An Unwelcome Guest

All I could see of the Hotel Tempesta that foggy evening were the two flickering gas lamps marking the hotel’s entrance. In clear light, the building was a cream-and-red-brick structure with decorative tiles surrounding each arched window. Countless chimneys and spires rose from the steeply pitched roof, as if to defy the hotel’s tragic past.

A doorman wearing a black and gold uniform greeted me.

“May I take your case, ma’am?”

“Thank you.”

I caught my breath as I stepped inside the magnificent foyer, the contrast with the cold November streets felt quite startling. I wiped the grime from my spectacles with a gloved hand and took in the enormous chandelier with its glittering light reflecting in numerous mirrors. A fountain at the centre of the room babbled soothingly, and beyond it lay a grand staircase with red-carpeted stairs. I breathed in the scent of lilies, and my boots echoed on the tiled floor as I approached the reception desk.

“Miss Green, isn’t it?” said a slightly built man in an evening suit. He bowed his sparsely-haired head in a servile manner. “Allow me to take your overcoat for you. Miss Milly here will escort you to your room.” He handed my coat to a young maid in a stiff white apron, who gave an unnecessary curtsy. “It’s on the second storey, so you may travel there via the newly installed elevator.”

The gentle tinkle of a piano accompanied our walk along the corridor, which was lined with portraits of proud-faced men and ladies with hair as glossy as their satin dresses. The light from a row of cut-glass lamps was dimmed by the dark wallpaper, and I felt a slight chill, having been relieved of my overcoat.

* * *

“How do you get on with ghosts, Miss Green?” my colleague Edgar Fish had asked me earlier that day in the cluttered newsroom of the Morning Express newspaper. “The Hotel Tempesta is haunted,” he had added with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. He was a young man with heavy features and small, glinting eyes.

“And cursed!” added my corpulent colleague Frederick Potter.

“That is nothing but hearsay,” I replied. “Anyhow, I don’t believe in ghosts, based on the fact that I have never seen one.”

“But that doesn’t prove that they don’t exist,” said Edgar. “You just haven’t encountered one yet. Have you ever visited a place as reputedly haunted as the Tempesta?”

“Probably.”

“You are aware of its history, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“That fire completely destroyed it four years ago, back when it was the Corinthian. How many guests perished, Potter?”

“About thirty, I think.”

“Then that chap who owned the Regency rebuilt it, didn’t he?” said Edgar.

“And did a pretty marvellous job,” added Frederick.

“Until he went bankrupt and hanged himself in his suite, that is.” Edgar shook his head. “Terribly sad.”

“That’s the curse for you,” said Frederick.

“There is no curse,” I scoffed. “Mr Gallo wouldn’t have bought it if he believed the place was cursed.”

“Ah, but he’s American,” said Edgar. “He doesn’t know the full history.”

“Of course he does,” I retorted. “Besides, he’s an extremely experienced hotelier. I’m sure he’ll do an excellent job with it, just as he has with the Hotel Maganza in New York.”

“In fairness to the American, he has changed the name from the Corinthian to the Tempesta,” said Frederick. “Perhaps the name change will lift the curse.”

“I doubt it,” said Edgar. “Sleep well, Miss Green.”

I sighed. “You know that I’m being forced into this because both you and Frederick have refused to go. I can’t say that I wish to spend any time there at all, but Mr Gallo seems to believe that inviting a journalist to stay the night will result in something flattering being written about his hotel in our newspaper.”

* * *

My bedchamber was a dark, wood-panelled room furnished in blue and gold. Thick curtains hung around the four-poster bed and two easy chairs covered in gold velvet sat either side of an occasional table. A lady in a large hat looked down on me from a painting above the fireplace, and although the fire was lit it seemed to emit little warmth.

“Drinks will be served in the Turkish Salon at six o’clock,” said Milly, who proceeded to give me directions on how to find it as she hung my overcoat in the wardrobe. “Before I take my leave, Miss Green, is there anything else you need me to assist you with?”

I glanced at the bed, where my suitcase had been carefully placed. “No, thank you.”

“Very good, Miss Green.” She gave another curtsy and stepped backwards through the door, so as not to turn her back on me.

I smiled at her obsequious nature once the door was closed, then glanced around the bedchamber once again. I gave a shiver and yearned for the comfort of my humble garret room, ruing the day I had agreed to stay the night in this accursed place. I pushed aside one of the heavy curtains at the window to see thick, dark tendrils of fog pressing up against the pane. Being unable to see anything beyond it left me with a stifling, smothering sensation in my chest. I returned the curtain to its original position and looked up at the lady in the picture, who was steadily watching me. Edgar’s talk of ghosts seemed less frivolous now.

I seated myself in one of the easy chairs and took a deep breath.

If only James were here.

I wondered what he would make of this place. Would he share my sense of discomfort?