Pete Jeffries boarded the Griffins Keep public elevator on the fifth floor.
“Going up?” Rebecca asked.
“Sure. What the hell. Doesn’t matter.” Taking off his wire-rimmed glasses, the sandy-bearded front desk assistant manager wiped his other hand across his forehead. The usually cheerful and cordial 30-something Keep associate looked thoroughly defeated.
“Rough morning?”
“Angry guests. Berserk guests. Too few employees trying to handle too many crises.”
“Wanna hide out in the archives for awhile?”
“God, yes.” Pete jumped at the chance.
“You’ve been up there, before, haven’t you?”
“Just that once when I helped you carry up some stuff you’d had out for people to see.”
“So you know it’s the hotel ‘attic’ where all the treasures are hidden,” she said, pushing through an inconspicuous door in the ninth floor wall that led to the service staircase. “Look at the intricate iron scrollwork on these railings. They’ve always been behind the scenes, but the builders took pains to embellish them nonetheless.” The railings must have been beautiful before someone thoughtlessly spray-painted them silver. Now they looked as tacky as the surrounding walls of pealing plaster painted public-pool turquoise.
“A sad reminder of a time long past when pride in the details mattered here,” Pete said as they climbed to the rooftop repository
On the tenth floor of the nine-story building, the historian unlocked the door with a peephole installed by request at her eye-level. “Can you believe that when I started here, this door had a sign broadcasting ‘Hotel Archives?’ They might as well have just added ‘Welcome Thieves!’” Getting rid of that sign had been Rebecca’s first order of business as historian.
Gesturing toward the vinyl covered footrest, she offered Pete a seat. “This room, the old upholstery shop next door, and the area where the restrooms are now, was all the Executive Housekeeper’s ‘penthouse’ apartment in the 1940s and 50s.”
She pulled a folder from the file cabinets and handed Pete a large black-and-white glossy photograph. “This is what this space looked like when she lived here. She had almost as many shelves for her own collections as the archives has now. And here’s a photo of her from sometime in the 1940s. Marjory Crispin. Doesn’t she have a smile that could sell toothpaste?”
Pete studied the pictures appreciatively. “These are cool. She looks nice.”
Rebecca lifted the light-blocking Roman shade in the corner for a look outside. “Check out this old screen door. It opened out onto the rooftop patio where Marjory threw private parties for friends on full-moon summer nights. She had potted trees and flowers all around her lawn furniture. Must have been quite the view before all the HVAC stuff cluttered up the roof.”
“And before all the skyscrapers surrounded the place,” Pete added, peering out. “Yeah, I totally know that screen door. I started out in Engineering when I first worked here. Sometimes I’d go out there and sit on the roof ledge. Nobody can see it from the street, so nobody would think I was going to jump or anything. Just a good place to get away for a break and a smoke.” A thought occurred to him, and he turned to Rebecca. “It must have been her who closed the door!”
“Marjory?”
“Must have been. One time when I went out on the roof here, I came back to find this screen door closed and latched. And that door doesn’t close by itself. In fact, it’s really hard to close. Sticks open, like it is now. The hinges are rusted stiff. But somebody – or something – shut me out there. I swear I heard a woman’s voice in my ear saying, ‘Back to work’ and the door opened -- all by itself Had to be that housekeeper. Makes sense.”
Rebecca hesitantly considered his theory. “Maybe Marjory’s spirit is still up here,” she said, surprised at herself. “On several occasions, when I’ve gone to use the ladies room, I’ve pushed on the door to go in and, from inside the empty bathroom, someone’s pushed back. Pushed back hard. It’s unmistakable.”
The two of them looked at each other and smiled slyly, like children sharing a secret.
“Probably just a weird air pressure thing,” Rebecca offered sensibly.
“Yeah, probably,” Pete said, “Unless it’s not.”
“It’s not scary or anything,” Rebecca hastened to add. “Just unexpected and-- I don’t know -- unexplainable.”
