Chapter 1

1

" I 'm sorry, no comment."

I look up and see my best friend, Rosie, slam the phone down with a little more force than necessary.

"Are you okay?" I ask in concern.

"Urgh, reporters… again." She grimaces. "I've lost count of how many calls I've taken. There's only so many ways I can say no comment and remain polite and professional. I'm actually thinking of switching to saying I don't speak English in a variety of different accents and languages, just to freshen things up a bit."

I grin. "You don't speak any other languages."

"That's what Google Translate is for. Although," she muses, "I don't think it's very accurate. When I went to the Costa del Sol with Mum and Dennis last summer, I tried to ask the waiter what the specials were, but I think I ended up asking if his goat could water-ski."

"I bet there's a video of that somewhere on YouTube," I offer thoughtfully.

Her brow crinkles. "What, of me butchering the Spanish language?"

"No, a water-skiing goat," I reply. "You'd be amazed at what you can find on YouTube."

"Amazed, or slightly traumatised?" Rosie cocks her head. "Somewhere buried deep down in its dark depths is a video of Dennis in his glam-rock days circa 1978."

"Seriously?"

She nods and grins wickedly. "I'm talking full-on four-inch platform knee-high boots, a shiny unitard, and shoulder pads he'd have to turn sideways to get through a doorway while wearing. Honestly, you'd never think it to look at him now. I mean, he barely has three hairs left in his comb-over, and the man does love an argyle cardigan."

I snort and grab my phone. "Oh my god, I have to see." I just can't picture Rosie's sweet stepdad rocking out like he's Slade.

The phone rings again and Rosie picks it up before I can reach it. "Good morning, this is the Ashton-Drake Manor House Hotel. How may I help–" I watch as her eyes narrow and her lips thin. "No comment." She slams down the phone again and huffs out an annoyed breath. "We've already made statements to the police and the press. Why won't they leave us alone?"

"I know," I say as I rub her back soothingly. "They will eventually lose interest when something more interesting comes along."

"Something more interesting?" Rosie stares at me. "Ellis, we live in North Yorkshire with nothing but the moors and a tiny little village full of meddling gossips for company. Nothing interesting ever happens around here. Trust me, they'll be banging on about this fiasco for decades. It'll go down in history. In fact, I'll be surprised if they don't add it as an addendum to the Doomsday book."

"Your glass is really half empty today isn't it, petal?" I hum and continue to stroke her back.

"I wish my glass was more like yours." She sighs. "Yours isn't just half full, it's overflowing with rainbow glitter, fluffy clouds, smiley face emojis, and Care Bears."

I snort. "Must be a really big glass."

"How can you be so calm about everything?" Rosie blows out a frustrated breath. "The first annual murder mystery weekend was supposed to be a fresh start for the hotel. A chance to bring in some paying guests. Instead, we got a troupe of actors who didn't give us a penny and almost ate us out of house and home, not to mention the fact that one of them ended up dead and stuffed in a hidden cupboard. Oh, and we mustn't forget the icing on the top of a very crappy, almost bankrupt cake—we now seem to have a whole hotel filled with ghosts."

"I think the ghosts were always here, only now we can see them," I point out.

"What are we going to do, Ellis?" Her dark eyes fill with worry. "We're supposed to be trying to save this place from closing, but all we've done is make things worse. Who's going to want to come and stay here now? We can't even keep staff, let alone guests."

"We'll figure it out, Rosie. I promise."

I wish I could make her feel better. I know things look dire right now. After all, the hotel is still in very real danger of closure. There's just no money left. Every year the beautiful old estate falls more into disrepair. The owner, Mr Ashton-Drake, now into his eighties, lives up on the fifth floor and never ventures out of his rooms. Over the years, managers have come and gone with alarming frequency, as have staff. There's only a handful of us left now, but those of us who are still here love this place. I've worked here ever since I was sixteen years old and Rosie's been here since she was eighteen, and neither of us can imagine being anywhere else.

We'd been trying everything we could think of to bring in more guests and, more importantly, more money to keep this place going when Rosie and I came up with the idea of the murder mystery weekend. I had imagined an awesome weekend with a packed hotel full of elegant guests who looked like they'd just stepped out of the pages of an Agatha Christie novel. When, in reality, we got eight guests and a dead body.

A real dead body .

