The first line was given in this challenge. The rest was up to the writer’s imagination. I hope you enjoy my effort. Please pass it on to anyone you feel might be interested. They too can receive my fictional pieces about once a month
Happy reading. Cheers Deryn Pittar
(this programme removes my formatting. No paragraph indents.)
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THE PRICE OF PROGRESS
No one really knows why restoration stopped on the abandoned St. Julian hotel, where commoners and kings once came to relax in luxury. There had been several work-place accidents on the site, but that happened everywhere. To my developer’s eye the old hotel was a bargain.
The large SOLD sign angled across the weathered promotion board, filled me with pride.
At last, I had a project, somewhere to express my architectural talent. Once renovated this grand old lady could become the anchor-stone of a hotel chain. A name change would be necessary but inspiration for that would follow the do-up.
The large brass key, warm from my grasp, stuck in the lock, seemingly reluctant to turn and let me in. Original and as old as the door, I would be loath to discard the lock mechanism, and I persevered until with a clunk it gave up its resistance. I fully expected the wooden jam to stick, but it capitulated, and the door swung open with a quiet sigh.
Although the agents had assured me they’d hired cleaning contractors, their efforts looked perfunctory or had been actioned some time ago. Cobweb threads drifted from the central chandelier, moving with the draft of the open door, and I wondered if the lights would work when I reconnected the electricity. I’d budgeted on a complete rewiring. No sense on refurbishing only to have an electrical fault send my efforts up in smoke. I hated spiders and the next time I came I’d bring a broom, not only to remove the dead insects that littered the windowsills, but for the cobwebs too.
I’d thoroughly surveyed the ground floor on my first visit but it was the upper floor that drew me. I sensed its desire for attention. The staircase with its wide tread, curved up one wall and onto a mezzanine floor. The banister, strangely clean, gleamed, dappled with prisms of color thrown from the glass lead-lighting panels above the entrance. Beautiful. The total price I’d paid was worth every dollar for the staircase alone. It would be the pride of my renovations and I pictured my guests descending with measured steps, dressed in their finery, to dine and later relax in the library.
I ran my palm over the polished wood and noted the occasional creak as I headed upstairs. At the top I paused. A low moan came from the passage to my left. A window ajar? Perhaps an uncapped chimney in an empty fireplace. I made a note on my to-do list and turned right.
In my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of blue velvet, a glimpse of a hem disappearing through a doorway and the tap of heels on wooden floors. A squatter? I hurried down the passage and into the room, expecting to confront the woman. I swept my gaze around the empty room. Dust motes danced in a beam of light that peeped between the long drapes on each side of the window. A cold grate and a solitary armchair, covered in a dustcloth. Had it been here before? If so, I didn’t remember it. The curtains swayed and I strode over and whipped them aside, only to find a cracked pane and a tiny hole in the glass. Someone had shot at the window. The curse of empty buildings – destruction by vandals.
I continued my inspection with a sense of apprehension creeping over me. growing stronger by the minute. The hairs on my arms tingled as they stood and I searched for the source of any loose electricity wires. Between my shoulder blades the skin on my back crawled. I traced the moaning to another bedroom, without a fireplace and no windows ajar, yet I swore I heard someone keening behind the closed door.
A mat tripped my progress in the maids’ quarters. A nail caught my jacket as I opened a door, almost tearing my wrist if my watch hadn’t deflected it. I’d scoffed at the gossip of hauntings and ghosts, but my body was telling me otherwise. Next time I’d bring company.
I stood at the top of the staircase, admiring the foyer below and imagining how it would look when the upgrade was finished, when something pushed me. Firm, solid, like a hand on my back, it shoved me forward. I grabbed the banister as I stumbled, both hands gripping the polished beam. My legs slid from under me, tangling, pulling me downward, feet flailing. I hung on for dear life until my slide ended at the knob at the bottom. My hands were bruised by the collision. My ankles ached; my shoulders groaned. I could have broken my neck.
Now I knew why the renovations had stopped. A bloody ghost, or several of them. Anger heated me, canceling the shivers down my spine. I wouldn’t renovate after all. I’d pull the whole place down, except for the staircase. That glorious piece I’d salvage and use in a property well away from here. On this site I’d build a modern hotel. Sir Julian and his mistress would become homeless. They could join like souls under bridges and in shop doorways for all I cared. Call me heartless if you will, but sometimes you have to take a stand. I remembered I had a bottle of holy water in my medicine chest. Tomorrow I’d be sprinkling that in all the rooms. That should keep them at bay while the demolishing crew pulled the place down.
If that didn’t’ work I’d hire a local priest to do an exorcism. You can’t stop progress with a few moans and a bit of violence.
THE END
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