Back tome.
No more ghosts.
Unfortunately, no Janet, either.
I ask around the dining room and—surprise—nobody knows where she went.
I wait at the bar, my suitcase standing pathetically beside my stool. I fish my book from my pack, but no matter how hard I try to focus, the words blur on the page.
Eventually, Una brings me a cheese and chutney sandwich. “I’m certain she’ll be back any minute,” she says with a reassuring nod.
I nibble the crustless triangles as slowly as possible. When I finish, she brings a bowl of carrot soup. I ladle it in small, slow sips, watching the lunch crowd come and go.
Why did I let her out of my sight?
The thing is, I keep finding myself in situations like this. When friends ask why I don’t just cut her off, I tell them: she’s my mother. My only living family besides Poppa. But the real reason runs deeper. Somewhere under all her selfishness lives the woman who used to bring me cake in bed when I was sad. Or sick. Or because it was Tuesday. Who’d wake me at midnight so we could leave offerings of milk andhoney for the fairies. The woman who’d braid my hair into intricate patterns with the focus of a surgeon.
And then there was the time she taught me to swear in Gaelic. After a particularly bad day at school, she pulled me aside with twinkling eyes and whispered the most creative insults, showing rare patience as she made me practice over and over until I got the pronunciation right. When I did, she clapped her hands and pronounced me a proper Scottish lass with fire in my belly.
And so I keep bailing her out because I’ve seen her capable of love, even if she rations it like a finite resource.
Which is all very noble, until I hit the one-hour mark waiting alone in a hotel dining room.
I try to read. Fume a little. Wait some more.
Una reappears, gives my shoulder a sympathetic pat, and silently places my room key—the one I’d already returned—on the table.
I nudge it away. “Thanks, but I’ll just wait here a little longer.”
“Of course, lass.”
Compassion softens her features, and I can’t decide if it’s welcome or unbearable.
Naturally, that’s when the giant grandfather clock begins its eeriebong-bongfrom the other room. A clock in the dining room joins in, clicking and whirring before releasing a series of rhythmic chimes. Behind the bar, more bells start to ding, higher and tinnier.
A strange, disconnected feeling washes over me. How long have I been sitting here? Did I only imagine seeing Janet earlier?
Another clock begins a cheerfulding-ding-dong-dong, itschimes overlapping and crawling under my skin. I grip the bar, unease prickling the back of my neck.
“Is this place haunted?” I blurt.
I hadn’t meant to ask about ghosts. Now Una’s going to think I’m some woo-woo American.
“Ah.” She tucks her rag into her belt and sits beside me. “You seen something, is it?”
I blink. Her nonchalance throws me so much, I admit a hesitant, “Maybe. I only saw his reflection. He didn’t speak.”
“Onlythat, eh?” She sighs and pats my arm. “Poor lass. Seeing a taish would be enough to shake the bravest of us.”
“A what?”
“A taish. Dinnae be afraid of them. It’s a spirit, like. A soul’s image returned as a reflection. They say a taish is created at the moment of death. Dinnae ken why it happens to some and nae to others. Maybe if a man fights his death, or it takes him by surprise, then maybe he becomes a taish.” She shrugs. “Or maybe a soul just wants to say goodbye.”
“So…this guy showed himself to meas he was dying?” Soup sloshes in my stomach.
Una is quick to grab my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Och, no, dear. I imagine the lad is long dead. Here’s what I think. I reckon he had a powerful feeling, maybe in life, maybe in death, and a picture of him was captured and still hangs about. Like mist.”
The smell of carrots is making me feel sick, and I shove the bowl aside. “I don’t know if I want to stay in a hotel where supernatural mist is hanging around.”
