me, and I dropped my hands away from the door. I rested my forehead against the heavy oak of the door, a huge and long overdue sigh escaping my lips. I had no idea that I had been holding my breath up until now. Indeed, I had no further idea how long I had been holding it for.
I stood there for a while, simply allowing my heart rate to slow itself.
Feeling a little more relaxed and with no further sounds coming from behind the storeroom door, I lifted my head away from its surface. As my eyes focussed once again, I noticed that an image was mounted on the door before me. My heart began to slowly sink into an abyss it would never again escape from.
A thick thatch of a greying moustache nested above the smug grin on the man’s face. Hair slicked back barely hiding the obvious thinning underneath; the photo before me was unmistakably of the man we had just escaped from within the kitchen. Above the photo in large bold printed lettering bore the legend ‘Certificate of General Catering Awarded to the Hanbury Hotel’. My eyes darted directly below the photo, its meaning slowly penetrating my confused mind. More words, this time corresponding to the photo read ‘Mr T A Spooner, Proprietor & Manager’. Next to this bore the year in which this certificate was awarded. The year was the current year.
A shadow suddenly engulfed the doorway around me. I turned on the spot, back pressed against the solid wood of the storeroom door. My mind became aware of muffled voices emanating from behind the door.
As I looked up, I was confronted by the stone cold face of the man I was sharing this storeroom with. This was the man I had confused with being the hotel manager. Indeed, I knew now that at one stage he had been the manager of this very hotel. But that was a long time ago, and his life had since ended here in this kitchen’s storeroom.
I was aware of the renewed and now more vigorous attempts at opening the door from behind me, as I watched the cold metal of the meat cleaver slowly lifting into the air. A brilliant arc of light sliced through the gloom of the storeroom, the stark light from the bulb above reflecting on the polished surface of the solid steel butcher’s utensil, as it swung down towards me.
Anthony Matthews stops writing and peers up from his pad into the downcast eyes of the frail old man that sits before him. A look of utter sadness is plastered across the man’s features. Dennis Oldman sits there in silence, his eyes staring blankly down at the desk in front of him.
The reporter glances down at the notes resting on the table, re-reading the last few statements that he had written across the page. The words seem unreal.
His heart almost bursts from his chest when “Nurse!” is suddenly bellowed from the man sitting opposite him.
The young reporter looks up from his pad once again, seeing the face of Dennis Oldman staring back at him, whilst a middle-aged woman wearing a pure white cotton nurse’s outfit appears by his side.
“You can take me back to my room now nurse. I’ve finished talking to Mr Matthews. I do believe he now has everything he needs for his report.”
A small nod is all that is offered in the way of a reply from the reporter.
The nurse looks towards Matthews, a thin smile cracking her face, then with a loud thud, releases the wheelchair break and begins wheeling away the old man.
No words escape from Matthews’s open mouth, as he watches the limbless form of Dennis Oldman wheeled down the silent ward away from him.
© Chris Hall 2009
I hope you enjoy it.
Here's my story...
The Haunting Of Hanbury Hotel
By Chris Hall
“I guess it all starts back here, in the St Andrews hospital for the disabled” begins Dennis Oldman, eyes downcast as he slowly starts his tale. Anthony Matthews, a young writer fresh out of university and eager to take down the story, begins scribbling his notes in shorthand.
Matthews glances up, waiting for the man’s raspy voice to continue on from this initial introduction. Far off down a near-by corridor, the squeaking rubber wheels of an aged wheelchair pierces the silence between the two men as the vexatious echoes reverberate through the ward.
The writer lets out a small deliberate cough, which seems to waken the elderly man from his thoughts.
Cautiously at first, the words begin tumbling from behind his withered lips. Like tumbleweed caught in a wind, Oldman’s words pick up pace, almost as if the tale had started telling itself. The eager young writer’s eyes darted from his notepad to that of the aged storyteller and then back down to his notepad again, as he resumed his frantic scribbling of the story that was unfolding before him. His shorthand was loose, producing seemingly erratic symbols across the page, whilst Oldman’s mind was once again reliving those horrific hours that had changed his life forever...
