Page 17 of Unalive On Air

4. Jason Barlby 27/02/1948 – July 2019?

5. Elsie Maplethorpe 13/06/1924 – 12/06/2024

Besides Imogen and Peter, the other names are only partially recognisable from my skimmed research on the hotel, though I have time to find out a little more about each person before I record my episode.

There’s already one thread that connects each name on this list, and it’s screamingly obvious.

Every death, every disappearance happened while Helga was working for the hotel. There could be a simple explanation for that. Perhaps it was just when she began keeping a register, or perhaps she’s only interested in the cases that have occurred in her timeline.

But the other rationalisation is that this list is a . . . memento of sorts. A catalogue of accomplishments.

“Were there any mysterious deaths before nineteen eighty-four? Or did the . . . spectral activity begin with Peter?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow. She’s onto me.

“I only want to grasp the full scale of the problem so that I understand . . . how many ghosts I’m dealing with here, and how . . . high I need to set the PolterPulse gun to, you know, get rid of them.”

Helga relaxes a little. “Of course, of course. Like I said, I don’t have any of those people on my list. You’d have to check in with the local funeral home for a full record of those names, but . . .”

“But?”

“Angel, the person who runs it is, well, they’ve got beef with me. With the hotel, maybe. I dunno. I don’t fully understand. Do you ever get the sense that somebody doesn’t like you, but you’ve no idea why because you’ve never had any cross words with them?”

I nod. Leave my silence hanging there.

Helga obligingly fills it. “Angel’s been doing the job since before I was even born, I reckon. I just don’t know why a person would stay in a job they loathe for that long.” She shrugs. Apparently, this is the end of her mini tangent.

“So, Angel’s mortuary has been, for want of a better word, trading at least since eighty‑four? How old are they?” I ask.

“Seventies, easily. But it’s difficult to know for sure. I don’t remember a time when Angel didn’t operate from the village.”

“Interesting.” I scribble Angel, Helzephron funeral home onto my notepad. I feel like there could be a link there, but I have no idea what that might be yet.

I do, however, suspect my investigation is veering too closely towards murder mystery and too far away from ghost locating, and I don’t want Helga to get suspicious.

“Have you ever seen any of these ghosts?” I ask. “In person?”

“Well, yes, and no. I’ve not seen a level four apparition, but I’ve experienced other phenomena.”

Level four apparition. Something tells me I need to re-consult that awful handbook Ted gave me if I want to convince her of my exorcising expertise.

“Tell me more about the phenomena you’ve witnessed. Is it . . . friendly or hostile?”

Helga smiles, and I feel like I’ve asked the right question. “Oh, both, I guess.” She sits back in her chair. “Some people have reported feeling very frightened, very on edge in certain rooms. Some people have said they feel like they’re being watched. Some have said they’ve felt a heavy presence on their chest while they’re in bed, and a few times folk have claimed they’ve been dragged out from under their covers.”

I raise an eyebrow. My silent “You?” hangs between us.

“No, not me. The worst I’ve ever had has been ghosts hiding my stuff and leaving messages on the mirrors in steamed‑up rooms.”

“What kind of messages?” I’m picturing the cliched LEAVE NOW or DIE DIE DIE.

Surprisingly, Helga laughs. “You have to understand that one of the spirits is a fifteen‑year‑old boy.”

Ahhh, sure, sure. “Say no more.” As a onetime fifteen-year-old lad, I immediately know that there’s an extremely high probability these “messages” are in fact doodles of cocks and balls. The kind one can typically spot Tipp-Exed onto any given British bus-stop shelter. Possibly including the obligatory six straight pubes. Possibly even jizzing.

It gives me pause for thought. I’ve only known Helga for an hour max, but she seems way too strait-laced to finger-paint dicks into bathroom condensation. Which leaves three alternatives. Either she’s forcing herself to draw them to “prove” the existence of ghosts, she’s lying to me, or someone else drew them.

As a prank?