I loved it.
We trooped down the basement stairs, and I tried not to read every creak as something ghostly moving, but it was hard. I really, really wanted something to pop out.
Jon snickered at my side. “You are seriously so opposite of your brother in some ways. Look at you. Your inner child is literally jumping up and down and squealing in excitement.”
I couldn’t refute it. “It’s really my bad Don’s so terrible with horror. Did he tell you that?”
“Nooo,” Jon said in rising delight. “But do tell me.”
“So I was maybe seven? Eight? When I was younger, I often got nosebleeds. Sometimes they were pretty alarming, ’cause I bled so much. They weren’t really serious; they just looked terrifying. So, one night I wake up and I realize I’d had a nosebleed while sleeping. I’m covered in blood. I sit up, discover I’m still bleeding, and now it’s all over my shirt, face, hands—I probably looked like a horror movie extra. And Don’s in the bed on the other side of the room, making him my closest contact for help, so I go shake him awake.”
Jon and Mack were already snickering because they could see where this was going.
“Yeah,” I affirmed, and it was bad of me, but I snickered too just from the memory. “He let out the most blood-curdling scream I’ve ever heard from a human being. I didn’t blame him. A blood-covered child asking for help in the dead of night? I’d scream too. But he was already uncomfortable with ghost stories before that. Afterwards?”
“That’s terrible,” Jon said and laughed some more. “No wonder he blames you for it. He kept saying that but never would explain.”
I shrugged because I had no defense.
We reached the back work area, and it looked like any other basement—lots of shelves against the wall with things stacked on them. A metal locker, a deep sink that looked original to the building with a rough looking counter stretched out alongside it. It was tight quarters down here with all the random stuff that keeps a hotel operational, but we could all fit with a little room left over. The ghost hunting crew went ahead of us with their cameras and gadgets, and I kept Jon with me towards the back of the room. We could pretty much see everything—nothing blocked our view.
“So the story here is that this place functioned as a morgue. Ellis liked to take his deceased ‘patients’ and dissect them to study the disease. There were multiple barrels of formaldehyde down here at one time.” Dave looked at Mack for confirmation. “At least that’s what I was told.”
“You’re correct,” Mack assured him.
“Ewww,” was Jon’s opinion, which others voiced in mutual disgust.
My new lover kept close to me, which I appreciated, as it was easier to keep track of both men if they stayed nearby. Jon just stood at my elbow. Mack had his hand in mine, our fingers laced together, and he sort of leaned into me. I liked the contact. He clearly did too. I tried not to focus on just how much I enjoyed having him pressed up against my side. We were down here for a reason, after all.
“How many ghosts down here?” Harry asked Mack hopefully.
“Not a single one so far, but ghosts do roam sometimes. They like to stay in one area, but that area isn’t always a single room. Ah, something I should mention before we really get started—I think some of the things on your list are residual hauntings and not actual spirits.”
“Like what?” Les inquired.
“You said people have reported seeing Dr. Ellis on the second floor? Going from elevator to office?” Mack shook his head, mouth screwed up on one side. “I’d be very surprised if that’s him. Ellis died in Florida.”
Everyone in the room startled.
I looked down at him in curiosity. “How do you know?”
“I looked him up the day I got here. I was curious about the history of the hotel. I dug a little deeper when I learned you all were coming. Ellis died of cirrhosis in his sixties in Florida.”
“Well.” Dave pulled his hat off and scratched his head, looking perplexed. “That sheds a new light on things. No wonder you think it’s a residual haunting. The reports are only of a man in Victorian-aged clothing walking across. Maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity?”
“Could be,” Mack allowed. “People tend to forget Ellis wasn’t the owner of the hotel for long. There were people before and after him. He’s just the most famous of the lot. It could be it’s someone else or—oh, here we go.” Mack pointed to the locker sitting in the room. “Point your cameras there. Looks like we have a soldier visiting us.”
“A soldier?” Marianne questioned, even as she pointed what looked to be a thermal camera toward the locker. “Holy shit, you can see him clearly! Look, the cap on his head is visible and everything.”
I nearly whined in disappointment. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Why was I so insensitive?
Mack stepped two feet forward and gave the area a welcoming smile. “Good evening to you, sir. Yes, it’s quite a crowd. Don’t be alarmed, they’re all friendly. Just curious and investigating the history of this place.” He cocked his head, listening for a moment. “I see. No, I’ve not seen her. I’ll certainly pass along the message you’re looking for her, though. What was her name? Amelia Hartford. Yes, sir, I will relay the message.”
“Annnd he’s gone.” Marianne whirled and pointed to Harry. “Back up the mini-recorder; see if we caught anything on it.”
Harry rewound a few seconds then hit play, cranking up the volume.
It was faint, but I could distinctly hear a raspy baritone saying: “…I’ve not seen her in a fortnight, sir. I’m both perplexed and worried.”
“What was her name?” That was Mack.
“Miss Amelia Hartford. She normally meets me in the foyer. I’m not sure where she’s gone to.”
“Amelia Hartford. Yes, sir, I will relay the message.”
“I thank you for the kindness. Good luck on your endeavors tonight.”
Dave and Les linked arms and did a do-si-do in victory. I didn’t blame them for the excitement. It was quite the feat to capture so much evidence at once.
Mack returned to me, capturing my hand again. I think he did it in part because he was cold. His fingers were distinctly chilled. It was a little cold down here in the basement, that could be why.
“We never get voices that distinct, or I should say, rarely,” Marianne said in puzzlement. She stared at Mack suspiciously. “Did you do something?”
“It’s not that I’m doing something, it’s just part and parcel of me being me.” Mack shrugged, not bothered by this semi-accusation. “Have you ever heard that psychics and mediums are under the same umbrella? This is why. The only point we overlap on is that we both have a psychic aura. In Jon’s case, for instance, it allows him to read anyone within range of his eyes. In my case, it magnifies and energizes any spirit within my range.”
Marianne’s eyes widened in understanding. “So they have more power to manifest with?”
“Exactly. They’ll be more visible and audible as a default of being near me. I can give them energy and help them manifest, granted, but most of the time I don’t need to bother.”