You see, working in these wards for so long, you scrabble for things to pass the time. I had taken to reading the monthly publications that pour into the ward in somewhat of a continuous flow. It’s the relatives you see. They don’t want to bother themselves with their disabled brothers, sisters, parents...sometimes even forgotten lovers. So to keep a lid on their guilt, they take out subscriptions on behalf of these poor unfortunates. These publications first come through to the hospital workers, who from time to time, spend portions of their shifts browsing through the endless literature that has become so readily available to them.
I worked nights back then. On my ward I had the misfortune to be responsible for an irritating little man by the name of Arthur Tuesbury. As it so happened, Tuesbury’s monthly subscription to ‘Weird Tales’ had become somewhat of a favourite late night read for me. Indeed, this was the only redeeming feature of having this irksome man within my ward. Tuesbury had it in his head that he was a writer. Not just any writer, but he had the audacity to claim on many occasion that he was once a very well respected and highly revered author of some quite influential novels of his time no less.
Of course none of us believed him. We humoured him, but never really gave the man’s inane mumblings much thought. That was true of myself too you know. That is, until Arthur Tuesbury finally passed on at the grand old age of ninety-two.
I went to sorting through the few belongings he kept in the hospital with him. Whilst collecting together what was left of his worthless possessions, I came across a leather bound book that was crammed full to bursting of hand written notes. They were more than notes actually. Within the pages were collections of tales concerning ghostly apparitions and bizarre encounters. His scrawl was difficult to read, but I was deeply intrigued, and so one night I sat down at my usual desk located in the far corner of the ward and began to read these ramblings, to see what this old fool had put down to paper.
I’m irritated to say that this fatuous imbecile’s stories were actually quite good. Not just good, they were uniquely original, and I must add, chilling to the bone. Stories of ghosts and curses.. madmen and cannibals… the crazed and the truly bizarre.
Now you see, the previous evening I had noticed this competition within the ‘Weird Tales’ publication I had been browsing. The advertisement had managed to catch my eye for some reason or another. It was possibly due to the grainy photo that accompanied the competition’s text. You see, the photograph was of this grand old Victorian hotel that looked just like it had been taken straight out of a tacky horror film. The prize for the competition was to spend an all expenses paid weekend in that very hotel.
Anyway, I had skimmed through the competition advert, and I remembered that the task at hand was to write a macabre tale involving a haunted house. Now the idea came to me. That old codger Arthur was bound to have scribbled down a tale involving a haunted house in some form or another. You must understand that I am not in the habit of plagiarising other peoples work. Nor indeed do I take any satisfaction whatsoever in taking the credit for someone else’s work. However, if I could write one myself I would have done just that. Alas, I cannot write for dirt; but who would be any the wiser if I sent in one of that old sods pieces. And the stories he had left behind would only have been thrown out anyway. That is if I didn’t take such positive action to preserve the work.
So that very night I filled in the application form, and copied out word for word the closest tale I could decipher that included the ghostly haunting of a house. The one I selected from amongst the stack left involved a child who had become trapped within a deserted old house. The story pulsed with dark tension, as it seemed to swallow up the child and the reader as one. I duly signed the last page and left it in one of the outbound post trays.
Two weeks later, after reflecting that the whole thing had been a waste of time, I received a letter from the publishers informing me that my short story was exactly what they were after. Not only that, but the editor proclaimed that the story had kept him up half the night afterwards. I too thought back how impressed I had been by the previously unperceived talents of our former patient.
So I quickly replied to the letter, setting out the proposed dates for my lodgings, and began gearing myself up for a weekend of luxury in one of the finest hotels I had ever laid eyes on.