Pete agreed. “I find myself wishing whatever spirits are here would show themselves. It would be awesome to actually see them.”
Rebecca screwed up her mouth and shook her head. “Mixed feelings on that,” she said. “But I like to imagine Marjory is a guardian spirit of this place. She’d definitely be a good ghost. I’m not sure all of them are.”
“How could they be? If ghosts are the spirits of people, and obviously people come in good and bad,” Pete reasoned. “But the general aura – I think that’s the right word -- of The Keep is very positive – almost like magic sometimes. Things that shouldn’t work out somehow do work out. Potential disasters are mysteriously averted. I think anyone who’s worked here for a while has a story like that. It’s weird but wonderful.”
“Lochlan has an astrologer friend who did The Keep’s horoscope. She says it has always attracted good fortune,” Rebecca said. “But she also predicted that the last part of this year will begin a time of major upheaval for the hotel.”
“No surprise there, what with TITHE taking over. Who knows what the new owners will do to the place. Could be change for the better.”
“Could be,” Rebecca tried to sound optimistic. “But you were in that TITHE marketing meeting. Saw that commercial. Doesn’t bode well, if you ask me.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Pete said. “That crap made it so obvious these new guys don’t get what makes The Keep special. If I ever run into that Chad Tagawa, I’m gonna ask him ‘Why’d you buy this hotel when you obviously hate history?’”
“The astrologer says the stars indicate some sort of terrible imbalance ahead. Sometimes lately, I almost think I feel that coming. Crazy, huh?”
“You feel it, too?” Pete was serious. “I’ve had that sense for about three months now. Vaguely disturbing…”
The ensuing moment of pensive silence was broken by Rebecca. “Wanna see the most amazing treasure of the archives?”
She hurried over to the wooden cupboard opposite a bank of filing cabinets and withdrew the topmost container from a stack of identical plastic storage tubs. Setting it on the vinyl footrest, she unsealed the lid and lifted it off, leaning it against the cupboard. Carefully, she parted the folds of a hotel towel lining the tub and lifted out a tissue wrapped object, about a foot long. From another sheet of tissue, she unwrapped a small fur hat with a purple plume.
Rebecca gingerly removed the tissue from the object and stood it on the island worktable. She placed the hat on its head and stepped back, appraising it with a sad smile.
“It’s…it’s a doll,” Pete said, moving closer to inspect it. “A soldier, with a trumpet.”
“A coronet, to be exact. Isn’t he gorgeous? He’s just one of a 14-piece military band, handcrafted by a French dollmaker while he was imprisoned during the Revolution. His uniform is made from actual uniform scraps of the time, as is his fur hat. Each bandsman holds a different instrument,” Rebeeca said. “But the most amazing thing is that each face was carved to look like one of his fellow prisoners.”
“Whoa. You can totally see his personality. Looks like a mischievous young man trying hard to be serious,” Pete said, slowly turning the figure on its square wooden base to admire the button and braid details. “How’d these come to be at The Keep, anyway?
“Kuhrsfelds acquired them on their world travels, along with the other French Revolutionary knick-knacks to decorate their new restaurant. The entire band was displayed for years in one of the glass cases in the Versailles Room. They’re one of a kind, more than 200 years old.”
“Why have I never seen these before?”
Rebecca pointed to the figure and directed, “Look closely. They haven’t been cared for properly. Decades of exposure to light and dust. No temperature or humidity control. This one’s boots are flaking. His scabbard is shredding. His hat is splitting. His uniform is pocked with insect damage. And he’s in better shape than most of them. Every time I open these tubs, I can smell faint decay.”
“Can they be saved?”
The historian began to gently rewrap the bandsman in acid-free tissue. “They could be stabilized, even restored by professional conservationists,” she said. “I had the complete set of figures assessed about a year ago. Gave the report with the estimates to Mr. Beaumont. He sent it right back to me with a sticky note: ‘Take good care of these until our profits improve.’”
