Ghost Tour Read online

  Ghost Tour

  Claryn Vaile

  Copyright © 2020, Claryn Vaile

  Published by:

  D. X. Varos, Ltd

  7665 E. Eastman Ave. #B101

  Denver, CO 80231

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  Book cover design and layout by, Ellie Bockert Augsburger of Creative Digital Studios.

  www.CreativeDigitalStudios.com

  Cover design features:

  Gryphon Line art Logo Design Inspiration Vector By winner creative / Adobe Stock

  Close up of golden elevator By Richard/ Adobe Stock

  Full Length Portrait of a Sexy Brunette Woman in

  Fashion Dress b By Milles Studio / Adobe Stock

  ISBN: 978-1-941072-76-9 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-941072-77-6 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Chapter 1

  When her co-worker refused to venture up to the eighth floor after midnight, Momaday Benga responded to the page. Hotel security radioed in-room dining at 2:13 a.m. to report a cart with dirty dishes outside Room 864. Though she had no memory of a delivery to that suite, Momaday hurried to remove the clutter, upholding the Griffins Keep’s reputation for impeccable service.

  In-room dining was the only hotel outlet that never closed. The newer hires got the overnight shifts, and Momaday didn’t mind. The Senegalese refugee was grateful to have found employment in her new country, especially a job that allowed her to take evening English classes. But in the wee hours, strange encounters were not uncommon.

  As Momaday stepped from the service elevator into the eighth-floor space where intersecting hallways created an odd angle, she wondered if “Rosey” might appear tonight. Rosey was the name her colleagues had given a spirit that inhabited this floor of the hotel. Both staff and guests had occasionally reported the sounds of a child running and laughing, when no such thing was visible. The spirit liked to snatch the single roses from bud vases on room service trays and stick them in the filigreed railings of the staircase. Momaday herself had heard the sounds and thought of the elusive source as a playful ghost.

  But no laughing spirit greeted her tonight. As Momaday turned the corner and started toward 864, an oppressive sense of dread enveloped her. The discovery of a red lacquered cigarette holder beside dirty china on the white linen cloth puzzled her. She knew what it was from 1930s American movies, but smoking was not permitted in any of The Keep guestrooms. No cigarettes were in evidence, only the long, tapered holder. Momaday picked it up and examined it. A snake, faintly etched in black, curled around it. She shuddered. Pushing open the door to the adjacent ice machine closet, she tossed it disdainfully into the trash.

  “How dare you!”

  Momaday could not be sure whether the hate-filled voice emanated from outside or from inside her head. From the far end of the hallway came the faint sound of a child screaming. The scream grew louder until Momaday could make out its repeated alarm.

  “RUN!”

  She turned, pulling the cart as she scurried backwards, retreating to the elevator, fleeing whatever was coming. The muffled scream trailed off down a hallway as the service elevator’s “ding” indicated its arrival, and Momaday heard the doors slide open. She felt the predatory presence close in upon her.

  “Filthy colored help. That was mine.”

  Frantically scanning the empty space in the direction of the malevolent spirit’s approach, Momaday backed toward the open elevator and released the cart to grope the metal doorframe. Her next step was her last.

  A sickening thud resounded from far below, then silence. The screams that had echoed through the eighth-floor halls were replaced by the sound of a child softly sobbing.

  Momaday was not discovered until several hours later, when her broken body, splayed across the top of the car, prevented the elevator from aligning properly with the top floor.

  Veteran hotel engineer Lochlan MacKenzie, the first to clock-in on the early shift, drew the grim task of calling the police and overseeing the removal of Momaday’s remains. The coroner’s staff zipped the corpse into a body bag and removed it from the hotel via basement freight elevator.

  Lochlan had seen a lot during his 27 years toiling behind the scenes of the Griffins Keep. But he was still shaken when he arrived in managing director Conroe Beaumont’s office later that morning to report the incident, omitting his own unsettling suspicion as to the cause. Something, Lochlan feared, had violated The Keep’s spiritual portal. Despite the Knights’ sworn vigilance, a darkness had seeped in – a dangerous darkness that could affect the physical plane.

  “Momaday was liked by everyone,” Lochlan told the director. “Always smiling and positive. She loved working here and she loved life. Just welcomed a new grandbaby last month. It’s a tragedy, an inexplicable tragedy.”

  Beaumont looked up from the papers he was studying only briefly. “Probably the result of employee carelessness,” he said dispassionately. “Did you ask the coroner’s office to check for drugs or alcohol in her system? Couldn’t have been an elevator malfunction. Christ, they just finished a 6-month rebuild on that thing. You called the contractors, too, I trust.”

  Lochlan felt the color rise in his checks and collected himself before responding. “What do you plan to tell the staff?” he asked. “Some sort of memorial gathering would be appropriate.”

  Beaumont shrugged. “I hardly think that will be necessary. I mean, she was only here a couple months.”

  Lochlan’s expression made his determination clear. “Eleven months,” he corrected.