A few weeks passed by until finally the weekend of my break to the Hanbury Hotel was upon me. The ward manager at the time was a royal oaf by the name of Trevor. He had it in for me, always had. Anyway, I was forced to work the entirety of the evening shift that last Friday night, putting my expected time of arrival for my weekend at the Hanbury Hotel back to at least after eleven at night.
As it turned out, a train ran to the nearest village that was located just a few miles along some winding country lanes from the Hotel. This small, two carriage excuse for a train departed at a very unprecedented yet unbelievably convenient time for me; considering my apparently inflexible work commitments. So after catching a further ride from the train station in what must have been the most decrepit taxi left running, I finally arrived at the grand entrance to Hanbury Hotel.
As I remember, the night air had a chill to it that seeped through the fabric of my rain coat, so I ascended the aged stone steps to the hotel entrance with somewhat of a brisk pace. With every step up towards the vast entranceway of the hotel that I took, more of the intricate stonework and glorious archaeological artistry became apparent to my eyes. The outside of the hotel truly was a sight to behold, let alone the ostentatious lobby that awaited my arrival at the peak of the stairs.
The lobby was empty as I entered the warmth of the hotel. A fire was crackling away in the centre of the far wall, bursting with warmth and stately charm. I cautiously approached the reception desk, unsure whether ringing the bell at this hour would be deemed somewhat socially unacceptable. Not being particularly endowed with wealth in anyway whatsoever, I was constantly conscious that I was outside of my usual customary surroundings, lodging within such a luxurious and palatial establishment.
I did not have long to wait as I stood there deliberating whether or not to use the service bell, before a smartly dressed gentleman entered the lobby by way of a magnificent solid oak door, set off at one of the room sides. The middle aged man was dressed in a thick tweed suit, a finely pressed shirt and an inconspicuous brown tie. He nodded in way of acknowledgement at me, then put on a brisk stroll in my direction, hand outstretched in a very gentlemanly greeting. After this courteous welcome, he introduced himself as the hotel’s owner and asked if a reservation had been made. I started to explain that this had all been done via the editors of a certain publication I had written for, when a sudden look of delight spread across the man’s face. I was assured that my reservation was all in order and that indeed the hotel had been expecting me. I was shown the checking-in book, in which I scrawled my slightly illegible signature in, I must say, a more flamboyant fashion than is normal for me, and I was then ushered to the grand staircase that wound its way from the far edge of the lobby’s hallway. My eyes followed the staircase as it twisted back on itself, ascending upwards to the first floor corridor that no doubt overlooked the hotels ample front courtyard.
After handing my small and well worn suitcase to the manager, I followed the man at a brisk pace, as we mounted each of the huge carpet covered stairs. Conversation as I remember was minimal between us, yet still with a polite air to it. After making our way through a labyrinth of ornately decorated corridors, each displaying a number of intricate oil paintings, we eventually came to the room which I was informed would be my residence for the next two nights.
The manager unlocked the room’s solid oak door that bore one-hundred-and-thirty-eight in gold numbers on its front. He pushed the door open whilst standing to the side, in one smooth and well rehearsed motion. As I stepped into the room, the manager flicked a switch to the inside and left of the door, and the room was suddenly illuminated from the numerous elegant lights that were mounted along each wall, revealing a large and luxurious room that was spread out before me.
As I entered further into the plush room, my shoes sinking into the thick pile of the carpet, I was brushed aside in a friendly manner by the hotel manager as he skirted past me to unburden himself of my luggage onto the bed top.
“Will sir be dining at all tonight?” questioned the manager in his smooth, finely polished voice that I expect he had perfected over the years of his working here.
I had barely eaten a thing since lunch, but with the strong feeling of being out of place within such an establishment, I did not want to make a fuss at such a late hour. I also knew that stashed within the depths of my newly acquired suitcase (courtesy of our previously long-standing patient to whom I owed this whole weekend), was a half eaten packet of biscuits and a flask of now, no doubt, cold soup. However, these items would surely see me through until the morning when standard meal times would make me more at ease.
