Worst First Vacation

Aiden took a steadying breath, downed the double shot of rum in the plastic cup, swiped his key card, and pushed the door open. He tossed the cup on the floor, and grabbed the shovel he borrowed from the groundskeepers, with both hands. Now or never, he thought, as he entered his hotel room.

His flip flops squeaked on the vaguely sticky floor, and his heart hammered in his chest. And he was sweating.

“Hello?” he said, closing the door behind him.

Sweating from the all-inclusive courage, from the three-star buffets, from the three sleepless nights since he got here. Nights spent in the hall, or by the pool, or in the lobby.

“I know you’re in here.” Aiden’s voice wavered. He flicked a switch and half the room was filled with lazy yellow light from the one bulb that worked.

When he heard the sputtering of his bathroom sink, the water suddenly gushing all by itself, he closed his eyes and took another ragged breath. Three days of this. Three days of things just happening, of weird sights and weirder smells, of sudden noises at all hours. Should have just stayed at a hostel at this rate.

He entered the bathroom and – yup, there it was. The faucet was on full blast, and instead of water it was spraying blood.

“Stop it!” Aiden yelled. He rushed to kill the taps before everything overflowed. A bloody bathroom wasn’t something he wanted to explain to housekeeping.

“Just stop doing stuff!” he shouted at his tiny living room, brandishing his shovel like a bat. The light flickered, and he shrieked and jumped back when a pallid arm grabbed for his ankle from under the couch.

“I’m not afraid of you!” he falsetto’d. 

“Boo,” said a gravel voice, right behind him.

Aiden shrieked again – and the neighbours banged on the wall, shouting muffled annoyances – and crumpled to the floor. Behind him was a pale old man in a pale old Hawaiian shirt and a pale old Panama hat and pale old socks and sandals, all horrifyingly transparent.

“You should be afraid,” the ghost said. He was wearing slightly less pale sunglasses, even though it was night and he was indoors. With the snap of a finger, a ghostly cigarette appeared in his hand and the room filled with the stench of stale tobacco.

Aiden just managed to eke out, “Please leave my room.”

“This,” said the ghost, spreading his arms and taking in the sixth floor non-ocean-view junior suite (with balcony), “is my room.” Then he laughed as a spectral whirlwind rose up around him, sending all of Aiden’s clothes and belongings flying in every direction.

Aiden screamed and bolted, and found himself a nice spot in the all-inclusive gym’s toilets to spend yet another night not in his bed.

In the morning, on the palm-lined lawn outside the rec centre, Juan the groundskeeper pointed out, “Dude, you look like hell. Like you died or something. You know, open bar doesn’t come with an obligation.”

“Thanks,” said Aiden. He handed back the borrowed shovel and wiped the last of the sleepless night from his eyes. “Listen, my room – 623. It was really cheap.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Dude,” said Juan, grinning. “A guy was found dead in there! Straight up murdered.”

Aiden buried his face in his hands and grumbled.

“They say it’s haunted now,” Juan continued. “I don’t know about that, but nobody lasts more than a night. Except you. So I guess it’s not haunted?”

“Oh, it’s haunted.”

“Dude! You got a pair, eh?”

“Yeah,” Aiden muttered, staring off at the churning ocean. His first vacation in – well, ever, actually – and just his luck, he ends up in a haunted suite. If he didn’t get any real sleep soon, the vacation would probably kill him. The sane thing would be to cut his losses and head back home, but on the other hand, the beach was nice, the price was good, and the resort made it brutally clear there were no refunds.

“How do you get rid of a ghost?” he asked pensively.

“Dude, I got no idea. Probably like, figure out whatever unresolved business is keeping it chained to the world of the living, and then resolve it, thereby allowing the restless spirit to finally have peace.” Juan sniffed. “Or something. I don’t know.”

Aiden blinked. “Thanks, Juan!”

“Yeah, don’t mention it. Listen, I gotta get back to work, eh?”

