Ghost Hall (The Ghost Files Book 4) Read online

  GHOST HALL

  The Ghost Files #4

  by

  Michelle Wright

  Created by

  J.R. Rain & Scott Nicholson

  OTHER BOOKS BY MICHELLE WRIGHT

  Cappuccino Heaven

  Dead Dreams

  Lost

  Ghost Hall

  Murder in Whitechapel

  Curse of Stigmata

  ~~~~~

  THE GHOST FILES

  (Multiple Authors)

  Ghost College

  Ghost Soldier

  Ghost Fire

  Ghost Hall

  Ghost Crypt

  Ghost Town

  Ghost Writer

  Ghost Castle

  Ghost Hall

  Copyright © 2012 Michelle Wright

  Based on characters created by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson

  Published by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved by the authors. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Thank you for reading us.

  Ghost Hall

  “No evil act of mankind goes unnoticed…in this world or the next.” —Author unknown

  Chapter One

  I was squirming in my seat waiting for our flight to be called.

  Truth was, I despised airports, didn’t like flying, and I had no patience for staying in one spot for hours on end. This was our first paranormal investigation outside the States and I’d been suffering Ellen’s meltdown for the past three days. She was so excited about going to Europe for the first time that she’d lost the plot. If it wasn’t for me, she would have forgotten her passport that she had unknowingly left on the dresser. She spent so much time double checking that she’d packed everything we had to make a mad dash to the airport while she asked me twenty times if I’d locked the back door.

  I knew she was tired; she hardly slept before we had to wake at 5:30 to get ready to leave, the dark circles under her eyes a tell-tale sign that she’d tossed and turned. Now she sat patiently reading a book while the only thing on my mind was that for eleven hours I was going to have to sit in a confined space with not enough leg room. I’d be given a small portion of plastic-looking food in a box that would have to sustain me while I watched movies I didn’t like or had already seen. It’s tough enough for me to sustain a three-hour flight but how would I stem the boredom all the way across the ocean to Belgium?

  The whole airport atmosphere had always bugged me. I took offence to having to pay nearly double for something to eat or drink which always turned out to be crap, and why is it always a marathon walk to the departure gate? Is it to weaken us so we all go quietly into the plane?

  “Do you know how many miles it is to Brussels?” I remarked to Ellen who had her nose deep in a book. “When we get there, it’ll be morning again.”

  “You told me last night 5,000-odd miles,” she replied.

  I made sure I got my facts and figures straight before I left. “Five thousand, six hundred and fifty-four to be exact,” I said with pride.

  “I thought you were happy to go to Europe, now you’re nitpicking numbers.”

  “We don’t speak the language, Ellen. How are we going to get by?”

  “I googled it. Everyone speaks English. We’ll be okay. In fact, they speak French as well, so that’s three languages.”

  “Smart bunch,” I replied. “Makes us look stupid.”

  That was just like my wife to reassure me when I needed it. She knew I’d be concerned about language barriers and she was right. The only reason I warily agreed to this trip was because of her enthusiasm and the opportunity to see Belgium. Californian-based property developer Marcus Selbey sounded so desperate on the phone but pulled no punches when he told me he was sceptical about ghosts. This was his first European re-development project: an old abandoned building that was once a City Hall. But it had become a disaster when construction ceased because of a series of unexplainable accidents. Three builders were injured within the first week, one seriously, causing the Belgium contractor to pull out when locals told him the place was haunted. The whole crew had run for their lives, leaving Marcus caught up in legal action spanning continents and with one builder on the critical list.

  I was hoping Ellen’s exuberance would rub off on me as it usually did. There had to be some logical explanation besides paranormal activity, but it certainly made for a spooky story. The hall was originally built in the Fifteenth Century, but it mysteriously burnt down twice over centuries. According to Marcus, it hasn’t been used for decades, standing empty, rotting, and neglected since the 1950s.

  Developers had shown interest over the years but there were legal problems concerning the sale of the building. When the problems were finally resolved, no one wanted it until Marcus showed up, desperate to making a killing. Nothing went to plan from the moment he signed the papers and I bet he didn’t sleep at night, thinking he’d made a catastrophic mistake.

  I hardly knew the guy, but lot of people did and even if he was the son of a bitch they said he was, we didn’t want anyone else to be harmed if the accidents were due to paranormal activity.

  “Just think, you can have a good Belgium beer,” Ellen reminded me. “We can take some time out, sample the food, and take in the sights.”

  I’m not a big drinker, but the thought of trying just one of the legendary five hundred different Belgium beers was enticing.

  “I’d love that. Maybe when we land we can get one at the airport. They must have bars there.”

  “I’m sure there are bars, but I’m not sitting there for hours,” Ellen remarked. “Let’s have a beer each then straight to the hotel…..you know what I mean?” She looked at me with those sexy eyes that said fun was guaranteed the moment we checked in. Maybe this trip wasn’t going to be so bad after all!

  In spite of the banter, Ellen took her work very seriously and when she was asked to investigate somewhere rather than stumble upon paranormal activity, she felt honoured. I could understand that, she’s a gifted psychic and an expert at moving stuck spirits. We were privileged to be given the chance to go half way across the world.

  Finally our flight was called, dead on time. It didn’t bother either of us that we were in coach. It would have been inappropriate to demand business class considering we’d booked into a four-star hotel with all expenses paid by Marcus. He was even prepared to pick up our lunch tabs and cab fares and any other extras, and gave us flexible tickets that we could change without cost. The moment we buckled up, Ellen said, “I feel so sorry for Marcus. He’s invested so much money in this project and now he doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