Reverently, she laid the artifact in his towel-lined coffin and resealed the lid. “It’s the same story for so many things here in the archives – the blueprints, the guest registers, the scrapbooks. They’re fragile, perishable, steadily degrading, in desperate need of professional rehab. But they’re completely off the radar when the owners and managers set the annual budget. It breaks my historian heart.”
Pete empathized. “Everybody who works here ought to see this stuff,” he said. “Guests, too.”
Rebecca couldn’t agree more. “These are the things that give The Keep its resonance. This,” she concluded, encompassing the archives in a grand sweeping gesture, “all this is what makes the Griffins Keep unlike any other hotel in Denver. Maybe any other anywhere. And when people who work here and people who visit here understand that, they begin to understand its deeply rooted significance, its contribution to the city’s character.”
Pete glanced at his watch. “I’ve gotta go.” He gave the historian an impulsive hug before turning for the door. “Thank you, Rebecca,” he said sincerely, “for putting the little day-to-day hassles in perspective. And thank you, Marjory, for keeping an eye on things.”
Raising a triumphant fist in the air, he proclaimed, “The Keep endures! Long live The Keep.” He poked his head through the gap before closing the archives door. “And heaven help her beleaguered staff.”
Rebecca dreaded the 4:00 private tour scheduled on Halloween itself. Ghost tours for groups of children presented special challenges. They couldn’t care less about the history of the Griffins Keep. A waste of time, the hotel’s backstory simply made them fidget. They wanted to be scared. They wanted to giggle and cling to each other or startle each other. They pretended to see things, to hear things as Rebecca led them around the property. Sometimes they listened to her stories. Sometimes they told their own.
Today’s group was part of a local rec center’s afterschool program for kids. The sugar-charged children running around the lobby had apparently already dived into the Halloween candy. So be it. The historian smiled and determined to have fun with it.
“I was recently possessed by a spirit,” a boy of about 9 announced earnestly to her and the group at the outset. “I actually saw it leave my body. And I’ve been able to see ghosts ever since.”
“Really?” Rebecca tried not to sound patronizing. “Wow.”
The problem with this group was that at every stop on the tour, half-a-dozen little hands shot up.
“I just saw two black eyes right over there on the wall,” announced one young girl, hurrying across the Club room to point out the spot.
“I can see the shadow of a dead lady lying on the floor,” claimed another, tracing the imagined silhouette in the carpet.
“I just saw a white flash like lightning over there,” said a boy, pointing to a fifth-floor corner of the atrium.
“I felt something brush my arm!”
“Did you hear that whispering sound?”
“I saw blood on that wallpaper, and then it disappeared!”
“Let’s raise our hands ONLY if we have a question, guys.”
Rebecca silently blessed their leader for his belated attempt to rein-in their imaginations. But the titillated hysteria continued to rise, despite the best calming efforts of the adults. When it came time to take them to an upper floor, a cluster of mini-drama queens crowded so close to Rebecca that she could scarcely make her way to the elevator.
The historian had insisted that the description of the ghost tour on the website add the note: “These tours are primarily historical and not intended for children.” For all the good that did. Might as well don a big red nose and floppy shoes, Rebecca thought before biting the bullet. Such a rewarding application of my graduate studies in history.
“You have a question?” Rebecca asked when an obnoxious child waved her raised hand incessantly. The historian was in no mood for precociousness.
“Yeah. So is that all your own hair?”
Totally unexpected. The artificial clip-on fastened atop Rebecca’s upswept Victorian do was a close match, but not, apparently, perfect. “You’re very astute.” And very rude,
“I’m a what?”
“Astute. It means you’re clever. You’re unusually observant.”
“Oh yeah!” the pudgy girl exalted, fist bumping her friend. “I so rock!”
“Actually, no one’s ever asked me that before.” And you’re going to regret being the first. “As a matter of fact, this is not all my own hair. This piece,” she said, slowly fingering the add-on, “came from the head of the original hotel historian, Charlotte Woods -- right before they buried her last month.”
Rebecca was surprised to find that she derived a perverse pleasure from the shock on their young faces.
