Ghost Stories For The Festive Season

Affair With The Dead

The Morning Light Inn stood solitary against the gloomy Welsh sky. Jill shivered as she stepped out of the taxi, the cold sea air cutting through her thin coat. She pulled her suitcase from the trunk, waving halfheartedly to the driver as he did a U-turn and retreated down the long gravel drive.

Turning towards the hotel, Jill felt another shiver run down her spine. The three-story Victorian building loomed taller than she’d imagined, its weathered facade dotted by rows of dark windows that glared like vacant eyes. Shaking off her unease, she wheeled her luggage up the stone steps. Tonight was about romance, about being with the man she loved. Pete had booked them an intimate getaway at this seaside town, away from their mundane lives and suspecting spouses. She wouldn’t let the gloomy ambiance ruin it.

The heavy oak door creaked open and the smell of mothballs wafted out. “Hello?” Jill’s voice echoed down the shadowy hallway as she lugged her suitcase inside. She had expected to be greeted by staff, but the lobby stood empty, the only sound the relentless tick of an antique grandfather clock.

“Good evening, madam.”

Jill jumped, whirling around to see an elderly man emerge from a back room, dressed in a wrinkled uniform. “Oh! You gave me a fright,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest.

The man’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Terribly sorry about that. I’m Mr. Abbott, the night porter.” He took her bag, leading her towards the grand, but faded staircase. “Mr. Worthington is expecting you. He’s booked the Edwardian Suite for the weekend. I trust you’ll find it more than satisfactory.”

Up an ornate carpeted stairwell they climbed, past dated damask wallpaper and shelves lined with ceramic figurines watching them with sightless eyes. More mothball smells mingled with traces of meat and boiled vegetables, as if ghosts of meals past clung close. At the third floor landing, Mr. Abbott led Jill left down a narrow hallway lit by dim sconces, the flames making shadows dance across the paisley patterned walls.

“Here we are, madam. The Edwardian Suite.” Abbott slid a skeleton key from his pocket and unlocked the door with a heavy click. As it swung open, Jill saw rose petals scattered across the plush cream carpet, candles flickering, champagne chilling next to a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. And there by the king-sized four poster bed stood Pete, rakishly handsome in an open-collared shirt, smiling at her with such warmth she instantly relaxed.