“I’m so sorry,” I say, impulsively taking his hand in mine across the glossy table. When our skin touches, I feel the friction of it all over my body.
“I’m sorry she’s gone, but so happy that she said goodbye, in whatever way she could. I was the lucky one to be able to get closure,” he shrugs, his eyes a bit far away. “From that moment on I knew it was my calling.”
“Do you see ghosts frequently?” I ask, finally releasing his hand after one last squeeze, immediately missing the warmth as I slide my arm back to my lonely side of the booth.
“I don’t see them in daily life,” he tells me, his eyes focusing on my face again, and the tinge of sadness evaporated from his darkly handsome features. “I’m not a conduit, but I am open to it, so I frequently experience things on investigations.”
“So, what’s the story of this hotel?” I ask, interested, revved on by the inherent spookiness of the bar.
“The whole town is fairly haunted. It doesn’t get as much press as Salem, but it’s every bit as steeped in paranormal activity.”
“We had occasional witch trials here too,” I say. “It wasn’t a fast and furious hysteria like Salem, but it happened more frequently and for a longer period here. Bishop shares the same generational shame as Salem, but none of the tourism, unfortunately.”
“It seems like they are looking to change that,” Ian notes before turning his head and smiling at the bartender, who nods and comes over. I notice his attitude is decidedly less welcoming than it had been before, perhaps now that I had found a playmate for the evening.
I ordered their fall specialty martini and a sampling from their appetizers. Ian nods his approval and orders another whiskey and the bartender nods and turns on his heel quickly.
“I get the sense that he doesn’t like me,” Ian laughs, watching him march away.
“He was all smiles when you first arrived.”
I chuckle in response and throw my hands up quizzically. “What can I say?”
“That it’s painful being such a tempting creature?”
“Do you work with creatures too? Or just ghosts?” I ask jokingly to try and cover my blush.
“You aren’t your normal cryptid, so I’d make an exception to study you,” he answers, raising his eyebrows and taking me in. He’s the most attractive microscope I’ve ever seen.
“I feel like you’ve already been studying me since this afternoon,” I say, leaning forward flirtatiously.
“There she is, in her normal habitat, striding with purpose to the watering hole attracting all the males. One particularly aggressive male angrily shakes a sacred martini as he competes for her attention,” he says in a fairly atrocious Australian documentary accent.
I cannot help but burst into laughter, and it continues as the bitter bartender slaps down our beverages before quickly scurrying back behind the bar.
“So tell me about this hotel,” I say, when I finally calm down. I take out my camera and snap some shots of the lovely autumnal cocktail before taking a sip to find it a spicy, apple cider based concoction, brandied and not too sweet. There is a candied apple slice floating at the top, which I daintily bite, feeling his eyes on me, but not minding. I’m not attempting sensuality, but my body seems to have a mind of its own around this man.
“It was built on the frequently used execution grounds,” he says, still watching me nibble. “They’ve placed me in what is widely reported to be the most supernaturally active room in the hotel.”
“So you have a witch hysteria victim haunting your room?” I ask, finding the peel on the candied apple to be too tough to continue my seductive biting. I awkwardly place it down on my cocktail napkin, immediately soaking it in cinnamon stained beverage.
“No, funnily enough. It’s actually the ghost of a jilted bride dating from after the hotel was built. She ran away from her wealthy family with a handsome, gambling drifter,” he says, leaning himself against his muscular crossed arms on the table. “He told her it was to elope, but it was really to encourage her to rob the house of all the silver cutlery under the guise of money to ensure their survival.”
“I’m guessing he took the sporks and ran?” I offer, shaking my head at the prospect of it.
“Yup,” he confirms with a small laugh. “But not before her reputation was ruined. She’d stayed with him overnight in the hotel, unmarried, and that was social suicide, which she then turned into actual suicide, unfortunately.”
“Awful,” I say with a small gasp. “In your room?”
“Yes,” he nods sadly. “She put on the intended dress for the ceremony and hanged herself from a pole in the armoire in the room.”
“Oh my, is the same armoire in the room currently?” I ask, as our curmudgeon of a bartender returns with our various tapas.
“Are you talking about the scary room?” he asks, intruding on our conversation as he slides some olives in front of me, nearly splashing me with brine.
“Yes,” Ian says gamely. “Have you experienced anything?”
“I don’t go into that room, but apparently it’s so active that the housekeepers will go in only two at a time,” he says, plopping down a sumptuous beauty of a cheese and charcuterie tray. It is resplendent with figs, tapenades and crusty breads looking at me invitingly.
“So, Greg,” I say, observing his crooked nametag. “Is there activity anywhere in the rest of the hotel?”
“Yes, in most of it,” he says, eyes darting about. “Especially here in the bar. Towels are constantly going missing, glasses fall off the shelves, and it’s general mayhem.”
I almost unconsciously look around, freaked out at the possibility that I could be surrounded by the supernatural as I sit here ogling