I do feel sorry for the man who died, one of the actors from the murder mystery troupe. I mean, accidentally impaling yourself on a carving knife while practicing Macbeth's soliloquy in secret is probably an embarrassing way to go. But despite Professor Plume's untimely death, I have to say, it was an epic weekend.

Why?

Because we discovered we have ghosts ! Real, actual, honest-to-god ghosts! There were hints and whispers over the years, yes, so many weird happenings that previous guests have commented on in the overabundance of one-star reviews we've managed to accumulate on TripAdvisor, but now the ghosts have finally decided to show themselves to us.

It's pretty thrilling—proof that life after death exists and that it exists here right in these walls. And I do mean literally in the walls. One of the other things we discovered during the murder mystery weekend was a whole host of hidden cupboards, bolt holes, and concealed passageways.

I just need to figure out how to make this all work to the hotel's advantage. There's got to be a way to turn this into a selling point enticing enough to make potential visitors ignore all the negative reviews.

Unfortunately, there's been so much to do over the past week, what with investigations and police coming and going, that I haven't really had a moment to think. We also needed to take care of the remaining guests, making sure they departed safely and weren't going to sue us for mental distress or something equally unpleasant and costly. It all led to a rather packed few days.

Things have finally settled down—other than the constant barrage of phone calls from reporters—but now we're now left with an empty hotel and no idea where to go from here.

I hear Rosie sigh next to me and glance over at her. She's leaning on the reception desk, her chin propped on one hand and the fingers of her other hand tapping out a mindless staccato as she stares forlornly at the deserted foyer.

"I suppose we should take the tree down since we're past New Year's now," she says without much enthusiasm as she glances at the rather sad looking Christmas tree.

"Don't worry, I'll do that," I offer. "Why don't you finish up the paperwork in the office? I'll keep an eye on reception while I start boxing up the decorations."

"Great," she mutters sourly, pushing her round glasses up from where they've slid slightly down her nose. "I can dodge phone calls from the debt collectors and the bank instead of the press."

I give her a small smile. "It'll be okay, Rosie. You'll see."

She sighs again and nods before disappearing through the doorway behind the reception desk and into the office.

"Ah, there you are, Ellis," a voice calls out, and I look across the lobby to see our one and only remaining guest from the murder mystery weekend.

"Good morning, Mr Pennington." I give a professional smile. "Checking out?"

"What?" He shakes his head as he scurries across the large space and stops in front me. "No, no. Actually, I'd like to extend my stay."

"That's wonderful." I beam at the small, skinny man. He's in his thirties, with sandy-coloured hair and a quirky dress sense. My eyes skim over his yellow-checked trousers and bright purple shirt.

Mr Pennington is a horror fiction writer, quite a successful one too, although from what I hear, he hasn't published anything in the last couple of years. When he first arrived at the hotel just before Christmas, it was with an old-fashioned typewriter tucked under one arm, several suitcases, and a raging case of writer's block.

He'd seemed subdued and a little deflated if I'm honest. Dressed in much more sombre colours—still with garish patterns, but definitely a more monochrome colour palette—he'd dramatically moped about the hotel like he was Lord Byron. But ever since the whole "murder" incident, he's perked up enormously. He's even stopped fainting every time he sees one of the ghosts now.

"I'm writing again, Ellis," he gushes excitedly, waving his hands about. "The stormy skies have cleared, and I can finally see clearly again. The words and ideas are overflowing in my mind. I need to work, and this is just the place to get those creative juices flowing. It must have been serendipity that brought me here."

"I thought it was the winter getaway discount."

Mr Pennington laughs and slaps his hand down on the reception desk. "Ellis, you're so funny. Anyway, in addition to my own room, I'd like somewhere I can write. I don't like to work and sleep in the same place. I was thinking maybe the study," he says.

"You want to work in the room where Professor Plume died?" I reply.

Hmmm, maybe we could host a horror writers retreat or something I think to myself. In fact, if it's stimulating and creepy ambiance writers want to get their creative juices flowing, perhaps we could pinpoint all the places on the estate bodies have been discovered. I mean, there's the orchard where Edwina Ashton-Drake froze to death protesting woman's rights to vote. The window the punk rocker Skid fell out of. The grand ballroom where Leona Falberg-Black died, crushed by a falling stage light when they tried to set up a temporary film studio back in the thirties. I grab a pen and, not seeing a spare piece of paper, scribble a note to myself across my palm, feeling a surge of excitement. Things are looking up already.