“Eeew!”
“Nuh-uh!”
Rebecca nodded solemnly. “It was her final wish that I rip it from her dead scalp and make it into a hairpiece.”
“Gross, dude!”
“No way. Why would you?”
“Because it’s bewitched. When I put it on, the roots grow into my skull and clear into my brain and inject all her knowledge about the hotel’s history.” Dramatic pause. “It hurts like crazy when I pull it off at the end of the day, but it’s worth it.”
“Get out! You lie.”
“Do I? Are you sure?” She inclined the top of her head toward them and advanced a step. “Touch it if you dare. But I can’t promise her hair won’t start to penetrate your skin, too.”
“I think that’s quite enough,” the group leader interjected.
“I certainly hope so,” Rebecca agreed. “You all know I’m just having a little fun with you, right, kids?”
But for the duration of the tour, no one asked another question.
On Labor Day weekend, Charlotte Woods had passed into the Colorado history about which she had always been so passionate.
Rebecca got news of The Keep’s first historian’s death in an email blast from the Colorado History Museum’s volunteer coordinator. It was sad, of course. But the 89-year-old’s mind had drifted into other realms months ago. Her body finally let her go.
Charlotte and her husband had no children. She had devoted herself entirely to the hotel, its history and its archives. Rebecca was her heir in that regard, and she felt the obligation keenly.
“So much of her spirit is already here,” Lochlan had observed as they sat in the archives the day after Charlotte’s memorial service, remembering the late hotel historian. “We should invite her formally.”
In response to Rebecca’s puzzled look, he’d explained. “There’s an ancient Kabalah ritual that helps searching spirits find their way, welcomes their spiritual light. Be honest. Would you be comfortable with Charlotte here?”
Wary and skeptical, Rebecca had finally nodded.
“My psychic friend told me how to do this.” Lochlan proceeded to write Hebrew symbols and their phonetic pronunciation on sheet of paper, folded it in half, and reverently placed the newspaper clipping with Charlotte’s obituary inside.
“Repeat these words whenever you think of her for the next several days,” he’d instructed. “It opens a spiritual door and invites her in. If this is where she wants to spend eternity – even a little bit of it – she’ll know she can come here.”
They practiced saying the strange words aloud several times, like a chant, before Lochlan had to get back to fixing a leaky toilet. What could it hurt? Rebecca asked herself.
The next morning, she’d entered the archives, surprised to find her PC screen glowing with the start prompt screen. She always turned it off when she left for the day; just must not have shut it down properly last night. But the next day, though she was certain she had shut it down completely, she found the start prompt up again. Pure chance, of course, that this coincided with the Kabala “invitation” to Charlotte’s spirit. Nevertheless, she wondered.
That evening, Rebecca deliberately sat through the entire shut down until there was no question the machine was off
“If you’re really here, Charlotte, turn the PC on once more tonight,” she’d said aloud, feeling silly. The following day, she had unlocked the archives and, before flipping on the lights, she discovered the PC screen glowing again in the dark.
“Oh yeah,” Dawn, the Sales admin assistant, said casually when Rebecca mentioned the odd occurrence. “That’s happened to me a couple times. It’s some freak thing in the local network. A ‘wake on LAN’ I think they call it. For some reason it sends a signal that kicks on a bunch of the connected computers for no reason.”
It sounded plausible to Rebecca, with her limited understanding of networking mysteries. But why had it never happened in the archives before? And why two days in a row?
Before Rebecca left that afternoon, after her PC had shut down completely, she crawled under the desk and unplugged the machine from the dusty power strip on the floor.
Drawing a deep breath the next morning, she turned the key in the archives lock, opened the door, and looked toward her desk in the corner. The computer she was certain she had disconnected incandesced impossibly The chill that ran up her spine slowly melted with astonishment and understanding.
Rebecca glanced at the Kabala packet on the archive island and smiled uncertainly. “Good morning, Charlotte,” she said softly as she closed the door behind her. “Welcome home.”