I thanked the manger anyway, offering up a small untruth that I had managed to eat on my journey up here. With that he nodded a farewell and left me to my own devices within the luxurious confines of the room.
That night I dined on the biscuits and cold soup. Then with the hour approaching midnight, I finished unpacking and settled myself in the bed for a very good nights sleep.
Morning woke me by way of a glorious ray of sunshine that cut through the room from between the smallest of gaps left by the thick curtains.
As I swung my legs out from beneath the sheets, my feet caressed the soft surface of the carpet and I became aware of the sounds of life that emanated from directly below my room. Stretching to rid myself of the after effects of a long and deep sleep, I began the morning rituals of washing, shaving and generally preparing myself for the day.
Throughout these chores, I was constantly aware of the chaotic noise that penetrated upwards through the floorboards and which seemed to reverberate around the confines of my room. I couldn’t help but think of how thin the floorboards must be for the sound to travel so well, especially with such a lush and thick carpet laid over them. For a hotel of such high calibre, I was somewhat taken aback by the whole scenario.
Without any real focus on the sounds, it was obvious that the room sat directly above the hotel’s kitchen, with the sound of pans and crockery and kitchen staff talking; all clear as day to my ears.
I left the room after not too long, at first retracing my steps of last night, in search of the dining room area, whereby I could enjoy one of the luxuries of staying in such a hotel; with a hearty full English breakfast. After a couple of steps I noticed a sign that declared the dining room to be in the opposite direction from which I was walking.
Turning back, I made my way past the room that I was staying and after passing a few more guest rooms, I was confronted with a door, which once opened revealed a large wooden staircase that descended to what was obviously the dining room.
Following these steps downwards, I was greeted by a waitress upon my arrival of the ground floor. I was asked if I was partaking in breakfast and after confirming that I would be, I was taken to a small table by a window that overlooked the great expanse of the hotel’s luscious gardens.
I ate well, consuming more than I should have and indeed more than I have done for quite some time. When I had finished and my plate had been taken away, a different, younger looking waitress approached my table, offering a refill for my now half empty coffee.
I accepted with thanks, and as it was being poured the waitress looked up from my coffee cup smiling at me.
“You’re the one who won that literary competition, aren’t you?” the waitress’s confident voice declared with a sparkle of something close to mischief in her eyes.
Slightly taken aback, I looked up to see the girl’s pretty features beaming down at me with a warming smile that showed the question was of true interest to her and not just an attempt at polite conversation.
A slight glimmer of uncertainty darted across her face for a second as I stared at her blankly, until my shocked silence was suddenly broken when my brain finally kicked in.
“Oh...yes! That’s me. It was just a short story competition I entered” I proclaimed with a hefty underlying pride shimmering through my words. “How did you know it was me?” I enquired, a little bemused by the girl’s assumption.
Another thin smile crept over the waitress’s face, as she placed the pot of coffee down onto my table and swept some loose hair back behind her ear.
“An educated guess! Well, that and the simple fact that yours is a new face this weekend. There aren’t many other guests staying here this weekend, apart from a handful that’ve been here for the majority of the week so far.”
“I see.” I replied glancing around the mostly empty dining room.
“It’s always the same this time of year. People only want to stay in a hotel like this when the weathers got at least a fifty-fifty chance of being half decent.”
“Well, that’s understandable I guess”. My thoughts returned back to the girl’s introductory enquiry regarding my reason for being here. “So, you heard about the competition then?” I asked, trying my best to sound only half-interested.
“Oh yes. It’s been quite the talk of the hotel for the last few weeks. What with it being a competition on a ghost story and all.” With that said, the young waitress leaned forward and started collecting together the remaining dirty cutlery that lay on my table.
“This hotel’s haunted you know” the girl suddenly proclaimed, almost as something of a side-thought. “So says most of the staff. That and a number of the guests who’ve stayed here that is. Some of ‘em reckon they’ve seen this ghostly apparition that’s supposed to haunt the place.”
