Haunting the Jerome Hotel

10/ George meets a living ghost

Does that make him haunted...or hunted?

George paused outside the elevator door, then continued his hop-skip shuffle down the hall. 

It would have been easier, faster, to travel in that gilded cage, but his hysteria had him convinced that the elevator was some kind of time machine.

It would either bring him back to the current era or awaken the rest of the ghosts who had it in for Marsh. That would be bad and this George March wasn't taking any chances.

Down the stairs, bare feet pounding wooden treads. He limped into the lobby, stopped. Coffee, he smelled coffee. A freshly brewed pot from a perfectly ordinary coffee maker. He could see it, smell it, almost taste it.

Maybe that should have scared him more, the continued juxtaposition of vintage and modern, but the sight of that unit tucked into a nook next to the stairs soothed him, sliced a giant edge off his panic.

He could have a cup of coffee.

He could leave the hotel (hospital), and head back to Phoenix, try to catch an afternoon flight back to Portland. Down here in this brightly lit, somewhat dusty room, he felt somewhat safe. Sane.

His room was awful, a lurid nightmare.

The lobby not.

He grabbed a paper cup, the pot. Poured, already, hungrily anticipating that hot, bittersweet taste. His mouth watering, he reached for the sugar bowl, the fake creamer. Extra sweet, extra fat, that would shake the last of this madness, clear his aching head. Normally he preferred his brew black, but not today. He'd drink his coffee, and then, claiming an emergency, ask them to send his luggage later.

By the time he reached the front desk, he knew how utterly ridiculous he'd sound if he pleaded with them to pack his sole bag and mail it to him. They'd think him a neurotic, goofy tourist, spooked by a not-yet-haunted hotel. George was an engineer. His trade was critical thinking, facts over fantasy. He'd have to see this thing through.

With a steady hand that amazed him, he sipped the too-hot coffee, relishing the burn in his mouth. Then he frowned, swallowed hard despite the urge to spit. Even sweetened, the coffee carried an overtone that was unpleasant, but he kept drinking anyway. Bad coffee in any hotel setting was normal, he would buy a better cup before he left town.

George greeted the clerk. "Good morning. You sure work a lot of hours. Didn't you check me in last night?"

"Yes, I did." She sneezed, grabbed a tissue, wiped her nose.

"I thought so," George took another sip.

Glancing out the front windows, at the flow of cars and foot traffic, he slugged the rest, tossed the cup in the trash. Spied the box of donuts; Winchell's finest. He knew what those were, where the store was located, down the street, half a block over. Relieved, he took one, bit into the glazed shell.

Calmer now, he strolled around the lobby, favoring his sore foot. It was as he remembered, same as when he'd checked in. Part historic, part tourist kitsch. Standing there in his jeans, barefoot and bare-chested, George wondered what the hell had happened in his room upstairs.

"More coffee?" The clerk handed him another cup, a thick gob of cream floating on the top.

He drank, wondering what drip they used. It tasted awful. Grimacing, he set the cup down on the counter. Studied the clerk in her white dress, short sleeves. She had on a fitted apron, blue over white, with a few smudges and smears down the front. She probably did double-duty around here; dusting and vacuuming when things got slow.