Windom Falls

There’s a certain feeling to a recently searched room. Suddenly, your possessions know more than you do, they’ve seen more than you have. Now your aftershave has secrets.
  
It’s impossible to hide the disturbance entirely. At Windom Falls, we don’t even try.
  
We blame it on the ghosts.
  
This is a 100% Certified Haunted Hotel, after all. Three screams.
  
The Lady in Grey keeps guests busy on the stairs while the Maimed Stable Boy and I slip into their rooms one by one. If anything goes missing, that’s part of the experience: ghosts need half-empty bottles of Ambien too.
  
Afterwards, in the break room — “Ghosts Only” — we divvy up the loot. Grey gets a fair share for her wailing – she never lets anyone pass, not even if they have to pee. One time a man from Toronto grabbed her arm, and he held up his palm, covered in grease paint, to the other guests.
  
“Fake!” he said, shoving his grey hand in their faces.  “Fake!” He died in a ferry accident the following week. No one messes with Grey.
  
As the Drown’ed Sea Captain, I’m supposed to leave puddles wherever I go, but not on main throughways due to liability issues. And not upstairs on the new carpet. Mainly I come across as a plumbing issue.
  
“How long have you worked here?” a girl with sad hair asked me last week as I haunted breakfast.
  
“Since I died,” I said.
  
Later, I found myself in her room. Grey was wailing in the hallway. There was a picture of a boy on a motorcycle on her nightstand. He was dead, I’m sure.
  
People do that sometimes when they lose someone – come to a haunted place. Looking for a connection. The Stable Boy was moving her shoes from one side from the room to the other.
  
I took the photo. Just so she could wonder.
 

 

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Front page image by Anita Carril.

 

GHOST WRITER is a project by Tracy Danger Mumford. New sections are released every other Sunday. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying the new one’s up, sign up here:


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