Haunting the Jerome Hotel

4/ George meets a ghost

George felt a hand on his arm, a cool light touch. Bolting upright, he raked his bare feet against the railing, leaving deep scratches.

Half awake, heart pounding, the taste of coffee overwhelmingly sour in his mouth, he squinted into the sun. All he could see was a silhouette hovering over his body .

Shielding his eyes, he gazed at the small hand resting on his arm, long tapered fingers wrapped around his bicep. The dizzying light made the hand appear detached, floating without benefit of an arm—and that, of course was ridiculous, so he grabbed the hand and yanked.

The hand came with an arm, and with it came a woman.

At first he thought it was housekeeping, that the maid had come to clean the room, and had stepped outside to check on him, make sure her sleeping guest wasn't getting sunburned.

But this woman was wearing a crisp uniform, tapered skirt clutching full thighs as she struggled to pull free. He held tighter, taking in the white-on-blue apron, the clutch of keys jangling from her belt, the tented white cap that covered smooth dark hair. Under the starched linen he could see tawny eyes, a fine straight nose, full lips.

"Mr. Marsh, let me go!" She pulled hard, freeing herself, then stood out of his reach, hands on hips, wheezing slightly.

"I'm not Mr. Marsh," George said. "It's March." Easy enough to confuse and his correction came automatically, without rancor, only a strange bewilderment. Nurse, not housekeeper, early morning, hot sunlight. He needed to drink more coffee, less beer.

Recovering quickly, a forgiving smile stretched her lips but remained tight on the corners. "You are Mr. George Marsh. You've had a conk on the head, quite a nasty one. You've been out of it for days, but recovered nicely in the last 24 hours. You're going home today and back to the mines tomorrow."

Baffled, George decided to play along. "Come on now. You know I don't work in the mines."

She laughed. "Of course not! You're the supervisor. You wouldn't have this hospital suite if you were anything less."

George stared. What was she talking about?

Did he have sun stroke? Did she?

And what was with the role playing? She was young, and that was fine, but playing nurse was silly; he preferred his sex straightforward, no nonsense and no expectations.

Maybe it was part of the hotel's grand opening celebration. If so, he'd missed the memo, wasn't quite ready to join the fun. Something about this woman disturbed him.

"Supervisor? I'm not..." He paused, tried again. "I don't even live here."

She nodded, apparently pleased he had remembered. "You live in Cottonwood. You and the missus. She's afraid of heights, can't take the views. And isn't that a shame," she said waving a hand at the majestic scenery.

She reached for him again, only this time she tripped, her tangled feet bringing her close to the balcony's edge. George lunged, open-handed, terrified she was going to sail over the edge and crash onto the rocks below. She didn't; instead caught herself on the railing, grunting as her stockinged knees rapped concrete.

That's what he saw, what he knew happened.

But for a moment George witnessed something else: this woman, strangely caught, the upper half of her body supported as if by a wall of nothingness. She should have sailed over the edge of the balcony, fallen through whatever phantom force kept her in place. She should have dropped like a stone, likely screaming, to her death. Instead she lay in a low heap on newly poured cement, coughing.

George rubbed his jaw, trying to shake off his morning nap. He was groggy, more than a bit dizzy. His stomach sat tilted sideways, like an overfull cup ready to spill. In his case that would be beer. Water. Coffee.

He tried to think clearly, at last remembering a picture he'd seen in his book. The hospital's original wrought iron railing was more like a fence: it went from the balcony to the roof line. No one could accidentally fall from this steep height. Or jump.

During remodeling, half the railing had been cut away (a bit too low in George's opinion) so hotel guests could enjoy an unobstructed view. This new railing was four feet high, if that. Anyone hitting higher would fall.

This woman, in her vintage nurse uniform (they wore scrubs now, didn't they? Pastel colors with chunky clogs,) was seeing things as they used to be, not as they are.

George crouched low, peered into her face. "Are you a ghost?"