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| The Flame that Chills the Blood | |
| By mishmish | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 05 August 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
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This is my contribution to the Lazy Writers current topic. This is based on a true story, although I have elaborated certain areas, the essence of this tale is true... Comments always welcomed. I wanted to get to Kingsland Castle early. Having organised such events in the past, I knew that every eventuality had to be second guessed. Being psychic wasn’t just an optional extra, it was an essential component of the conference organiser’s profile. After a sluggish few hours travelling on all forms of transport known to delay, I arrived at the venue. The directions I’d been sent took me directly to an imposing dove grey 17th century castle standing majestically on the banks of a deep blue loch, encircled by sweeping, lush green hills. Despite the obvious beauty there was shiver of something unusual. I felt it instantly, but with thoughts of conference logistics on a loop in my mind, I deliberately buried my sense of disquiet. Parking the car robot-fashion, I didn’t even check the name of the hotel and grabbed my copious bags from the boot. Positioning the loads equally so I didn’t strain my arms, I stumbled towards the entrance. This was the first time I’d been to this venue. It had been selected by the company who’d commissioned me to organise the Conference for them. Not really my choice. And to be quite honest, given their ‘hip and trendy’ outlook, I would have thought my clients would have gone for a much more contemporary venue. But this was there selection and I had to deliver an excellent result in spades. Passing a little plaque affixed to the right hand side by the door’s entrance, I noticed the Castle had been built on the grounds of a much older building dated around 1570, but it had been destroyed by fire in the early 1600’s. Weighed down with four bags, I didn’t have chance to read much more. Interested in such things, I reminded myself to have a look later. Pushing through the doors I found myself in a sparse reception lobby, with a few worn, tapestry print chairs and a rounded oak desk that would probably have looked better as a tree than a piece of furniture. It didn’t look or feel like a four star hotel. I hoped my clients had made the right choice! I didn’t want to get the rough end of my CEO’s tongue because they screamed ‘your standards have slipped…” I dumped the bags on the carpet that must, at sometime in its life, had a pattern, but now drowned in dirt and dust, it was difficult to discern anything other than dull grey, and hit the bell on desk. A young woman in her early twentie’s came out of the tiny office in the back. She was short, petite and jovial. “Evening Madam, how can I help you?” I gave my name and waited for the usual ‘Ah yes, here you are…” response. It wasn’t forthcoming. “I’m sorry, we don’t appear to have a reservation for you.” “I can’t understand it, this was booked at the same time as the Conference. At least 8 months ago. Can you check again, please.” The receptionist smiled, flicked back her hair, and typed on the keyboard. Then she shook her head again. On her lapel was a badge, ‘Hi I’m Alison’. “I’m really sorry Madam, there is no reservation under your name for tonight.” “Wait a minute, Alison…” I dove into my briefcase to retrieve the booking reference I’d been given by my clients. “Here it is. My booking reference X257GF778.” As I read out the reference number, another woman in her mid forties emerged from the little office. I looked up and saw on her badge the name ‘Margaret Benning – Duty Manager’. Knowing that she was senior to the young girl, I turned my attention to her. “Look, I’m tired and I’ve been travelling all day, all I want is a room tonight. I’ve got a booking number but your receptionist says she can’t find my name under the reservation. Can you please help me?” “I’m sure we can sort something out Madam. Let’s see the number.” The Duty Manager typed in the booking number, then shook her head in the exact same, despondent manner as the receptionist. “I’m sorry, there’s been a mix up, and your room’s been allocated to another guest.” “But you’ve got another room available…?” “Well, we are fully booked tonight.” I was incredulous. The irony of the situation hit me hard in the face like a metaphysical slap. I shouted before I could restrain my reaction: “It’s only bloody full because of MY conference! I’ve brought you all this business and you can’t even find me a damn room. I can’t believe it!” The Duty Manager and the Receptionist stared at each other, a somewhat quizzical expression crossing both their faces, and then the Duty Manager turned smiling and said: “Madam, why don’t you have a drink at the bar and we’ll sort something out.” “But you will get me a room?” I didn’t just want to be fobbed off with on the house booze, and still have to sleep in the car. “Of course!” said the Duty Manager in her totally pseudo-ingratiating tone that had started to grate rather than calm my nerves. “What about my stuff,” I asked pointing to my suitcases. “Don’t worry, we’ll look after them here. I’ll come and find you once it’s sorted. Just tell Jim at the bar Margaret said ‘drinks on the house’. “Okay,” I conceded, “thanks.” I was down to my second gin and tonic, when Margaret stuck her head round the door, beamed at me and said: “All done, we’ve managed to get you a Suite, at the same price of course. It still needs servicing, would you mind waiting a little bit longer until the maid’s finished?” I was taken aback, from no room at all to a suite. And at the same rate, someone must’ve pulled strings. I said I didn’t mind waiting and ordered a Diet Coke. The wait was longer than anticipated. I’d already gone through the Conference checklist; called various key speakers to discuss their speeches, and chased up the Audio Visual team to ensure they were on hand to deliver a worry-free session of presentations. When it came to live speeches, I knew you could never be too prepared. I smiled, remembering the time when a senior executive typed in the name