HOTELS ARE NOT HAUNTED; people are. Someone much wiser than Oliver said that. He thought it was probably Mattie, but he was too sleepy to remember. If his calculations were correct, Oliver had been averaging fewer than three hours of sleep per night the last couple of months.
It finally dawned on him what bothered him about Harrington ghost stories. They were never the same. If the spirit of Old Man Harrington really was roaming the halls of his old hotel, why were the alleged encounters so vastly different? According to the more popular rumors and online accounts, Harrington ghost stories seemed to reveal more about the storytellers than their creepy encounters. Old Man Harrington had been portrayed as benevolent, benign, somewhat bored, and downright evil. He’d appeared to some as an old-world Italian with a thick accent and to others as a Tennessee redneck. Sometimes he was tall, thin, cigar-chomping, with a severe limp. Other times he was short, pudgy, pipe-smoking, and missing an arm. More times than not, Old Man Harrington wasn’t even that old. Oliver had begun to suspect an altogether less intimidating version, a spindly armed old man in his boxers. But every time he stopped by Room 623 and put his ear to the door, it was as still and silent as a tomb. He wished now he’d accepted Cleve’s fifty bucks. At least that way he’d know he wasn’t completely crazy.
Oliver decided that ghosts only appeared to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. That supernatural encounters were the result of wishful thinking. And that if he ever did bump into the Harrington’s pet apparition, he’d want to know: Why so bashful? So selective? So nocturnal? Could he really walk through walls? And if so, what did that feel like? And if it wasn’t too much trouble, how about a demonstration?
These were the trivial thoughts occupying Oliver’s mind as he made his rounds. On the elevator ride back to the lobby, his thoughts shifted to the haunted people in his life. Sherman continued to be vexed by his idea of reputation, Roscoe by regret and the disease gnawing away at his insides, Delores Miles by her deranged notions of romantic love and a past she couldn’t quite remember, and Mattie by whatever prompted her to sneak into other people’s rooms.
When the elevator doors opened into the lobby, Oliver was haunted by an eerily familiar voice. It was intimate, otherworldly, and punctuated with an authentic-sounding laugh track. Oliver followed the sound to the hotel’s “Business Center.”
Mattie didn’t move as he approached from behind. The image on the screen was as surreal as the sound emanating from the tiny speakers, maybe more so. In the center of the monitor, Oliver watched a grainy, miniature version of himself performing stand-up comedy. Down the right side of the screen, a thumbnailed menu offered a dozen more selections of the “crying comedian” or “security guard comic” or the one he hated most of all —”Miles of Smiles.” Oliver didn’t have to squint at the hyperlinked username to know who posted the videos. Still, he made a mental note to strangle Barry when he saw him next.
Oliver groaned, conspicuously loud. He then lobbed a series of self-deprecating comments, all of which missed the mark, and eventually asked Mattie if she didn’t have something better to do than watch those silly videos. He even reached over her shoulder and tried to commandeer the mouse. But Mattie simply tightened her grip, continued to stare forward, unmoving. The words—his words—continued to pour out of the speakers. But they were drowned out by the sound of Mattie not laughing.
When the video ended, she slipped out of the chair and walked away.
“Mattie?”
“What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
He heard her punch the security code, then the door clicked shut behind her. A few seconds passed in silence before she began her assault on the adding machines. The Business Center chair was still warm when he sat and began scrolling through the videos. After searching in vain for a YouTube button that said “Delete All,” he eventually lowered the volume and forced himself to watch the video Mattie had been watching when he found her. It was always painful to see himself performing stand-up, but it was agonizing to watch himself joke about his kleptomaniac girlfriend, her criminal record, and catching her father in a nightclub with another woman. There was nothing funny about any of it.
When the last video ended, Oliver let himself into Mattie’s office. He didn’t say anything; he just sat and waited and watched her work. It felt like an hour before she spoke.
“Am I the ‘girlfriend’ in your routine?”