They parted ways, and Aiden made his way to the breakfast buffet, joining all the early-rising seniors. Their chatter was amicable but his mind was elsewhere, roiling ceaselessly as he shovelled omelets, sausages, and plantains into his mouth. By the time he got to his breakfast mimosa, he had a plan, and his next stop was the front desk.

“Excuse me.”

“Sorry,” said the woman at reception, taking a break from straightening the frames of two portraits behind the desk. “No refunds.”

“No, I know.” The portraits caught his eye. On the left was a woman, older, with done up hair and tiara, and on the right, a man with an enviable beard, aviator sunglasses, and a uniform loaded with medals. “Who are they?”

“Our honourable mayor, Mr. Damian Winter, and his wife Enid.”

“Oh.”

“They also own the resort.”

“Oh. That’s… neat.”

“They are excellent bosses,” said the receptionist, standing taller and side-eying the lobby, “and I am grateful for this amazing job.”

“Okay,” said Aiden. “Look, I just need to use the internet. Do you guys have like a business centre?”

She pointed to a lone computer in the corner. “Five dollars for fifteen minutes.”

“What!? I thought this was all-inclusive!”

“Oh, friend,” she said, “all-inclusive never includes everything. If it did, it would be called everything-inclusive.”

Aiden scowled, paid her, and started researching. He pretty quickly got some hits – turns out the resort didn’t have much of a murder tradition, thankfully – and he learned the dead man’s name was Herbert Farace. Found three years ago, in 623, a knife in his back – but that was all Aiden found that wasn’t behind a paywall. Also, his fifteen minutes were up.

But it occurred to him that libraries would probably have an archive of the local papers, so he asked for directions.

“The library?” asked the receptionist. “Did you mean to ask, ‘Where is the beach?’ Or do you really not know how to vacation?”

“Funny. Look, I’m interested in the murder of Herbert Farace.”

“Ooh!” She winked. “I gotcha. I like true crime too, and that one is kind of a local legend, and unsolved.”

“A local legend? Really?”

“Well, local to the resort. We were worried it would affect bookings, but… well, never underestimate the power of cheap.”

“Right. The library?”

She gave him the directions. Turned out, it wasn’t too far from the resort, and it gave him an opportunity to see a bit of the seaside town. And when Aiden actually entered the blissfully air-conditioned library, it occurred to him he was doing something vaguely cultural, which pleased him. A nice break from the beach and nightclubs – well, it would have been, if not for the haunted room and all.

Digging in, Aiden found a flurry of media activity about the murder, three years ago. Front pages, exclusives, witnesses – a regular circus. It even started off with the head editor of the Seaside Daily imploring everyone to keep their eyes open. “Because,” said Editor Dean Winter, “we are a close knit community, and what happens to one of us, happens to all of us! And I don’t need to remind you the impact this will have on tourism!”

But that all lasted about a week, before a final statement by the chief of police was published. “We’ve looked everywhere,” said Chief Donald Winter, “but all leads have run dry, and we must move on. Life is for the living, et cetera. I encourage everyone to just forget about this whole mess.”

A day later, the Seaside Daily published a special update from Chief Medical Examiner Dustin Winter: “Having done forensics, it’s clear to me now that we’re actually looking at a suicide. Sorry about the mix up. Feel free to forget about it now.”

It took Aiden a while – a long while, due to the lack of sleep – but something didn’t quite add up. There was something very suspicious, he thought, about all these public figures having names that started with the letter “D”. What were the odds?

Things didn’t click until he found a feature piece on Herbert’s widow, though. There was a full page photo of her, in all her bereavement, and a very flattering red dress, being comforted by the stalwart and dutiful Mayor Damian Winter. He proclaimed he would spare no expense offering support to the bereaved, and his hand particularly was providing a lot of support to her low lower back.

Only, as Aiden studied the photo, it became clear to him that the widow Enid Farace looked an awful lot like the mayor’s wife, Enid Winter. And then, Dean, Donald, and Dustin Winter were all in the background of the photo, standing at attention.