of a product they’d just released and accidentally brought up a Russian hard-core porn web site. The Chairman didn’t know whether to pull the plug or put his specs on for a closer look. Well, at least, in the comment box, ‘unforgettable experience’ got ticked! Finally, the Duty Manager reappeared holding the key. I smiled, thanked her and took the key. The Duty Manager looked like she wanted to talk, but I was exhausted and just wanted to crash out in bed. I struggled with my bags to the second floor, slightly amazed that despite their sudden fawning helpful attitude, the reception staff couldn’t arrange a porter for me. Finding the door marked 16, I unlocked it, and puffed my way through the tight doorway. The room was comfortable, but certainly not the ‘Suite’ quality I’d been used to. A narrow hallway opened out on to a large room with items of furniture that didn’t match. A double bed with a shabby pastel coloured quilt lived in the middle, flanked by two modern looking bedside cabinets in oak. An old style TV sat on an antique mahogany chest of drawers on the right hand side of the room, and on the left, a carved rosewood wardrobe with a centre mirror was sandwiched between an oak study desk and a pale green sofa going threadbare on the arms. They really call this a Suite?! I moved to inspect the bathroom, which wasn’t much better. I’d had Suites where the bathroom had Tile TV and a sat phone link ups. Here, I’d be lucky if the hot and cold water linked up. Feeling more than uneasy about the prospect of holding a major Conference in this rambling shambles, I decided to call my CEO and lodge my concerns. Getting out my phone, I realised the signal had gone completely. I tried the land line and had the same result. What was wrong with this place… I couldn’t be bothered going down to Reception. I’d really had enough and now I just wanted to sleep. In the morning everything would be okay, I said to myself, determined to keep positive. Getting reading for bed, I went to the bathroom. At first I thought the heating had gone off, but I touched the radiator and it was hot. I inched further into the bathroom, but the icy coldness pushed against my skin, forcing me back. “Christ!” I said underneath my breath, feeling very frightened, and I turned away from the bathroom. I couldn’t help it. I was immersed in such sadness it was palatable. My throat constricted, and suddenly tears welled in my eyes for no reason. “Oh God!” I exclaimed, overcome with deep grief, and I sat heavy on the bed. Behind me, the TV sprang to life. Thinking I’d sat on the remote control, I leapt up, but no remote was on the bed. It was on top of the TV. “Okay, okay…” I said, talking to myself, “it’s probably on a timer, or something.” I moved cautiously forward, and the TV, as if to confuse me utterly, switched off. “Right…” I said, nodding. “Must have been on a timer.” To confound me, as I approached, the TV flicked back on, and the lights in the bathroom dimmed. The ice cold I’d felt in the bathroom was all around me. Suffocating. It touched my skin, pricking up the hairs, like an electric charge. Although I was too terrified to move, I was drawn to the bathroom. I stepped forward, my legs shaking, my stomach flipping over with fear. I had to find out what this was all about. The bathroom temperature had dipped way below zero. The mirror had frosted over and as I breathed, my breath caught in the air, just like on winter days. As I neared the centre of the bathroom, I felt her. She was more frightened than I was. “It’s alright.” I called out instinctively. She was a very young girl. Alone and crying. My body resonated with her deep sobs. I couldn’t see anything, just feel her. “Please don’t leave me!” The words sought out my soul, and tore it apart. I cried with uncontrollable throes of absolute misery. I knew the girl had died so young. The pain of her death was tangible. “I’m sorry, dear…” I said softly, “but I can’t help you.” “They left me. I’m so cold.” The disembodied voice was maybe 3 years old, certainly not much more. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, “but this is 1996 and I can not see you, so how can I help you?” “Oh…Oh…No. They left me. I’m dead aren’t I?” I didn’t think ghosts knew they were dead, that completely threw me. What should I say? I had gone beyond being scared. The presence was so gentle, I just knew no harm would come to me. “Yes dear, you are. I’m so sorry. If I could I would have helped you. I would never have left you.” “I know, kind lady, I know.” The small voice drifted with the ice cold air, and then vanished. Heat returned to the bathroom and the mirror lost its frost. She was gone. And I felt so sad. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I fell asleep. I became aware of someone pushing me. At the same time, I was conscious of a sharp breeze. Opening my eyes, I looked straight at an elderly woman. “Dearie, dearie, what you doing out like this. You going to catch a death of cold. Come with me!” I sat bolt upright. The bed had gone. The room had gone. The hotel had gone. Around me was a shell of broken walls and crumbling stones. In shock, I stood up and noticed I had my pyjamas on. My luggage was stacked in a corner of the ruin, where just last night stood a luggage rack. The morning breeze whipped up around me, and I shivered, and stumbled, my senses scarcely believing what I was seeing. “Where’s the hotel?” I mumbled, disoriented. “Oh there hasn’t been a hotel here since the fire. Back 5 years ago. Terrible it was. Arson they said, but we always knew the place was cursed. It was built on the site of an old church. A little girl died there in a fire in 15th Century.” “But what about Margaret Benning, the Duty Manager?” I said, suddenly feeling I’d walked into a nightmare. “She died, along with the sweet Receptionist…what was her name?” “Alison!” I replied, recalling the badge. “That’s right, terrible business. I can’t understand why they wanted to build another hotel with the same name. I’d want to leave the dead to rest…” “Another hotel?” “Why yes, just 4 miles back, the Kingsland Castle Hotel. You must have seen it?” “No, I didn’t,” I replied, “I must have taken a wrong turn.”
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