There was no good answer to that question.
“I’m not stupid, Oliver.” Mattie turned in her chair, but only halfway. She seemed to be studying an ancient gray stain on the carpet.
“I never said you were, never even thought it.”
“You were acting weird. He was acting weird. So I followed him.”
“You followed your dad?” Oliver wasn’t really that surprised. He just wanted to stoke the momentum, to keep tossing coal into the conversational furnace. And try not to get burned.
“I even took pictures,” her profile said. “Nothing illicit or anything. Just, you know, proof.”
“I’m sorry, Mattie.”
“Guess I should post them on the internet since that seems to be the hip new way to deal with hard things.”
“I wanted to tell you, Mattie.”
“But you did tell me, Oliver,” she said. “Along with a roomful of people I don’t know and whoever else happens to click onto your YouTube page.”
“Look, I had no idea Barry was going to do that. I didn’t even know he was filming me. And when I see him again, I’m—”
“Stop,” she said, finally looking at him for a brief moment. But it was enough. “Just stop it.”
“I know it was probably wrong to talk about that stuff onstage. But you said I was funniest when I was telling the truth.”
“I see. So this is somehow my fault? Or Barry’s, for posting it in the first place?”
Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing there. He was empty, hollowed out, a blank.
He was trying to muster the strength to stand when Mattie said, “And what I actually said was that you’re funnier when you’re being real, and that I like you better when you tell the truth.”
“Guess I kind of ruined that.”
“I know you think I’m overreacting, Oliver. But I’m not. I’m simply reacting. And you don’t like it.”
“…”
“You want to keep saying you’re sorry until I tell you everything is okay. But it’s not okay. Nothing is okay. Not anymore.”
“…”
“See, Oliver. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Somehow I knew that you knew what he was up to. I just figured you were working up your nerve to tell me, maybe trying to preserve my feelings, that maybe you couldn’t bear to see me hurt. I was even foolish enough to think you might confront him about it; that you might actually sit my father down and tell him what you thought of his adultering ways, what he was doing to his family. I always expected that kind of behavior out of him, but not from you. But it looks like I gave you too much credit.”
“I am so sorry, Mattie. And you’re right. I should have told you.”
“You said you would always tell me the truth. You promised, actually. But all you ever really say is you’re sorry.”
“But I didn’t lie. I’ve never lied to you.”
“I’m talking about honesty, Oliver.”
“So am I.”
“No, you’re talking about not lying. Big difference.”
“I wanted to tell you, Mattie. But it’s not the easiest thing in the world to tell someone you care about that you caught her father with another woman.”
“Easy?” It was more than a simple two-syllable question. It was an indictment that echoed in his head, conjuring all the not-so-easy things she’d done for him. Not the least of which was giving him his mother back.
Returning her gaze was the single hardest thing he could ever remember doing. Then she did something he’d never seen her do before.
Mattie blinked. A single tear glistened on her cheek, then fell. Oliver had to look away. Then she stood and began gathering her things.
“You’re leaving?”
“The audit’s done.”
She powered down the computer, gathered her purse, and headed for the door. Then she circled back around her desk as if she was searching for something.
“But it’s three o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m taking a sick day.” Mattie was moving more quickly now, checking under tables and every available surface.
“But where are you going?”
Mattie stopped her search and faced Oliver.
“You really want to know?” She wasn’t mad anymore; she seemed defeated. “I’m going to check on my mother, Oliver. Not that she needs me to; she’s not stupid either. But sometimes it’s just nice to have someone care enough to sit and hold your hand and whisper compassionate lies.”
“Wait, Mattie.” Oliver was up now, following Mattie toward the time clock. “Can’t we just talk about this?”
“We just did.”
“But there’s, you know … stuff I think I need to tell you.”
She paused. And for one brief instant he thought she might stay. Then she said, “Save it for your act.”
“Wait, Mattie?”
