Page 1 of A Haunting at Keystone Manor

Chapter one

Keystone Manor

Alex

“Okay, Alex, take twelve. You can do this,” I mutter to myself as I attempt to wipe a smudge off the mirror, huffing in frustration as my hand goes right through it again. With a sigh, I walk over to the bed and plop down.

Being dead sucks.

I didn’t used to think about death a lot, but now it’s all I think about, in all its many forms. Heart attack. Cancer. Sledgehammer to the head. It’s always been an abstract concept to me, something that happens to other people. I’ve never considered my death.

So, imagine my surprise when on one perfectly average day, in the middle of my perfectly average job, I was quite literally smacked in the face with it. I don’t remember much about the circumstances of my death, but I’ve been trying to make the best of it. I don’t even know how long I’ve been dead. Time has no place in this manor anymore.

I watch the new cleaning lady flit about the room, getting it ready for our newest guest. Normally, it would be me getting the room ready for them. But I’m dead now and can’t exactly tell my manager Kayla that I’ll be calling out of work indefinitely.

“You need to wipe down the baseboards, I saw a bit of dust earlier,” I point out. Being dead doesn’t excuse you from providing quality customer service.

There are a few things they don’t tell you about being a ghost. First, it’s lonely as fuck. I can see people, but they can’t see me. I haven’t seen any other ghosts wandering around, so I’m pretty sure it’s just me.

For a while, I tried my hand at good old-fashioned hauntings, but it turns out no one can hear me either. Ghost stories are bullshit, apparently. So, I started listening to the conversations guests have when they think no one is around. There’s Bob and Martha, newly retired and here on the first vacation they’ve had away from the grandkids in six years. They have a bag full of toys and pills they can’t wait to use tonight. Brandon Sinclair is here on a “writer’s workshop retreat” because he wants to be the next Stephen King and thinks a bit of solitude is the key to unlocking literary genius. It’s the cocaine, buddy.

I watch as the cleaning lady wipes down the baseboards.

“Ugh.” I inspect the freshly made bed I’ve been perched on while watching her. The comforter is off white and covered in intricate red flowers. It looks like something my grandmother would have in her house. Luckily, I’m not wrinkling the bedding. That’s one benefit to not having a body, I guess. What would she think if she knew I was here, judging her?

“There’s a hair on the pillow, just so you know. You missed it,” I tell her, knowing full well she can’t hear me. Sigh.

What is a lonely ghost to do? Another thing no one mentions about being dead is that there is nothing to do. Due to my incorporeal form I can’t so much as hold a remote to turn on a shitty daytime soap. Not that I watch those. Kayla’s a news junkie, so that’s the only thing that’s ever on the TV’s around here.

At first, I thought being a ghost would be awesome, but now I’m bored. Of the monotony, of the boring guests and their boring problems. Of missing Days of Our Lives. I wish I had a way to let my twelve YouTube subscribers know there would be no new Clean with Me episode this week. Instead of working on building my career and increasing my subscriber count, I’m stuck in this hotel.

The cleaning lady interrupts my darkening thoughts when she leans over me to lint roll the pillows, collecting the hair I pointed out to her. I lean back to avoid her before remembering she can’t touch me.

“What the fuck? Can you hear me?” I stand up and wave my hand in front of her face as she puts the lint roller back in her cleaning caddy. “Hellooooo?” Nothing. Double sigh. I sit back down on the edge of the bed and watch her tidy up the rest of the room, not wanting to admit that she’s doing an annoyingly good job.

She’s very thorough. I’d give her five stars.

“You’re lucky I’m dead, lady. I don’t like competition. Make sure you get that smudge on the mirror—yep, you got it.” I stand up and head to the door.

I’ve got a new guest to meet.

Chapter two

The New Guest

Alex

I make my way down the twisting halls of Keystone Manor, heading to the front lobby where Kayla and I will greet our newest arrival any time now. This is a massive house, and if I were still alive, I’d be almost out of breath by the time I get to the lobby. The house predates the foundation of the United States by a few years and looks it. Tucked away in the southern range of the Adirondack Mountains in New York, it doesn’t get much more remote than this. I’m surprised we get any visitors at all. No one knows this place is out here, and it looks almost untouched by time.

A Victorian spirit would be right at home here. The halls are dark and moody, lit only by candelabras. The rooms aren’t much better. Elaborate dark wallpaper covers the walls, and vintage oriental rugs adorn the floors of every room. But I love it, which is great because I’m stuck here, possibly forever.

The identity of the owner has always been well-guarded. The only thing I have is a name. Covington. All I know is that they bought this place five years ago and decided to turn it into a hotel. As far as I know, they haven’t visited once in the three years I’ve worked here, and efforts to find them online have been futile.

I like to imagine they’re something cool, like an oil baron, or royalty. Who else could afford a twenty-eight bedroom mansion sitting on over twenty acres of land, with six cabins sprinkled around the property?

Maybe a lot of people, I don’t know.

I spot Kayla standing behind the reception desk as I enter the lobby, which alone is the size of a normal house. She’s at the computer trying to look busy, but I can tell she’s bored. We only have three guests right now, so there’s not much to be done. I’m not sure how this place is still in business, or why. Behind her, a small TV is playing one of the local news stations, the volume so low I can barely hear. Thank god for subtitles.