Halloween

I’m eighteen years old, sitting in the chair behind the hotel desk. It’s Halloween night. Tara told me that the night went surprisingly smoothly for a holiday. All of the guests have been checked in and the Mini Market has been fully stocked. I clocked in at 10:50pm on October 31st. I waved Tara out the door to her Halloween party while trying not to beg her to stay with me. The lobby is well lit and the TV plays a worn out sitcom, but I take comfort in the laugh track. Out of cowardice, I decide to head into the laundry room directly behind the hotel desk. I feel exposed in the open lobby. I can’t take my eyes off of the long hallway that shoots off from the lobby. Tara has folded almost all the towels; there’s one more load for me to complete. I relish in the comfort of a warm towel before laying it out on the counter. I fold the bottom at the one third mark and smooth it over, I fold the top down to touch my first fold and smooth it over. I fold it in half “hamburger style” and tuck it underneath itself. I add it to the pile of perfect towels Tara made. 

    The phone rings at 11:50pm on October 31st. “Thank you for calling The Mountain Inn, my name is Abbie, how may I help you today?”

    “Abbie, my name is Michael, how are you tonight?” asks a gruff voice on the other end of the line. I sit on my chair behind the counter again. 

    “I’m doing well! How are you?” I ask him, twisting the landline cord around my fingers.

    “Great, thanks for asking. Listen, I stayed at your hotel last week and I need the receipt for reimbursement from my company. Can you email it to me?” he asks me.

    “Sure,” I start furiously typing to log into my system. “What dates specifically were you here and what was the full name?”

    “Michael Johnson. I was there from October 20th and checked out October 23rd,” replies Mike.I begin typing in the name, spelling it out to myself.

    “Hmmmm, I can’t seem to find it; will you spell your name out for me?”

    “Sure. M-I-C-H-A-E-L-J-O-H-N-S-O-N,” responds Mike. I still can’t find it so I do a broader search for Michael Johnson in the month of October. Nothing. So I search the name for the past six months, then I search a year, still nothing. I ask for a phone number and search again, nothing. The lobby suddenly feels darker. “I promise I was there, I remember the green tables in the lobby, the red booths, your juice machine in the corner was out of apple so I asked Peter for more. He’s a redhead and he told me he’d been working there for a year,” begins Mike. My eyes dart all around the lobby, to the tables, booths, and juice machine. I picture Peter grabbing the pitcher of concentrate for Mike, his lanky frame nearly crumbling under the weight.

    “I’m not sure why this is so challenging for me, Mike. Let me try your company name,” I suggest. 

    “Sure, sure. Johnson Electric,” he informs me. While I try searching again, Mike continues his story, “I was on the third floor, room 316. It’s the last room on the left. I remember the elevator had a poster advertising your new pool and my housekeeper was Janet. I left her a five dollar tip.” I can picture how excited Janet is at a tip. I can imagine the laugh lines on her face as she giggles and suggests that she’ll go out for a coffee. I begin searching the history for room 316 and then I search the history of all the rooms beginning with “3.” I have no history of a man with that name or that company. It’s like he’s a ghost. The lobby feels colder and I notice the time on the phone 11:59pm on Halloween. “I remember who checked me in,” Mike tells me, “A young woman named Tara with blonde hair. She has a streak of red hair. She was super sweet.” I picture Tara who I just saw tonight with her blonde curls, bouncing off to a Halloween party.

    “Mike, let me call Tara. I’m wondering if she has some insight,” I suggest to Mike and scrawl down the same phone number he gave me earlier. Tara tells me that she remembers Mike and his long, scraggly beard. She tells me he wore a T Shirt with Johnson Electric on it. Tara’s voice fades out as loud music overwhelms her. After a moment she returns, “I put him in 316 because he likes even numbers. He was a super nice guy. He was in town to do work at the university.”

    Before I call back Mike, I type all my searches into the system again. I type as slowly as possible. I’m alone in the lobby, so I start reciting the dates and Michael’s name out loud. My breathing accelerates as I wonder who can see me through the hotel windows, typing like a mad woman. and tell him I still can’t find him. We try searching by his credit card. I can’t seem to hear the TV’s laugh track anymore. At 12:15AM on November 1st, I tell Mike I don’t know what to do. I believe he stayed with us, I assure Mike. “Listen, I need a receipt for my company. Will you please have a manager call me back tomorrow?” asks Mike. I promise I will have someone call. Slowly, I hang up the phone. I nervously smooth out my black blouse and take three deep breaths. I stand up from the chair and stumble over the long legs. I’m embarrassed. I’m scared. I tuck the chair in and hear it scrape along the floor. I freeze. Silence in the hotel. I smooth out my hair and walk, trembling back to the towels. I lean forward and turn on some music, hoping to soothe my fear. Occasionally, I glance at the TV screen displaying the security feed to let me know if someone needs me. I keep my ears open for the sound of the telephone. Tara texts me, Did you figure that guy out?

