A haunted hotel in a ghost town, what could be more...cliché?
How about a hotel that doesn't have a ghost, but wants to score one?
After all, ghosts put hotels ON THE MAP, especially when this hotel was once a hospital for miners.
And we all know...
George glanced at the French doors. Those remained neatly latched, handles neither new nor old, unchanged. He could hobble over, pull them open. But then he was afraid, afraid of what he'd see outside. Would there be half a railing or a full, floor-to-ceiling wrought iron fence?
Only one way to find out.
George limped across the room. Put shaking hands on the latch, gave a quick tug. The doors partly opened. A whiff of hot desert air curled through the gap, a slice of view: the black wrought iron railing of the balcony, waist-high. He slammed the doors closed, almost catching his finger.
If I climb onto the ledge, I can save myself—this will all be over.
Whirling, stumbling, cursing loudly, he snatched up his jeans and yanked them on, shoving his sagging boxers inside.
Did they feel clammy? Hell, he didn't know, didn't care; that crazy impulse to take a flyer—how could that save me!—galvanized him.
Amazingly, the room door unlocked (he'd somehow swapped the vision of a hospital (hotel room, dammit, hotel room) for a prison cell, wondering briefly why he wasn't handcuffed to the bed. That image passed and George skittered down the hall.
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