“Is that so?” I asked, my mind mulling over the idea as I stared down at my freshly re-filled coffee.
“Yeah...it’s what they say. God’s honest truth. Supposed to be one of the previous managers of the hotel from many years ago. He apparently found out that one of his employees had been having this long standing affair with his wife. When he went to confront him in the hotel kitchen, he only went and caught the guy thieving some of the expensive silver cutlery from one of the drawers as well. That just rubbed salt into the wound further, if you know what I mean. The manager flipped his lid and beat the guy unconscious right there and then. Then, and so the story goes, he apparently cut off this fella’s arms and legs with a butchers cleaver. Made him into a complete vegetable. Then he went and done himself in. He was found hanging from one of the beams within the kitchen’s storeroom, by a length of rope or something. So the story goes anyway.”
I noticed that I had been sitting completely still throughout the story, transfixed by the tale of the hotel’s apparent haunting. Slightly embarrassed, all I could think of to say was to repeat my “is that so?” comment.
“Like I said…It’s what they say anyway. Tell you what. Why don’t you have a chat with the manager later on about it? He loves talking about it; hyping it up and all. He thinks it could actually be good for business here. Not the other way round as most people assume. Over the years he’s actually got kind of obsessed about the whole thing. I reckon it’s because he’s one of the few who works here who hasn’t actually seen it”.
“Have you?” I interrupted.
“I think so. I’m not sure really. I saw something one night, but I can’t be sure what it was, if you know what I mean.”
“Anyone ever try to document it? Photograph it, or take some sort of scientific readings or something?” I asked, now truly intrigued by the whole affair.
“Well, the manager goes through phases of trying to catch a glimpse of the ghost. He often leaves his camera set up in the kitchen in case he gets the chance to snap a few pictures of it. It’s always seen in the kitchen you see; never anywhere else. That’s where the ghost’s supposed to haunt. That’s why they reckon it’s this ex-manager who’s haunting the place. The kitchen’s apparently where he cut up that thieving chap and where he then killed himself afterwards.”
“All sounds a bit too far fetched to me”. As soon as I said the words I regretted them. That’s one of my problems. I never think before I talk. Still, my comment didn’t seem to bother the girl whilst she went about picking up the remaining items from my table.
“Like I said, speak to the manager. He can tell you more about it all than I can. You never know; could inspire you to do some more writing on the subject. You’ve obviously got some talent for it; otherwise you wouldn’t have won that competition”.
I smiled and told her that I might well do just that as she left the table making a straight line towards a big set of double doors that obviously lead to the kitchen area. I sat there and thought...that was the kitchen that she had just been talking about. The hotel’s supposedly haunted kitchen.
I sat there pondering the story the waitress had just told me, unsure whether to take any truth from it or not. It all seemed to me to be constructed more from hearsay, rather than that of true fact. Nevertheless it made for an interesting tale that had managed to ensnare me by its intriguing nature.
As the day wore on I found my thoughts returning to the story of the ex-hotel manager and the haunting in the hotel’s kitchen. For some reason the tale had struck a chord with me. There was something that seemed so unfeasibly genuine about the story; something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something that at the back of my mind made me think that maybe there was some truth lurking behind the whole thing after all.
I spent the rest of the day roaming the expansive gardens that encircled the hotel. I took a notepad around with me in the vain attempt of keeping up the impression that I was a serious writer. Every now and again, when I thought someone was watching, I would unhook the pen from behind my ear and proceed to jot down some gibberish that to others would have the appearance of sudden inspiration for a novel in progress. Indeed, if that was really the case, almost my entire day would have been taken up by sudden flashes of inspiration.
Later on, as the sun began sinking behind the hills, I returned to the hotel in the hope of catching the manager. Not once had I stumbled across him during the day. I presumed that he must be busy with running his various errands and the general upkeep of the hotel and its grounds. I still wished to question him regarding the ghostly sightings that had played on my mind all day long.