    I text back: No. And I don’t know why. :(

    That is so weird. I totally remember him. Super kind eyes. He’d be cute if I was 20 years older ;), she tells me. I imagine she has had a few “Witch’s Brew” cocktails, emboldening her. I send her a sad face and return to the towels. The repetitiveness of completing the task provides comfort. I’ve finished all the towels. The dryer is off. The time had flown by, it was almost 4:30am. I pause my music and feel a shiver down my spine at the silence. I take a deep breath and return to the computer. Furiously, I try to search up Mike’s reservation, to no avail. I decide to run the reports needed for the next day. While that begins, I grab the handheld phone and begin my walkthrough of the hotel. The lobby is a dark, silent room. Nervously, I walk down the hallway on the first floor. I waive the key over the firsat wooden door to my right and enter the pool room. I watch the water glisten and dance in the light of the fluorescent bulbs. I examine the pool towels and decide to restock them before the end of the evening. Anxiously, I peer outside the large windows and am relieved to see no movement by the old oak tree, a romantic spot in the daylight, but the tree of doom tonight. I listen to my loud footsteps as I walk out of the pool room and to the fitness center. Again, nothing going on. I walk to the hallway, nervously passing the side entrance door. 

    My steps echo on the carpeted stairs as I head to the second floor. I walk the long hallway and see a figure standing at the end. My heart begins to race. I reach for the hand held phone and instinctively dial 911. I slow my pace, I feel my entire body begin to coat in sweat. As I step closer I notice it’s a man in coveralls. In the darkness, I imagine all of the horror movies I’d spent my life trying to avoid. He’s tall and I see grey hair as I inch closer. Suddenly, a wide smile sprawls across his face and mine. “Oh! Mr. Wade! It’s you!” I exclaim gleefully. Wade smiles at me, his laugh lines deepening. 

    “Of course it’s me, sweetheart. Who did you think it’d be?” He asks and he sets down his steaming white styrofoam cup of coffee before he offers a hug. Wade has been in the hotel for a month. He came out to help his daughter on the small family ranch. I had asked him why a hotel to which he had said he was an old fashioned man who believed a man and wife deserved privacy; especially, in a home with walls as thin as theirs with a wink. “What’s got you so spooked, honey?” he asks me. Wade and I lean against the large window as he flicks his cigarette out the small crack he’s opened. I give him a disapproving look. “Don’t tell Rob. It’s just such a pain for an old man like me to walk down stairs,” he grinned cheekily and took a drag. I told him all about Michael. “Spooky,” responded Wade, “Even more so on account of it bein’ Halloween.” 

    “I know. Do you remember him?” I inquired. 

    “Sure, I do, Pumpkin! He was a fellow smoker, like me,” he winked. 

    I sighed, “Alright. Well, I’ve gotta make my rounds. Hey, Wade, make sure you close that window.” 

    “Will do, darlin’,” he hollered as I entered the second staircase. I pondered over the story of Mike, Tara, and Wade as I marched up the stairs. I walk past the doors, satisfied that it’s empty. I stand in front of room 316, the last room on the left. I bite my lip nervously. I heave a sigh and return to the lobby. All my reports are done and I plug in my phone to charge in the back before heading to the kitchen. My first task is to pull out the bain-maries which will keep the food warm. I power those up before heading to the fridge where the scrambled eggs and meat are stored. I bake the bacon in the oven and fry up the eggs. Next, I grab yogurt containers and individual cartons of milk which I shelve in the mini fridge out in the breakfast area. Wade sits at a table and waves as I walk over and turn on the juice machine. My mind wanders back to Mike. I serve up the protein options and turn on the waffle make on the other end of the buffet for Wade. Within minutes, the scent of fresh waffles fill the lobby. I see the sun beginning to peer in and feel relief. The ghosts of the evening have passed.

    I return to the computer and print out our arrivals/departures list. Peter enters around 7:30am to work the breakfast shift. His chestnut curls wildly blow in the wind. He furiously tucks in his blue button down upon seeing me. “Good morning, Peter,” I call to him from behind the lobby desk, “Can I see you for a moment?” The color drains from his already pale face as he joins me. “It’s nothing bad,” I assure him. “Did you remember a guest by the name of Mike or Michael Johnson with Johnson Electric?” Peter nods furiously, his afro bouncing with each affirmation. I smile and let him return to his station. At the end of my shift, my manager comes in to relieve me. Rob waves hello over a cup of hot coffee and asks how the night went. I tell him about my eerie encounter with Mike. Rob teases, “You’re just spooked from Halloween.” Rob logs in and searches Michael’s name. In an instant, his reservation pops up. Rob eyes me over his coffee before bursting into laughter. Behind him, the Colorado sun bursts to life. He sends Mike’s receipt to him in a flash before popping  back to his office, chuckling as he walks.