Read by Silas Hawkins
I don't believe in ghosts, I said.
So how do you explain it? He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
The fact is, whatever you don't understand, because you aren't in possession of all the facts, seems like magic, or the supernatural, I told him.
The guy in the ghost suit rolled his head from side to side, and I could see from the expression on his face he wasn't convinced. I have to say, I didn't like that head rolling, especially when he rolled it from one hand to the other. He tucked it back snugly under his arm.
So how do you think I'm doing this?
I don't know, I said, but it's got to be one of those David Copperfield type tricks.
You think so?
Look, I said, if you'd really pulled your head off, there'd be blood all over the carpet. I splayed an open hand down towards our feet. The carpet was worn. It was a little grubby too, to be honest, but there was no blood. He pulled a lopsided grin, took his head in both hands, and lifted it back onto his shoulders.
I can see I'm wasting my time, he said.
Look, I said. I give you full marks for trying. It can't be easy these days, what with all the CGI and special effects. The problem is we've seen it all before. There's nothing new under the sun. He shook his head, in sorrow and disbelief I guess, and it wobbled precariously, which I thought was a rather a nice touch. Then he started to fade away. I could see he was disappointed. I'll still pay the bill, I said. You guys have earned your money. I don't feel cheated at all. I tried to reassure him, but as he vanished into thin air and I found myself staring at the bare wall once more, I could see there was a look of unhappiness upon his ghostly white face.
It's OK! I said tilting my head up to the ceiling, which is where I guessed the sound system must be located. I've had a great evening. It's been fun.
Of course, there was no response. They could hardly let on. It would have spoiled the illusion, even though they must have realised by then, that as far as I was concerned, that's all it was, just an illusion.
After that it was just an ordinary night, in an ordinary, if somewhat run down, hotel. I confess, I was a little worried about the possibilities of hidden cameras. I mean, I sleep raw, you know, but I kept my boxers on that night, just in case. The fact is, what they really needed, rather than trying to sell themselves as some spooky niche-market venue, was to spend some money on general refurbishment. It wasn't as if they were even marketing themselves effectively. I hadn't stayed over on account of knowing it was a haunted hotel. As far as I could tell they weren't making anything of it. They weren't promoting it. They hadn't even added a premium to the cost of the room, although you could argue that the place would have been overpriced at any price, considering the state of the décor.
I'd only stayed over because I'd been on the road all day, and had obviously missed my turn somewhere around Brig O' Whatsitsname, because the road had been getting narrower and narrower for the last few miles and was obviously going nowhere. And then, with the weather closing in like that, well, I just needed a place to stay. It wasn't the fact that the sign board, which, let me tell you, could also have done with a lick of paint, proclaimed it to be The Haunted House Hotel, that drew me in. It was the fact that it was any damned Hotel by the time I'd got that far.
And when the bell-pull came off in my hand and I was standing there on the doorstep, in the mist, listening to that foghorn chime that seemed to be coming from the bowels of the earth, and I'd got a yard and half of rusty wire in my hand and a hole in the wall that looked like you can see to eternity through it, that's when it hit me: what the name of the game was.
You have to give it to them, the phoney bell-pull was a masterstroke, and the creak on those door hinges when the old guy answered was just pure Hammer! But, and I was thinking this at the time, it's all been done before. I mean, there's nothing new about it. OK, it was fun. The old guy was fun, but they could have gone a bit lighter on the musty smell, particularly when he was serving dinner; which, I must admit, did look like fricassee of corpse, and the pink sauce with it, well. It was salty.
But there's a point when playing the game becomes a little tedious. I'm all in favour of thoroughness. I work in the movies, well, we finance a couple of studios, so I know about back projection and green screens and stuff, and I'm as much a fan of good prosthetics as the next man, but to be honest, all I really wanted was a bed for the night, and a good night's sleep. You can overdo the cobwebs and the dead spiders, you know.
And what's it all for, if you haven't got your advertising right? Have you ever heard of this place? What they should have had, at the very least, was a big new sign on the turn off from the highway; and some leaflets or cards on the reception desk that you could take. And what about wi-fi? If they had it, they weren't letting on. And of course they had it. If you have the technology to project the “ghost”, you certainly are not going to be without the wi-fi. I mean, they did it very well, but if you haven't got any customers, what's it all for?
I mean, I was the only paying guest in the place that night, and I'm not surprised. Nice try guys, but that ain't the way to run a business.
So when I drove past a couple of days later on my way back, I wasn't surprised to find the place had closed down. What did surprise me, was how quickly they'd cleared the site. I mean, it wasn't just the old sign had gone. The whole building was missing. You couldn't even see where it had stood ...
(c) Brindley Hallam Dennis, 2015
Brindley Hallam Dennis writes short stories, which have been performed by Liars in London, New York, Hong Kong and elsewhere. He lives on the edge of England within sight of three mountain tops & a sliver of Solway Firth.
Silas Hawkins (left) is continuing the family voiceover tradition (he is the son of Peter 'Dalek' Hawkins and Rosemary 'Emergency Ward 10' Miller). Favourite voice credits: Summerton Mill, Latin Music USA and podcasts for The Register. For countless voice clips see links on website: www.silashawkins.com. Agents: [email protected] / [email protected]
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