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ments were down the street from Coolidge Park, with its lion fountains and its big carousel. They weren’t far from the mountain, and they weren’t in the ghetto. And on a nice day, I could walk to class if I wanted to. What’s not to like?
Of course, none of these selling points had made a dent in Lu’s displeasure. She wouldn’t say why, other than that she thought the location was horrible and that I should move up farther away from the river. Even Dave was surprised by her reaction, so I didn’t feel quite so crazy. He agreed that they seemed ideal, and when he sided with me, it only made Lu more flustered.
I’d ended up leaving the house and heading downtown just to get away from the whole situation. Maybe Dave could talk some sense into her, or at least drag some sense out of her. I couldn’t imagine what had made her so crazy when I mentioned the north shore. You would’ve thought I’d told her I was bringing Malachi over for dinner.
The thought made my head hurt, but it was hard to get away from. The big meeting was only a few days away. I still hadn’t decided whether or not to surprise them outright or warn them beforehand. I was leaning towards an advance warning, for Malachi’s personal safety.
But it didn’t have to be a lot of advance notice, I didn’t think. It could be put for off a little while yet.
My phone began to ring again, and upon checking the display I answered it.
“You coming?” Nick Alders asked, without offering any introductory pleasantries.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes. ”
“You’re late already. ”
“I got sidetracked,” I said, starting my car and pulling into traffic. “I’m on my way now, so don’t get fussy. This probably won’t work anyway, so I hope you aren’t hanging your entire journalistic career on it. ”
The reporter didn’t sound too concerned. “It’s just a filler piece, but it might make a good one. ”
“It would’ve been better around Halloween, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, well. The Read House wasn’t having problems back around Halloween. You’ve said it before yourself—the dead don’t give a shit about the calendar or the clock. ”
“They certainly don’t seem to,” I agreed. “I wonder what’s got the Lady in White’s panties in a bunch. ”
“It would be nice if you could shed some light on the subject. Soon. Because I haven’t got all day. Which is why I said three o’clock, and not three thirty. ”
“Knock it off, Nick. I’m practically there already. If you’re really pressed for time, you ought to pick another day to do this. There aren’t any guarantees, and it may take more than a minute. ”
“I know, I know. Just get here soon. I’m up on the mezzanine level. Waiting. ”
I hung up on him.
He was an impatient bastard, but I tried to keep in mind that he worked with very strict deadlines for a living. He’d moved here from up north—from a Midwestern NBC affiliate to our local Tennessee one. There were rumors that naughty conduct had prompted him to seek professional asylum in Chattanooga, but it was hard to prove and I didn’t really care, so I hadn’t asked.
I first met Nick a year ago, when Old Green Eyes had wandered off from his post at the Chickamauga battlefield. Nick was both a help and a hindrance down there in Georgia, but in the end he worked out to be more useful than useless, so I chatted with him when I saw him around town.
This wasn’t to say we were friends or anything.
I’d agreed to meet him that afternoon because he wanted some unofficial assistance with a story. Mostly I was curious, partly I was bored, and partly I wanted to be distracted from my upcoming family meeting.
Besides, it was the Lady in White. Granted, that’s not the most original name for a ghost, but this one was almost as famous as Old Green Eyes, the quiet, elusive battlefield ghoul.
To tell the truth, I’d very much doubted that she existed at all—at least until recently. Stories about the mysterious lady sounded entirely too made-up. According to local lore, she wandered the second and third floors of the historic hotel, crying piteously and vanishing spookily. There were thousands like her, woven into the history of old buildings across the globe. Often she’s a spurned bride, a widow, or a scorned lover. Usually she’s upset about a man.
I’d long suspected it was a tourist thing, something contrived to lure in curious travelers.
But then I saw it happening, the same thing that always happens when a nervous rumor becomes a real fear: people began leaving. First the housekeeping staff refused to clean a certain room. Then they avoided an entire wing, then an entire floor.
Soon the repair people began refusing to fix the strange damage in that first tainted room. A light fixture here, a curtain rod there. A busted marble-top vanity. A hole in the wall. It didn’t matter if they got fixed, anyway: other acts of vandalism would soon undo the careful repairs.
Before long, the people who were paying to rent the room began leaving, too—in the middle of the night, without pausing to seek a refund. Sometimes without collecting their belongings, or without being fully dressed. They left without looking back.
Though it would seem that at least one traveler had made a phone call to the front desk after taking his leave. He wasn’t a superstitious man, or so he told the concierge. He wasn’t an overly imaginative man either, but there was something awful in that room and he thought they should speak with a priest.
Instead, the hotel management simply quit allowing visitors to stay in room 236.
