Calliope practically vibrates with excitement. “I get off at seven.”
“I’m leaving at four, but I can come back,” I say as I step out.
She squeals. “Bring flashlights. And maybe some sage.”
I give her a thumbs-up.
The elevator doors finally close again, and I start moving.
My stomach growls loudly.
“All right,” I say to myself.
Time to fuel.
Ghost hunting requires proper nourishment.
Istep out of the elevator and into silence.
The hidden doors slide closed behind me with a soft mechanical whisper, sealing the alcove once again behind the emergency stairwell like nothing was ever there. No one walking these halls would ever know an elevator existed in this narrow pocket of space.
That’s exactly how my great-great-grandfather designed it.
A private passage through his hotel so he could have eyes everywhere.
Unseen.
I adjust the cuff of my shirt and glance down the fifth-floor corridor of the main inn. The lights are low—the faint sound of the Cottonwood Court below the only noise.
I make my way along the patterned carpet. The hallway stretches long and elegant in both directions, lined with dark walnut doors and brass numbers that gleam under the sconces.
There was another complaint last night.
A ridiculous account from the fifth floor.
Always the fifth floor.
Most guests are downstairs right now. Cocktails in the lounge. Dinner reservations.
Which means I can check the room without any curious onlookers.
I check my watch.
Eight o’clock. It’s been a long day.
I round the corner, and that’s when I hear it.
Giggles.
Soft.
Muffled.
Coming from the end of the hall.
Interesting.
According to our reservation software, no one is staying in this hall tonight.