Dusk soon took hold and before long the blackness of night had crept in and still no sign of the illusive manger. As I ate in the hotel’s dining room, I kept an eye out for either the manager or the young waitress that had spoken to me that morning. It soon became apparent that the waitress had finished her shift at some stage during the course of the day and had gone home; whereas the manager simply wasn’t to be seen anywhere.
When another young looking, but not quite so pretty waitress came over with the desert menu, I enquired after the manager. At first her reaction was a worried one, until I put her mind at ease by informing her that it wasn’t to make a complaint or anything of the sort. I simply wished to enquire about a small matter that I thought he could help me with. I didn’t want to make it known to the girl that I was enquiring after the local ghost stories, for fear of being laughed at by a possible non-believer.
I was informed that the manager had gone out for a while, but would be back in an hour or two. I was asked if I would like to leave a message for him, which she would make sure was passed on. I declined her kind offer, preferring to wait until I had the opportunity to speak to the man in person myself.
I retired to the guests lounge, planning on catching up with the day’s news and events from one of the daily rags that were left in there for the guests use. A few other guests had decided upon the same idea and so I found myself engaged in spurts of conversation with these other residents. Talk mainly revolved around articles they had read in the newspapers and other such current events they apparently deemed of interest to us all.
The evening drew on until finally I decided that I would make one final attempt to locate the manager before I headed off to bed.
I headed for the lobby area where I had first met the hotel manager. As I approached the large oak doors that I believed would lead into the lobby itself, I stumbled across the waitress I had spoken to a few hours ago in the dining room.
When she asked me if I had managed to speak to the manager, I told her that I hadn’t made a particularly concerted effort to track him down thus far. I informed her that my query wasn’t of any great importance, but that I was actually on my way to see if I could find him now. I asked if she might have any idea as to his current whereabouts. The girl apologised again on the manager’s behalf, which seemed slightly unnecessary to me, but I was sure it was only a matter of good manners. She explained that the manager had recently been suffering from a very mild case of insomnia and had taken to early nights by way of attempting to counteract it.
I thanked her for her time and said I would seek him out first thing in the morning. She in turn informed me that she would let the manager know that I had been looking for him. I thanked her once again and made my way back to the room I was staying in, where I could put my head down for another very good night’s sleep.
As it turned out, a very good night’s sleep would be a lot harder than I thought.
As I lay in the comfort of the large double bed, blankets pulled up tight to my head, I was awoken by a slight thumping noise that seemed to be emanating from somewhere directly below me. I reached for the lamp that stood perched on the bedside table, and with the sudden glare of the light, I sat up in bed squinting at the clock face on my pocket watch. The time read a few minutes after two in the morning. That was no time for someone to be crashing around in such a fashion, with paying guests trying to sleep on the floors above.
With a sudden realisation, it hit me. Directly below the room I was staying in was the kitchen area. The kitchen that I had been informed was supposedly haunted.
I sat there holding my breath, eager to hear another sound from below. What seemed like an eternity passed before suddenly, there it was again; a dull thumping noise that echoed around the silent confines of my room.
I had not been mistaken. Sure enough, someone or something was down there. How long the noises had been carrying on for, I had no way of knowing, for I have always been somewhat of a heavy sleeper. Nevertheless, the volume of whatever was going on downstairs in the kitchen was sufficient enough to have awakened me from my deep slumber.
I made up my mind to investigate the source of this commotion; paranormal or not, I was intent on knowing the answer. I spun my legs out from under the bed’s blankets and collected together my dressing gown which I threw on over my pyjamas.
Clothed enough for the late night investigation ahead of me, I opened the door to my room, dropped the key in my pocket and moved into the hallway.
As I turned towards the doorway at the end of the passageway, I was just quick enough to glimpse the sight of the hotel manager through the glass of the door, as he started to descend the stairs that led on to the dining room area below.
