Tap.
I listen closely, pressing my hands against my chest as if that’ll persuade my heart to pipe down a bit.
Yes, the sound is definitely coming from the door. Which issort ofa relief, because that means it most likely has a human source, whereas the only thing that could possibly have been tapping on my third-floor window would be .?.?. well, nothing good, let’s put it that way.
If the tapping is coming from an actual person, though, that means it’s probably thesameperson who’s been tormenting me in all of these other ways, too; and that thought is enough to propel me across the room, a small shriek of combined terror and outrage escaping my lips as I wrench open the door to find .?.?.
.?.?. nothing.
Well, ofcoursethere’s nothing. That’s just par for the course with me and this place, isn’t it? Although .?.?. wait. Is that .?.?. ?
I squint down the corridor, wishing I was wearing my contact lenses, because I’m almost blind without them.
At the opposite end of the hall, something small and white flickers into view, the gloom of the long corridor making it look almost like it’s floating.
Unless, of course, itisfloating?
I take a cautious step forward and peer into the darkness, not sure whether my blurrier-than-usual vision is due to my poor eyesight, the champagne I had earlier, or if I’m about to faint.
Please don’t let it be the last one.
My legs start to sag beneath me as the ghostly figure of a child begins gliding silently down the corridor; and not justanyold ghostly child, either, but a little ghostlygirl.
And everyone knows those are the scariest kind, don’t they?
If you’d asked me before I came to this hotel what I’d do if faced with the ghostly figure of a creepy little girl in a long white nightgown, I’d have laughed and told you not to be silly, there’s no such things as ghosts.
If you asked me the same question at any point after this exact moment, however, I’d now be able to tell you with some degree of confidence that what I’d actually do isscream.
Loudly.
And also rather squeakily, actually.
The door behind me slams shut with a very loud bang, indicating that I’m now locked out of my room, too, as if I didn’t have enough to deal with right now.
‘Shhh!’ hisses the ghost, starting to run towards me. ‘Stop making so much noise! You’re going to wake everyone up. They’ll be mad.’
I sag weakly against the door, doubting the proof of my own eyes.
Ghosts can’ttalk, can they?
Or run?
The thing is almost upon me now, and as it –she– approaches, I notice that what appeared from a distance to be one of those long, old-fashioned nightgowns the Victorians were so keen on, is actually a white towelling robe with the hotel’s logo sewn onto the front. There’s one just like it hanging in my bathroom right this second. Which means . . .
‘Hello,’ says the decidedly flesh-and-blood little girl shyly as she reaches me. ‘I’m Hannah. Why are you screaming?’
* * *
A few minutes later, I’m walking Hannah back to her apartment in the staff quarters, her little hand tucked trustingly into mine as she chatters on about her day, and this one kid in her class called Billy, who once tried to climb out of the window, and got stuck halfway out and upside down.
I feel like Billy and I would have a lot in common somehow.
‘Hannah, were you knocking on my door earlier?’ I ask gently, interrupting her.
She looks up at me: big blue eyes set in a pretty little freckled face, and framed with long white-blonde hair which reaches almost to her waist.
‘Sorry,’ she says, not looking remotely sorry. ‘I just wanted to see you close up. You’re the lady who was in the hotel reception in her bathrobe, aren’t you?’