  “Oh, all right,” Beaumont conceded. “Lemme talk to Branson about how he wants to handle it. But this couldn’t have come at a worse time. Until I get back to you, not a word to anyone. We’re keeping this incident strictly under wraps for now. Understood?”

  Lochlan understood. But news of Momaday’s death had already spread among staff in horrified whispers. Had Beaumont grasped anything about back-of-the-house dynamics, he would have known that and addressed the development immediately. Instead, he informed Lochlan an hour later that the “All-Hands” staff meeting scheduled for 3:00 that afternoon would proceed as planned.

  “Branson says he’s got no time to waste on a freak accident and some easily replaced employee,” Beaumont said. “His words, not mine,” he added defensively, dropping his gaze. “Today’s announcement is too important and takes absolute priority. There will be no mention of the unfortunate incident you reported earlier. I’ll send out a blanket email tomorrow. Heartfelt sympathy to her family, that sort of thing. What was her name again?”

  A curious congregation of history buffs and specter seekers began to coalesce outside the Treble Clef restaurant 20 minutes before the 1:00 tour start time that afternoon. They perched on marble benches or paced the stone floor. A mixture of visitors and Denver locals, some dressed up and others dressed down, they took in the elegant surroundings as they awaited the guide.

  “This place always reminds me of Venice,” a white-haired woman in a red sweatshirt said, “with the columns and the arches, the scrolled panels on the balconies, the stained-glass ceiling. It’s like you step through the doors from a modern Western city into another place and time.”

  Her balding husband agreed. “A relic from the days when architecture added to the character and aesthetic of a community.”

  “It’s sad to s
ee the hotel showing her age. Some tarnish here, some chipped stone over there.”

  “But our vision blurs as we gaze upon a faded beauty as beloved as this one.” The man bent to plant a kiss upon his seated wife’s head, and she patted the hand he placed on her shoulder.

  “You can almost feel the traces of all the travelers who have passed through before continuing on their journeys,” she said. “If I were a ghost, I’d want to spend eternity here.”

  “You would not be alone.” The elderly woman leaning on a walker had one drooping eyelid and a lopsided face. “There are countless ghosts here.”

  Her middle-aged daughter felt obliged to explain. “Ever since Mother’s stroke, she claims that she’s attuned to the spiritual world.”

  “I came so close to death that they reach across to me. I hear them all around us, right now,” the stroke victim said. “They tell me they’re happy to be here…most of them.”

  “I heard the hotel is for sale,” a gentleman seated nearby remarked, changing the subject.

  The white-haired woman clapped her hands in sudden inspiration, looking up at her spouse expectantly. “That’s it! That’s what you can buy me for our 50th anniversary. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, dear?”

  “Were it within my budget, sweetheart, I’d tie it up in a giant ribbon and present it to you,” her husband vowed. “But I read the hotel cost two million to build and furnish around the turn of last century. Can’t even imagine what the price tag would look like today.”

  “It’s priceless, of course,” his wife said, adjusting her fanny-pack. “If I can’t have it, I just hope it’s bought by people who understand how much the hotel means to the city.”

  The tour guide arrived precisely on time, smiling much too warmly for someone about to deliver tales of terror. “Is everyone here for our first public ghost tour of October? Terrific! If you’ll follow me inside, we’ll get this adventure underway.”

  At the restaurant host stand, she checked guests’ names against her reservations list. She handed out clip-on badges to distinguish them from would-be tour crashers who might try to latch on as the group moved around the premises. Tendrils of silver-touched dark hair escaped here and there from beneath her costume top hat, bedecked with cobwebs and black velvet roses. Her blue eyes, bright as gas flames, shone below thick lashes and heavy shadow. She stood scarcely five-feet tall. Her voice sounded younger than she looked, and she exuded that perkiness so prevalent among those in the tour guiding profession.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Griffins Keep hotel. My name is Rebecca Bridger, and it is my privilege to serve as the official hotel historian. I’m only the third person to hold that title since the position was created in the 1970s. People stay in this job until it kills them.”

  She paused, deadpan for a split-second only before breaking into a mischievous grin.

  “I’m kidding, of course. I’ve been here just five years, so if history is any indicator – and it always is -- I look forward to many more ahead here at the hotel. I’m a Colorado native and a local historian, and these ghost tours are a fun way for me to share some of that knowledge with all of you. So let’s get started.

  “By a show of hands, how many of you are serious believers in ghosts – may have even experienced something ghostly yourselves?”

  Of the thirty-some tour-takers, eight indicated their credulity. She was always amazed, but never surprised, by the number of people who willingly admitted to accepting such absurd fantasies. Rebecca did not believe in ghosts, any more than she believed in the church or its promises of a spiritual afterlife. She had believed in such things once and longed -- more than ever as her later years encroached -- for their assurances of immortality. But tough truths and devastating betrayals had kicked the faith out of her long ago. Rebecca’s personal disillusionment made conducting The Keep’s ghost tours more onerous with each successive Halloween season. But she loved her job, and she knew how to put on a show.