And when it clicked, he gasped.

“Oh my god!”

By the time he rushed out of the library, night was beginning to settle down on town. His heart hammered as he ran down the streets, and the idea of being able to help Herbert find his peace – and also get full use of the room he paid for – thrilled him.

In the lobby, he ran into the receptionist and Juan chatting, and he rambled off all his findings in his excitement.

“Goodness!” said the receptionist. “You really think they’re all in on it?”

“It sure looks like it, doesn’t it?” Aiden asked.

“This is big, dude,” said Juan. He shared a worried look with the receptionist, and then they both looked up at the portraits of the owners.

“I’ll catch you guys later,” Aiden said. “I have a ghost to free!”

He flew into his room with a big grin on his face. “Herbert! Herbert Farace!”

Almost at once, the old man appeared, grimacing. “How the hell do you know my name, you wanker?”

“It’s okay, buddy! I’m here to help you!”

“What the hell are you babbling about? You better get ready for an ass-kicking–”

“–I can free you! I know who murdered you and I can get you justice. It was your–”

“–Stop!” Herbert shouted, and the whole room crackled with blue light as the sofa and coffee table became airborne.

“But, I can free you–”

“–Shut up!” Herbert’s eyes were wide, and his hands shook from fear. “Stop talking, you idiot! I don’t want to hear it!”

There was an awkward silence between them, and each man took a moment to compose himself. Aiden swallowed, and Herbert smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt, which made the levitating furniture drop.

“Look,” said Herbert, his voice trembling. “Look. I’ll stop bugging you, all right? I’ll let you sleep or whatever, for the rest of your stay. You won’t hear so much as a peep out of me. Just… don’t tell me.”

“Um,” said Aiden, scratching his head. “All right, sure. But, why?”

Herbert looked lost, looked much older. He shook his head uncertainly. Aiden righted his couch and patted the cushion. With a heavy breath, Herbert sat down.

“Come on,” Aiden said. “Tell me. I would have thought a ghost wanted to move on.”

“It’s complicated.” Herbert removed his spectral hat and ran a ghastly handkerchief over his forehead. “The fact is – and I’m not proud to admit this – I’ve not exactly led a good life. If you get my meaning. I was… rough.”

“Rough?”

“Cruel. Violent. Petty. Frankly, the idea of going on scares the shit out of me. And besides, if there’s one thing I regret from life, it’s not spending enough time vacationing. Did you know, when I came here, it was my first vacation ever?”

“No kidding? Me too!”

“Yeah. Well, hope yours ends better than mine. Point is, now I have time. Anyway, I have my suspicions, but it would break my heart if they were true. I guess… maybe one day I’ll be ready to move on, but not today. Please.”

Aiden nodded. “Yeah, for sure man. I’ll keep mum.”

Then, having made peace, they got to talking. Aiden found Herbert’s rough life fascinating, and Herbert didn’t realize how lonely he had become, and how good it was to have someone actually listen. They chatted long into the evening and even made tentative plans to meet again in a year, “For two weeks this time, Aiden, my boy. I know a way you can get a room for free.”

“Sweet!”

“But enough chatter. You know what I want to do?”

“What?”

“Watch some damn television. It’s sitting right there in front of me, day after day, but my damn ghost hands pass right through the remote. Say, fancy ordering a porno?”

“Uh…”

“Okay, fine, just put whatever on.”

Aiden turned on the TV. It was set to a local channel where some breaking news were being broadcast. In the background was the resort, and an anchor was interviewing the receptionist and Juan. A picture-in-picture video showed a number of men in combat armour and weapons on some sort of operation.

“–federal agents have been called in,” said the newscaster, “to apprehend the mayor, Damien Winters, and his wife Enid, who are suspected of conspiring to hide their involvement with the murder of Herbert Farace–”

“Oh, you asshole!” Herbert shouted, and then he popped, drenching the room with blue ectoplasm.