The Haunted Hotel by Vawn Cassidy

Author:Vawn Cassidy [Cassidy, Vawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Underside Press
Published: 2024-08-24T00:00:00+00:00

14

I’m still feeling residual guilt over what I did in the shower even after I’m dressed and heading downstairs.

When I’d wandered out of the bathroom and back into my room in nothing but a towel, I’d discovered that the bed, which I’d left as an untidy heap of bed linen piled on the bare mattress, was now completely remade and pristine.

I have to admit John the Maid is scarily efficient, and as much as I do appreciate a productive member of staff, I don’t appreciate the fact that he was obviously in my room while I was in the shower.

The first thing I’m going to do when I get downstairs is grab a Do Not Disturb sign and then make it absolutely clear that no one is to enter my room if I’m in there. Mortification rushes over me, warming my skin. What if the slightly scary-looking man heard me in the throes of my orgasm? I try to remember if I accidentally groaned out Ellis’ name as I came.

Christ, I hope not.

My body flushes again and I hurry down the steps, trying not to think about it too much. I’d just reached the bottom of the last staircase, the front desk and office in sight, when a figure leaps out from behind the curve of the bannister with a loud shriek and brandishing a large knife.

I shout out in shock and fall back against the steps, my heart pounding. My ass cheek throbs in pain—that’s probably going to bruise.

I glare at the writing guy, Ass Pennington, who’s now smiling like he didn’t just leap out as if we’re starring in one of the Scream movies.

“What the hell are you doing?” I exclaim angrily.

“Oh, this?” He places his finger on the tip of the blade and presses. The blade retracts into the handle, and he presses it up and down a few more times as if to demonstrate. “It’s a gag knife. Plastic, of course. After all, safety first, especially considering what happened to that murder mystery actor—What was his name? Plume. Professor Plume.”

“That doesn’t explain what you were doing jumping at me like that. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Oh, nothing of the sort.” He laughs heartily and I’m about two seconds from wringing his scrawny neck. “How are you feeling? Rapid pulse? Sweating? What was the first thought that went through your mind when you saw the knife? Was it instantaneous panic, or did you pause for a moment in confusion?”

“What?” I glower at him.

“I’m doing research”—he raises the knife and wiggles it, as if I missed the damn thing the first time—“for my book. So, tell me how you’re feeling right now.” He retrieves what appears to be a tiny notepad and the stub of a pencil from his pants pocket.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Incredulity! Marvellous! Yes, I suppose there would be an element of disbelief. A split second where the victim couldn’t quite believe what was occurring. Amazing input! Thank you so much for being such a good sport.

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