Having just arrived in the small Scottish village, the man entered an old pub, ordered a pint of beer and sat at one of the old wooden tables. It was a village where everyone knew everybody else. The place smelled of beer but was of good character.
“Haven’t seen you around here before.” came the voice of an elderly local on one of the opposite tables. He continued, “Don’t get many visitors here anymore, not since that business at the Lochan hotel.”
“Why, what happened?”
“A woman had died in her room and word got around that she had been murdered which wasn't true. Rumours had been flying around the village that she'd been killed by everyone up to and including Jack the Ripper. She had died in her room by natural causes. Her body was subsequently removed and life at the hotel carried on as normal, but there are a few in the village who still believe that she had been murdered. The hotel has been refurbished but not many people want to enter the place.” With that the old man took a gulp of his pint and set it down upon the solid wooden table, before the newcomer enquired, “Have you been inside the building?”
“Oh Aye, Mony a time. Gave me the creeps!”
“I’ll be spending the night there.”
The old man looked horrified. “Rather you than me, pal!’” he hesitated before adding, “One strange thing about that though, was the fact that the door of room number 27, the room in which they found the old lady, had been burst open but the original key to the room has never been found. Even more sinister, was that the woman was a regular visitor to the hotel, and was always known to wear a small marcasite brooch on her dress. That too, has never been found.”
After finishing his beer, he made his way along the street towards the hotel. The sky darkened and rain was threatening to pour down. The nearby hills were topped by a mist which hung low all around them.
He walked around to the new hotel which had been an old hotel but the inside of it has been extensively refurbished. Making his way to the reception desk he marvelled at how much things had changed since he worked there so long ago.The interior was clean, bright and modern.
“Can I help you sir?” The bright-eyed young receptionist asked cheerily.
“Yes, have you got a single room for one night please?”
“I'll just check for you.”
“The name’s Robert Cavendish,”
“Yes, Mr Cavendish. I have already got a room reserved for you for one night. It’s a lovely and bright single room on the second floor.” She hands him the key. Although Bob was somewhat bewildered by the reservation comment, he said nothing but after checking in, he made his way to his room, which was antiquated, almost the same as it would have been in the original hotel.
By this time, the sky had darkened even more and heavy rain was battering the windows and the howling wind was more than certain to dislodge a few slates from the roof. He remembered the number of the room where it had happened which was only a few doors along from his own room. The incident had caused the hotel to close down, albeit briefly. He left his room and instantly noticed that the corridor was old and there was no sign of anything modern whatsoever. It was as if the old hotel had come back to life. He wandered slowly along the corridor until he was standing outside room number 27, in which the elderly woman had died.
Suddenly, he heard a lady screaming and instantly tried the door handle but the door was locked. He burst through the door and saw the woman sprawled on the carpet, her chest covered in blood but no sign of a weapon.
Taking out his mobile he quickly phoned reception. “I’m in room 27…” His call was interrupted by the receptionist, “I’m sorry sir. We do not have a room 27!!”
He turned and ran out of the room and down the stairs only to find the hotel was dark, cold and deserted just as it had been when it had closed down. There was no sign of the modern reception area, only the original dark and dusty desk at the side of which was an old telephone switchboard.
Seemingly alone, he runs upstairs again to room 27 which was undoubtedly still there, still old and still containing the blood soaked body of the woman. Sweat now dripping from his brow, he tries to make sense of his surroundings.
He dialled 999 and gave the address to the call handler who promptly told him, “That hotel was demolished 23 years ago. Who is this?...” He disconnected the call. Looking out of the window into the darkness he can see only a few lights illuminated in the distance, out of focus due to rivulets of rain running down the windows. The lights looked far further away than any of the nearby buildings he had visited hours before.
He heard the lift, creaking and groaning as it ascended from the ground floor. He realised that he might not be alone in the old hotel. Suddenly the lift stopped but he didn't hear the clanking of the metal grills.
Warily, he opened the bedroom door and peeked out into the dark corridor. All these years ago, so far back now, but he remembered the times when he had to go up to a special cupboard on the top floor which housed the manual winding gear of the lift. When the lift became stuck he used to wind the large wheel which raised or lowered the lift to the next floor.
But when he approached the lift he shone his torch into the bottom half of the lift which was still visible. He expected to see a pair of legs and feet but instead the lift was empty. He set about returning to the room but as he was about to enter he suddenly heard the lift moving again and ran to it in time to see it ascending out of sight.
After a few minutes, he returned to the room and entered it. The woman’s body was in the same position but when he looked at his hands they were covered in blood. He made his way over to the wash hand basin and vigorously washed the blood from his hands.
Even although it was a dark stormy night, he made up his mind to leave the hotel. He ran down the stairs and was making his way across the lobby, by the beam of his torch when he was greeted by two guests in very old clothes. “Get him! He’s the murderer!” Having worked there, albeit so long ago, he knew the passages and various ways of escaping the premises. The guests did not follow but stayed, now motionless before vanishing.
He made it to the outside door at the end of the passageway between the kitchen and the store rooms. He attempted to open the door but it was stuck solid. He looked behind him, sweat now pouring once again from his brow. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps running towards him along the old stone floor. As the footsteps got louder and nearer, one final tug of the door and it opened just enough for him to squeeze out. It had stopped raining and now outside in the clean fresh morning air, running as hard as he could away from the building, not daring to turn around.
When he did eventually look back, to his horror all he could see in the light of the dawn, was a piece of flat land bestrewn with a few loose bricks scattered around, The hotel, like the emergency service had told him on the phone, had without any shadow of doubt, been demolished. He breathed a sigh of relief, ran his fingers through his hair, before putting his hand into his trouser pocket, whereupon he found a key. Taking it out, he read the printing upon the small fob, ‘The Lochan Hotel, Room 27’ But there was something else inside his pocket which he had just noticed - a small marcasite brooch.
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