I put on a brisk jog, my bare feet landing in the lightest possible way for this speed, in an attempt to catch up with the manager. Swinging the door open, I bounded down the stairs two at a time, and as I approached the descending figure, he turned to see who was pursuing him so eagerly at this time of the night.
Recognising me, the startled expression on the manager’s face was quickly replaced by an insincere smile that cleverly hid his obvious bewilderment of the current situation.
I slowed my pace now that I had been seen, and was slightly taken aback when the manager quietly beckoned me onwards with his right hand and turning his back on me, carried on with his route towards the kitchens.
Bemused but still intrigued, I continued on down the stairs and across the hotel’s dining room. With each step I took I was only marginally gaining on the manager, as his long legs strode across the deserted dining room.
As I reached the double doors that would open out to the hotel kitchens, the manager was just pushing open one of the doors. The noise that was emanating from within increased dramatically in volume with the removal of the door as a sound barrier.
Standing in the open doorway, I stood side-by-side with the stationary manager who was silently peering into the large expanse of the kitchen within.
We watched amazed as the figure of a man, whom I had not seen before, moved around the kitchen, oblivious to our watchful gaze.
As we stared, the man continued moving utensils from one side of the kitchen to the other; sometimes positioning, then repositioning the items; until entirely happy with their final destination.
After watching the man move from one end of the kitchen to the other a few times, the manager motioned for me to step aside so that he could enter the kitchen area. I obliged, and followed the man in after a short and apprehensive pause.
Carefully closing the door behind me fearing the noise of it swinging shut, we moved across the kitchen floor in single file, approaching the stationary figure of the man who had remained with his back turned to us, oblivious of our approach. Our footsteps were silent within the room, the only noise was emanating from the smartly dressed figure before us.
As we neared this mysterious intruder, the manager’s shadow crept forwards, alerting the man to our advancing presence, as it cast over the work surface before him.
He turned to face us with a look of alarm across his face. Clutched firmly in his right hand, was the unmistakeable shape of a large steel carving knife. My attention was quickly diverted to the gleam of the hefty blade as it swung around in the man’s hand. This time there was no trace of recognition from the manager by my side, as there had been when he met me on the stairs a minute ago. This simple fact set further alarm bells ringing throughout my head.
Panic struck me, as the sudden realisation of our foolhardy predicament became apparent. We were standing in the middle of a supposedly haunted kitchen, in the dead of night, with a man before us, paranormal or not, who was clutching a large carving knife.
I would in no way class myself as a coward, but seeing this figure before me holding a blade of such length, put me in a state of sheer panic. In one swift motion, I turned and fled from the figure, hurtling towards the door that stood opposite me. The sound of feet pounding on the tiled kitchen floor behind me transformed my panic into an uncontrollable fear for my life.
I ripped at the door handle, throwing it open in one forceful tug and darted into the darkness beyond. This was no dining room. In my panic induced confusion, I had mistakenly taken the wrong door and now found myself within the confines of a small darkened room.
I turned, heart pounding in my chest, to see the approaching figure of the hotel manager hurtling towards the open door. I was relieved for a second that the pursuing footsteps were those of the manager and not the knife wielding stranger. Then, as the manager leapt through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him, the room was submerged into total blackness.
A split second before the door had closed, I had managed to glimpse a slight outline of our current surroundings, from the small amount of light that was cast through the open doorway. We had obviously thrown ourselves into some sort of walk-in storeroom. Shelves stacked high with all kinds of assorted packets and tinned foods, towered upwards on either side of us.
No sound appeared to come from beyond the door. I stood there waiting in the pitch black for something to happen, but nothing came. Then, without any warning, light shattered the darkness away, revealing the figure of the manager, his finger pressed against the light switch on the wall by the doorway.
As my eyes adjusted to the sudden surge of light, I watched as the manager produced a sturdy looking key from his pocket, inserted it into the door’s keyhole and then twisted it clockwise. A soft but reassuring clunk came from the door. Seconds later the handle began to lift and drop, as the person on the other side attempted to gain access.