  “All right. How many of you are hardcore skeptics – you think the whole idea of ghosts is bogus and you can’t believe you got talked into taking this tour?”

  Half-a-dozen hands shot up.

  “OK, good. It looks like most of you are open-minded, fence-straddlers. And that’s perfect. Because the intent of this tour is not to convince you one way or another as to the existence of ghosts, but simply to share some stories of unexplained phenomena that have been reported here at the hotel.

  “Now, while I can’t vouch for the validity of any of the stories you’ll hear today, I promise you that none of these reports is made up. All are actual accounts that have come to us from hotel employees and hotel guests over the years – witnesses who insisted their experiences were absolutely real. We invite you to make of them what you will.”

  Rebecca could tell the tour guests were beginning to warm up to her and settle in for the ride. No matter how many tours she led, she was always a little nervous at the beginning. She wanted them to like her. But even more than that, Rebecca wanted them to share her passion for the Griffins Keep.

  “A little bit of background first, to give you some context for whatever ghosts may linger here. This grand hotel was considered one of the finest in the nation when it opened in 1890. Besides an architectural gem, the building was a technological wonder for its day, with its own electrical generating dynamos in the basement, hot and cold running water provided by the artesian well still used today. And it was one of the first fireproof hotels in the country. Our architect, Edward Brookings, was from Chicago, where they’d had a little trouble with fires in the 1800s.”

  The historically savvy among her guests enjoyed the understatement.

  “So beneath the stone veneer of The Keep, the entire superstructure is iron, steel, and concrete – not a bit of wood. Even the floors and the interior walls are made of hollow terra cotta block, a type of ceramic. The Griffins Keep is, as they bragged on our letterhead for years, an ‘Absolutely Fireproof Hotel,’ which really appealed to people in the 1890s, when tall buildings could be deathtraps before the fire safety regulations in place today.”

  The tour-takers listened politely, absorbing the set-up.

  “The Griffins Keep has hosted presidents and royalty, businessmen and politicians, celebrities and socialites. For decades, the hotel’s motto was ‘Best Rest in the West.’ because it attracted the most discerning people – just as it does today.”

  Rebecca made a sweeping gesture encompassing the group of tour-takers to indicate that they, too, were among the privileged to enjoy the iconic landmark.

  “Millions of souls have passed through this hotel, which closed only one day in more than thirteen decades. It’s easy to imagine that some of those who had the time of their lives returned for the time of their afterlives.”

  Rebecca tilted her hat brim a bit lower on her forehead and drew a deep breath.

  “Let’s wade in with an incident that happened in this very space not long ago.”

  A few guests who had been ready to take off touring settled back in their chairs for the story.

  “This restaurant has had several names and a long history of showcasing live music. That legacy figures into the experience of one of our housemen from a few years back. He was cleaning in the atrium lobby late one night when he heard the faint sound of music coming from the Treble Clef. When he went to investigate the source, he found the restaurant locked. But housemen have a magical master key that opens everything, so in he went.

  “In the far corner of the room — right over there—he discovered four gentlemen, very formally dressed, playing beautiful music on their instruments. The houseman politely requested that they pack up and go home so that he could continue his cleaning.”

  Everyone glanced toward the corner she’d indicated.

  “With that, according to the houseman, one of the musicians smiled at him and said, ‘Don’t mind us, Sonny. Our engagement here has been extended -- indefinitely.’ A moment later, as the strai
ns of their music faded, so did the musicians -- instruments and all -- right in front of the astounded houseman’s eyes.”

  And thus the historian dutifully delivered the first in a series of curious but comfortable tales that comprised the hotel’s “ghost” tour. Rebecca characterized them as “Casper” stories – all friendly ghosts with PG ratings. Entertaining and innocuous, they intentionally omitted anything genuinely frightening or disturbing. These management-approved oldies had been passed down to her by the previous historian. The trick was in the telling, Rebecca had quickly learned. At their core, the stories were frankly lame.

  The general manager of the Griffins Keep, Mr. Beaumont, insisted that the hotel was not haunted. He allowed the ghost tours because he recognized their public relations value. But he drew the line at paranormal investigators who sought permission to bring in electromagnetic meters or other ghost hunting devices. He would not have them disrupting the Keep’s traditionally conservative, business-oriented clientele.

  Rebecca understood the GM’s reservations and respected his wishes. But it put her in a frustrating position. On the one hand, she appreciated the ghost tours as a way of foisting Colorado history on an unsuspecting public. But on the other, she was prevented from sharing unsettling tales that were just as much a part of the hotel’s history as the Caspers.

  She dared not, for example, tell the eager group before her about the terrible fire – the only

  fire in The Keep’s long history -- in the very venue in which they sat.

  Or could she?

  Today Rebecca reconsidered. Her niece and nephew, Hannah and Jacob, now in their 20s, were visiting from Colorado Springs. Aunt Becky’s stories had always delighted them growing up -- the scarier, the better. Seeing their disappointment at the ghost musician tale, Rebecca incautiously continued with the taboo postscript she’d never shared with guests.