She stopped but didn’t turn around.
“What were you looking for in there? Maybe I can help.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “Unless you’re the one who stole my guitar.”
Oliver watched her car until the taillights disappeared around the corner. He ducked into the security closet and watched surveillance feeds halfheartedly until he heard the phone ringing at the front desk. As he stood to leave, he noticed a gnarled lollipop stick pasted to the lip of his wastebasket.
The phone was still ringing when Oliver finally made it to the front desk. He knew better than to hope it was Mattie calling, but it was still difficult to find his voice when he answered.
“Front desk, can I help you?”
“Yeah, this is Cliff Houlihan in Room 621. Someone just tried to rob me.”
• • •
By the time Oliver dragged himself up to Room 621, Houlihan was ready for him. He invited Oliver to read over his shoulder as he finished writing up a full “incident report” on hotel stationery. But the smell in the room—a gag-inducing musk of incense and burning rope—made it hard for Oliver to focus. Still, he got the gist of it. Houlihan’s account was riddled with details and times and official-sounding language, referring only to “the perpetrator.”
As Oliver scanned the report, a creepy, operatic sound came from the other side of the wall. Oliver looked at Houlihan, who remained unfazed, and said, “It was a guy, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“The perpetrator? Just making sure it wasn’t a girl.”
“If it was a girl, it was a butt-ugly one. Whoever it was used a key. The shower was running, so he probably assumed he had time. Turns out, he didn’t. It’s all in the report.”
“Did he manage to take anything?”
“He tried.”
“How come it’s not in the report?” Oliver had scanned the handwritten document twice and all it mentioned was “contraband.” But it was hard to concentrate with that quivering falsetto ebbing and flowing in the next room.
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“You know anything about medicinal marijuana?”
“Sure,” Oliver said.
Houlihan stared directly into Oliver’s eyes, then covered his mouth with a loose fist, arched his eyebrows knowingly, and faked a series of pathetic coughs. Then he said, “Do you have an email address?”
Oliver was about to recite it when the muted voice on the other side of the wall turned shrill. This time Houlihan scowled at the wall. “So,” Oliver said, “you heard it too?”
“How could I miss it?” Houlihan said.
“What do you think it is?”
“It’s an old man practicing ghost noises.”
“How do you know that?”
“We have an agreement,” Houlihan said. “I indulge his howling and he ignores the woody fumes that seep through the vents.”
Oliver scribbled his email address on a blank sheet of hotel stationery and handed it to Houlihan.
“Lucky for you, I managed to snap a few photos while he was still on his back. Once I clear out of here, I’ll send them to you.”
“It would really help if I could have them now.”
“Not me.”
“So is your name really Houlihan?”
“That’s classified too.”
“Are you always so cryptic?”
“Have you ever heard of the witness protection program?”
“Yeah,” Oliver said. “But I thought it was mostly a myth.”
Fake Houlihan shook his head, tight-lipped and chiding.
“Okay then,” Oliver said. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Yeah, if you happen to find this guy in the next week or so, his left eye should be good and purple.”
“Why’s that?” Oliver asked.
But Fake Houlihan just stared at his balled fist and massaged his knuckles.
• • •
Oliver paused outside Houlihan’s room, then walked the few short steps to the closed door of #623. He stood and listened, but heard nothing. Then he put his ear against the door and listened harder. Still nothing.
He was about to leave when he thought he saw a flash of light in the door’s peephole. Oliver knocked, cleared his throat, and used his most authoritative voice. “Security. Open up.”
He knocked louder and added, “I just need to have a quick word with you.”
Oliver removed the master key he kept clipped onto his security belt and slid the credit card-sized plastic into the slot. There was a mechanical whir, followed by a series of flashing red lights, but the door remained locked. He paused and reinserted the key three more times with the same result.
Maybe General Sherman was right? Maybe he’d gotten the number wrong? Or maybe he was destined to end up in Shady Grove alongside his mother?