She gestures for everyone to follow her and begins leading the group inside, but we’re at the back. I pause as I wait for people to file inside the hotel. It’s a good opportunity to take in the outside of the towering building and all the long, double-hung windows without the crowd.
Since the Mayfield Inn is thirteen stories, it’s a massive structure. The architecture is Gothic, like most of Raven’s Crest. With the dark sky painted behind it and slivers of pale moonlight peeking through ominous gray clouds, it’s more than a little eerie. The odd thing is that there aren’t any other buildings nearly as high. It makes me wonder if the town intended to grow the population much larger. At last check, I found it still has fewer than 5,000 residents.
Were people too scared to settle here?
There’s a flicker of movement in one of the windows, and I glance up, catching the shadowy figure of a man. I can’t make out what he’s wearing or his expression, but his broad shoulders nearly fill the frame. His gaze seems focused on me, and I blink, nearly jolting when I see he’s disappeared. He probably doesn’t enjoy the tour or all the people in the hotel this late into the night. I’m guessing he’s a guest, and not the ghostly kind.
“What are you staring at?” Thad asks, glancing upward.
“Someone was in the window just now.”
“Maybe it’s a ghost.”
“I don’t think so,” I contradict, but can’t deny the cold brush of invisible fingers on my skin.
Thad smirks. “Scaredy cat.”
I’m not. Most of the time. But something about this town and the creepy hotel gives me delicious shivers.
“Come on. Everyone is already inside.”
I rush to follow the crowd, and we enter last, staring at the opulent and richly decorated lobby. Wood paneled walls, old paintings, vintage furnishings, and burnished brass fixtures snare my attention. Flickering candles in metal sconces line the walls, brightening up the space enough for us to see that it’s the only area of the hotel with this much illumination. The dark is barely held at bay, spindly shadows elongating as they encroach on the group gathered in front of the reception desk.
My gaze lands on the grand staircase that leads up to the ballroom. The tour guide is supposed to skip the elevators, especially since our group is so large. It would take forever to move us from floor to floor. We’d be here all night.
As I glance at my phone to be sure it’s on vibrate, I see that it’s already well past midnight.
“You worried about turning into a pumpkin?” Thad teases.
His reference to Cinderella isn’t lost on me. I forced him to watch Disney princess movies growing up, and he knows way more about them than he’d ever admit. “Nope. I haven’t met the prince yet.”
There’s an undignified snort from him in response. “You expect to find him in a Halloween town that’s known for its carnage?”
I don’t give him an answer, focusing on the tour guide, since I prefer to assume his question is rhetorical. She’s leading us toward the staircase, holding up her lantern to illuminate the way as the lace on her dress slowly drapes each step. When she reaches the top, she spins with a dramatic flair, and her chin dips as she begins the actual tour, the soft notes of her voice nearly echoing within the quiet interior.
Somewhere, deep inside the hotel, there’s a spine-chilling wail. Half the group jumps in fright, and a few snickers follow. We all know the sound has been orchestrated to increase the fear factor during the tour, but I still love it.
Thad leans down to whisper in my ear, “Need me to hold your hand?”
I swat at his arm. “No,” I whisper. “Hush.”
He gives me a cheesy grin before turning his focus to the tour guide, finally paying attention.
The first stop on the second floor is the ballroom. As soon as I enter, I feel the air electrify around me. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck sticks up like a prickle of warning. All I can see are dark shapes hiding in the corners of the room, the mirrors that face us, reflecting our bodies as we move, and the open windows with sheer drapes that billow in the wind. Silvery, pale beams of moonlight peek through, trying to cast a glow on the marble floor. Above us, enormous chandeliers lay dormant, waiting for use as they hover without purpose.
It’s hauntingly beautiful. Exactly as I imagined it would be after reading so much about the Mayfield Inn online. I feel a presence beside me and turn, expecting to see Thad. But I don’t. It’s a stranger.
The man is eerily familiar. He’s wearing a dark hat and pulls it low over his eyes as he stares outdoors, not bothering to move as the drapes blow inward from the wind and plaster against his body.
We stand only a few inches apart, and when he finally turns, I feel the bitterly cold brush of his hand across my arm.
“He’s waiting for you.”
The voice is oddly disjointed, as if it’s out of practice from a lack of use. The low tone nearly rumbles with a gritty timbre. He sounds older than I originally pegged him for, thinking he must have been in his thirties. I’m wrong.
It’s his message that really gets to me. I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about or who he’s referring to. My brother?
“What do you,” I begin, but never finish because he’s gone. The stranger disappeared.
