Page 37 of Unalive On Air

Jeanie gasps. Pixie’s mouth falls open. Josh looks up from his phone screen.

“You have a fucking death wish or something?” Stove says. “Isn’t dying once enough for you?”

I’m genuinely confused. I thought ghosts couldn’t kill people. But then, I guess I’m not people any more.

“They wouldn’t bother you if, say, you bumped into them in the corridors, but heaven forbid you should seek them out,” Jeanie says.

“There are only three ways to kill a ghost.” Camille holds three fingers up. “One . . . exorcism. Very unreliable, very bad repercussions when it goes wrong, very stupid people try this one.” They put a finger down. “Two . . . the ghostie finishes their unfinished business. If you believe in that horseshit.” Another finger. “And three—and this is the only reliable method to destroy a spectre—you take them to the east wing, and you let the poltergeists decide what they want to do with the spirit.”

I swear the temperature of the honeymoon suite drops by at least five degrees. Helga, who’s still on the phone to the cleaning contractors, wraps her free arm around her upper body.

“What do they do?” I ask.

Trystan answers. His words should be comical, and on any other day I would have laughed if someone had said this to me, but now, in the face of seven other ghosts, none of whom are smiling, there’s nothing even remotely funny about it. “They’ll eat your soul.”

It takes me a few seconds before I gather myself enough to ask, “What do you call the entities in the east wing and the lighthouse?”

“The Old Scares,” Josh says, and everybody shivers.

“For all intents and purposes, they’re the closest thing we have to ghost police,” Peter adds.

“They keep us all in check,” Stove says.

ten

Silent as the Grave

Recently, I’ve gained a bad habit of not listening when people try to warn me about shit.

First it was Gerald, with his whole “Do you believe in ghosts? You will do” speech. Then it was Helga with her “It’s seven and a half now. That form should’ve been updated.”

Well, guess what? Now it’s eight and a half spirits, and everyone else was right, and old muggins here was very wrong and now I’m very dead.

In light of these recent epiphanies, I have decided to deprioritise paying the east wing and the abandoned lighthouse a visit. I don’t really need to know the distinction between a regular ghost such as myself and an extremely powerful and mercurial level four entity with the ability to eat my soul like a bowl of cornflakes.

I’m not an agreeable person at the best of times. Nah, think I’ll keep my ethereal ass to the west wing, thank you.

Helga inches towards the door. Her gaze continues to roam about the place, and her expression is a strange mixture of curled lip and red-rimmed eyes. Even I, with all my people‑watching expertise, am having difficulty placing her emotions. Perhaps she’s mourning the life of a stranger. Maybe wondering what family I left behind. Maybe wondering if my last few moments were those of extreme pain. Perhaps she’s grieving any opportunity she had to solve this ghost puzzle once and for all. Perhaps she’s lamenting all the missed revenue the hotel will no doubt experience now that the room with the highest earning potential is out of action. It could be all the extra paperwork and hassle my gruesome death has brought about. Or maybe she’s just fucking done with it all. Tired. At her wits’ end.

Honestly, I’d probably have given up years ago if I were in her position.

Or maybe what she’s feeling is something closer to guilt . . . or pride or . . . arousal, or whatever it is serial killers feel after they know they’ve got away with it again.

I wish she’d talk to herself like a movie psychopath. Alas, the only noise Helga makes is the occasional agonised sigh, which is immediately swallowed by the other ghosts’ gossipy chattering.

Just as she’s about to leave, Helga spots a piece of folded paper on the ground. A rusty brown stain traces the centre crease. As she opens the note, sanguineous flakes drift to the ground like macabre confetti.

It’s the list of dead and missing that she’d given to me yesterday in her office. It was tucked away in my back pocket, sandwiched between my heavy body and the mattress, and must have fallen out when Laurel and Hardy moved me onto the gurney. I put my hand in my ghost butt pocket, and my fingers brush against the smooth edge of a folded note.

A spectral version of the note, this time unblemished and free from bloodstains, sits in my palm. It’s exactly as it was the night before, with a list of everybody who either died at the hotel or went missing, and my additional scribbled notes.

Angel, Helzephron funeral home

Franny Driscoll

Sergeant Dave Davies

I shove my hand into my pocket again and close my fingers around something else. A plain, stubby little pencil that I “borrowed” from a large chain of Swedish furniture stores a few months ago. It’s delightfully pocket-sized, and I’d taken to carrying it on my person should the need for urgent note taking seize me.