“Who the hell is that?” I shouted towards the manager as I pointed onwards in the direction of the storeroom door.
The manager stood completely still, his back now pressed against the door, his wide eyes staring across at me.
“That’s him isn’t it?” I screamed at the silent man before me. “That’s the ghost! That’s the ghost of the murderous manager! God help us, its going to kill us isn’t it?”
All of a sudden the door handle abruptly stopped its incessant dance and instead, rattling sounds began to come from within the mechanics of the door’s lock.
I dashed forwards, hands outstretched for the key that protruded from the door lock. Shoving the manager aside, I gripped the key in my trembling hand. I could feel a slight tremor through the metal, as an attempt for another key to be inserted into the lock on the other side of the door was obviously being made.
Desperately clutching the protruding key’s length in my hand, I felt another surge of movement against it, then nothing. Behind the door no further sound came. No further attempts to open the door followed. There was nothing but silence once again.
A sudden wave of relief washed over me, and I dropped my hands away from the door. I rested my forehead against the heavy oak of the door, a huge and long overdue sigh escaping my lips. I had no idea that I had been holding my breath up until now. Indeed, I had no further idea how long I had been holding it for.
I stood there for a while, simply allowing my heart rate to slow itself.
Feeling a little more relaxed and with no further sounds coming from behind the storeroom door, I lifted my head away from its surface. As my eyes focussed once again, I noticed that an image was mounted on the door before me. My heart began to slowly sink into an abyss it would never again escape from.
A thick thatch of a greying moustache nested above the smug grin on the man’s face. Hair slicked back barely hiding the obvious thinning underneath; the photo before me was unmistakably of the man we had just escaped from within the kitchen. Above the photo in large bold printed lettering bore the legend ‘Certificate of General Catering Awarded to the Hanbury Hotel’. My eyes darted directly below the photo, its meaning slowly penetrating my confused mind. More words, this time corresponding to the photo read ‘Mr T A Spooner, Proprietor & Manager’. Next to this bore the year in which this certificate was awarded. The year was the current year.
A shadow suddenly engulfed the doorway around me. I turned on the spot, back pressed against the solid wood of the storeroom door. My mind became aware of muffled voices emanating from behind the door.
As I looked up, I was confronted by the stone cold face of the man I was sharing this storeroom with. This was the man I had confused with being the hotel manager. Indeed, I knew now that at one stage he had been the manager of this very hotel. But that was a long time ago, and his life had since ended here in this kitchen’s storeroom.
I was aware of the renewed and now more vigorous attempts at opening the door from behind me, as I watched the cold metal of the meat cleaver slowly lifting into the air. A brilliant arc of light sliced through the gloom of the storeroom, the stark light from the bulb above reflecting on the polished surface of the solid steel butcher’s utensil, as it swung down towards me.
Anthony Matthews stops writing and peers up from his pad into the downcast eyes of the frail old man that sits before him. A look of utter sadness is plastered across the man’s features. Dennis Oldman sits there in silence, his eyes staring blankly down at the desk in front of him.
The reporter glances down at the notes resting on the table, re-reading the last few statements that he had written across the page. The words seem unreal.
His heart almost bursts from his chest when “Nurse!” is suddenly bellowed from the man sitting opposite him.
The young reporter looks up from his pad once again, seeing the face of Dennis Oldman staring back at him, whilst a middle-aged woman wearing a pure white cotton nurse’s outfit appears by his side.
“You can take me back to my room now nurse. I’ve finished talking to Mr Matthews. I do believe he now has everything he needs for his report.”
A small nod is all that is offered in the way of a reply from the reporter.
The nurse looks towards Matthews, a thin smile cracking her face, then with a loud thud, releases the wheelchair break and begins wheeling away the old man.
No words escape from Matthews’s open mouth, as he watches the limbless form of Dennis Oldman wheeled down the silent ward away from him.
© Chris Hall 2009