Mr Pennington, seeing that I'm lost in a thought tangent, clears his throat. "So, may I? Use the study, that is? I have a feeling that it's just the place to create my next bestseller."

Rosie pokes her head through the doorway and fixes her gaze on Mr Pennington. "It'll cost you extra. The study is part of the private areas and is off-limits to guests. But if you'd like to hire the space to work in, I'm sure Mr Ashton-Drake wouldn't object."

"But of course, dear lady," he declares expansively. "I would be more than happy to compensate–"

"Excellent." Rosie emerges fully from the office and claps her hands in delight. "Then, if you'd like to follow me, I'll show you the section of the study you can work in, and we can discuss the price. Although, as it's technically still a private part of the house, there will be things in there we'd prefer you didn't touch or move."

He throws his arm out flamboyantly and almost bows as Rosie passes by. "Absolutely. Please, lead the way."

He really is a very odd man. It's like someone's turned up a dial on him somewhere. He's gone from mopey greyscale to ostentatious clashing colour, and his personality's been cranked up to match. Still, if he's happy and a paying guest, I'm certainly not going to complain. I wonder if he knows any other writers he might want to recommend the hotel to.

After watching them cross the lobby and head through one of the doors towards the study, I turn back to the desk, trying to remember what it was I was supposed to be doing.

Oh, yes, the Christmas decorations.

"Ellis!" another loud voice bellows.

I jolt in surprise; for an almost empty hotel, it certainly does seem to be busy this morning. Spinning around, I find two of the resident spirits looking at me eagerly. A little thrill runs through me, and I wonder if I'll ever get used to not only knowing ghosts are real but also having them just manifest whenever and wherever.

"Beatrice." I grin at the short, plump woman wearing tweed plus twos with knee-high checked woollen socks and sensible lace-up shoes. Her rather ample chest is barely constrained by a beige knitted sweater, a white shirt collar folded neatly over the neck. She's also wearing a tweed jacket with brown leather elbow pads.

Her short, wiry grey hair is sticking up all over the place, making it look as if she'd been electrocuted, which I know for a fact she wasn't. Beatrice Ashton-Drake died in 1972 from a heart attack; in fact, her portrait hangs along the east stairwell.

"I told you to call me Bertie, lad," she booms heartily.

"Bertie." I nod, my mouth a permanent smile by now. Seriously, I must look like The Joker, but I can't help it. I'm talking to a real live ghost in her ancestral home. An ancestral home where I live and work. It's so exciting!

"Oh, look. The twinkly little ray of sunshine is almost speechless, Bertie." Roger cackles in delight. "Fleshies are such fun! Who knew?"

"Why do you call us fleshies?" I ask curiously.

The ghost known as Roger lights a long, slim cigarette and inhales, then exhales an elegant stream of smoke and says in a soft, posh accent, "well, it's pretty self-explanatory, darling."

He hops up and perches on the edge of the reception desk, one leg crossed demurely across the other. Although there is nothing demure about Roger. He's wearing tiny white shorts, which are barely more than hot pants, and his white socks, matching his white tennis shoes, are folded neatly just beneath his knees. He has a lemon-coloured sweater wrapped around his shoulders and its arms are knotted in front, over a white collared short-sleeved shirt.

He's a very pretty man, his pristine short blond hair parted neatly to the side and a matching blonde moustache gracing his upper lip. He also has a tennis racket in one hand, propped against his shoulder.

Roger had been a tennis instructor at the estate, and had died back in 1954 when he choked to death on a Swedish meatball.

"What can I do for you both?" I ask politely.

"We have an announcement to make." Roger waves the hand holding his cigarette airily. I'm glad the cigarette ash is as incorporeal as he is. "Bertie, do you want to do the honours?"

"Why, thank you, Roger. I would rather." Bertie grins at the skinny man before turning to me. "Ellis, as Roger and I are the self-appointed representatives of the resident ghosts here at Ashton House," Bertie begins.

"The Ashton-Drake," I correct.

"Pfft." Bertie scoffs. "That may be what my nephew called it when he opened it as a hotel, but it's always been Ashton House… and don't interrupt, lad."

"Sorry," I say contritely.

"Now where was I?" Bertie frowns.

"Self-appointed representatives."

"Ah yes, marvellous. Thank you, Roger."

"You're welcome, Bertie."

"Anyway, as I was saying," Bertie continues, "as the self-appointed representatives of the spirits and spectres of Ashton House, Roger and I have designated you as our living liaison to the spirit community here in the house and grounds."

"Really?" I reply, the exhilaration bubbling over and making me want to dance on the spot like an over-excited two-year-old. "And what exactly does a living liaison to the spectres and spirits of the house and grounds actually do?"

"Oh, um." She turns to Roger, who shrugs and looks a bit bewildered, as if they hadn't quite planned that far ahead. From what I've seen and heard recently, this seems to be on par for this spectral double act. "Yes, well." She waves one hand nonchalantly. "We'll figure that all out. What do you say?"

"Uh, yes? I guess?" Although I'm not really sure what I'm agreeing to, it's so cool. I mean, how many people can say they are the living liaison to an estate full of ghosts?

"Splendid." Bertie slaps her thigh. "Now, first order of business on today's agenda. Save the hotel. It has been brought to our attention that this place may not be doing too well. Financially, that is. Having run this estate myself while I was alive, I am well aware of the cost of keeping up a property of this age, size, and historical significance. However, it cannot be allowed to fall to rack and ruin. Therefore, we need a plan posthaste."

"That's what we've been trying to do, Bertie," I reply with a sigh. "It's easier said than done."

"Nonsense, boy." Bertie's tone is brusque as she rubs her hands together. "Now, Roger and I have come up with a plan."

"A brilliant plan," Roger emphasises with an eager nod.

"A brilliant plan," Bertie agrees. "We need something to draw in guests, and what's more exciting than the idea of staying at a real haunted hotel?"

"As awesome as that sounds—and seriously, it sounds epic—I'm not sure, Bertie," I muse. "I mean, isn't there a reason you're not supposed to show yourselves to the living? Won't you get into trouble?"

"Pfft," Bertie sniffs. "No…" She pauses and frowns. "At least, I don't think so. Besides, we're not planning on showing ourselves to just anyone willy-nilly. I mean much more subtle stuff. Flying crockery, rattling chains–"

"Ghostly moans." Roger winks.

"Ghostly moans." Bertie nods. "Roger's been practicing."

"I'm sure he has." I snort, then chew my lip thoughtfully as I study the mismatched spectral duo. "I suppose we could, it is a good idea, but it's a bit of a fine line."

"What is?"

"Well," I shrug. "I get the whole ‘titillate them with a whiff of the paranormal,' but we don't actually want anyone to have a heart attack or leave here fully traumatised and ready to sue."

"Killjoy."

"Also, we have to actually get guests here in the first place," I murmur to myself as I start churning over various ideas in my head.

"That's where you come in, Mr Liaison." Bertie beams. "You get them here, lad, and leave the rest to us."

"You won't scare them too badly though, will you?"

"Pay attention, lad," Bertie huffs. "We want them to be talking about their stay. You know, spreading the word."

"Hmm," I hum a little worriedly at the level of Bertie's zeal.

"I thought you were supposed to be the optimistic one?" Bertie huffs loudly and rolls her eyes. "Maybe we should've chosen the chubby girl."

"Don't call her that," I admonish her. "That's really rude, and Rosie's beautiful just the way she is."

"I know that," Bertie replies with a wink. "Trust me, I like a girl with an ample backside to grasp onto."

"Uh, I think we're getting a little off track here." I shake my head. "Bertie, I am an optimist. I'm certain we'll figure out a plan to save the hotel, but right now, I can't just magic fresh guests out of thin air for you to scare. We can barely afford to keep the electricity running. There's no money for a marketing campaign to bring in new visitors."

"Well, that's up to you to figure out. I have the utmost confidence in you."

"But I–"

Bertie and Roger wink out of sight before I've managed to complete my sentence, and I find myself talking to an empty lobby.

I blow out a breath. Okay, then. I shake my head and laugh; I guess I might as well busy myself with taking down the Christmas tree and giving the lobby a good clean. Hopefully, the distraction will help me think up some new ideas for filling the rooms because we really are running out of time. With the creditors practically banging down the door, I need to come up with a plan.

I mean, it's not like the solution to all our problems is just going to come strolling through the front door.