  “He’s a businessman taking risks. Don’t feel so sorry for him; feel sorry for the guys who are hoping to work for him. Cheer up. I’ll buy you some real Belgium chocolates if you’re good.”

  “Yum, yum, I can’t wait.”

  Ellen saw the good in everyone. I’d learned over the years that her spiritual side was more gentle and forgiving than most people’s I know, including mine, and I loved her for that. My thoughts were rudely interrupted by the cabin address. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the ‘Fasten seatbelt’ sign. If you haven’t already done so, please stow your carry-on luggage underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bin. Please take your seat and fasten your seatbelt and make sure your seat back and folding trays are in their full upright position. Our flight time to Brussels will be ele
ven hours, five minutes.”

  “Do you think we packed the equipment well enough?” Ellen was worried. “Will it be okay down there if we hit turbulence?”

  “Hon, it’s packed real tight. People travel with cameras and delicate equipment all the time. They even have animals down there. Let it go, you can’t spend eleven hours worrying about it.”

  “Damn it, Monty. I think I forgot my shampoo.”

  “No problem, I’ll buy you some more.” I planted a gentle kiss on her lips, hoping that would decrease the stress.

  Taking off into the clear, blue windless sky, there was a slight shadow hanging over us as we both wondered what was waiting behind the door of City Hall. Marcus was sending his project manager to meet us the day after we arrived. Apparently Chris Howell would rather be stuck without water in the Mojave Desert than set foot once more in the building from hell.

  If it wasn’t for the pay check and threats of dismissal from Marcus, we wouldn’t see him for dust, his phone call to me three days before we were leaving was fraught with anxiety. He hated the place, he couldn’t breathe in there, and he reminded us how one builder fled screaming in terror.

  The site manager was unable get an explanation out of the builder so he fired him on the spot. In protest, two other builders walked out, vowing never to set foot in the place again.

  There seemed to be constant mishaps, strange noises and smells that caught everyone’s attention within a couple of days of being there. Three of the builders changed in behaviour, becoming more aggressive and disappearing after the lunch break. They returned just before the end of the work day with no explanation as to where they’d been.

  Building plans were mysteriously mislaid, and keys and personal items from the builders disappeared. Then tools were moved, sometimes being found in places far from the site of the actual work. Chris couldn’t take any more, but Marcus ordered him to stay on the job while he desperately tried to find new contractors.

  Ellen had finally fallen asleep, her head resting on a pillow by the window. She looked so peaceful that I envied her. I had never been able to close my eyes and drift off at 40,000 feet and after watching two movies I was itching to land. The closer we were, the more impatient I got. Then, it came, the magic address I’ve been waiting hours for. “Ladies and Gentleman, as we start our descent…..”

  “Hon, we’re landing soon.” I said to my sleeping beauty. “Ellen… we’re nearly there.”

  “My God, I’ve been dribbling.” She wiped her mouth.

  “Shall I get you a bib?”

  “Very funny.”

  She straightened herself out and tried to look presentable, although she always looks beautiful to me. According to the captain, the weather was fine in Belgium.

  Chapter Two

  The busy airport terminal was smaller than I thought it would be, but I spotted a nice-looking bar to the left and headed for it with poor Ellen in hot pursuit. The first thing she did when we found a seat was to check the equipment bag. Everything was fine, just as I thought it would be. “What would you like to drink?” I asked.

  “I want that sweet red beer I saw on the web site but I can’t remember what it’s called.”

  “I’ll ask them. I’m sure they know.”

  I was warned that customer service is way below American standards, but I wasn’t fussy as long as I could get the beer I’d been hankering after for so many hours. “Hi,” I said to the young female bartender, who was looking smart in her black-and-white uniform. “Can I have a sweet red beer and...” Looking to the dozens of beer bottles on the shelf behind her left me spoiled for choice and stumped.

  “Would you like a strong beer? I can recommend something,” she said politely.

  “Yes please, the stronger the better.”

  “A Duvel could be a good choice it’s a light-coloured beer that’s served in a cold glass, or perhaps something darker?”

  “No, no, I’ll try the Duvel.”

  “It’s called a Kriek…”

  “What is?”

  “The red beer, it’s called Kriek,” she explained.

  Feeling a bit more settled, Ellen and I enjoyed our beers, agreeing it felt good to have our feet on terra firma. She was full of anticipation and curiosity about a new foreign country. We’d travelled extensively to Mexico but we’d never considered a trip to Europe. “We’re here, Monty, and home seems so far away, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, a million miles... let’s finish our beers and find a cab,” I said eager to get going.

  We had no problem finding a cab. About twenty of them were all lined up outside, and within moments we were speeding off headed north to the city of Antwerp.

  “They drive fast here, don’t they?” I whispered so the driver couldn’t hear.

  “Sure do, and the cars are all so small but that’s good for emissions.”

  “That makes sense and it makes us look irresponsible for our gas guzzlers.”

  My beautiful wife was very bothered by green issues and what we could do to make the planet better. I felt the same way, but sometimes it got to be too much when I had to listen to the constant reminders that I must separate the garbage for the recycling.

  I could have been on a track at Daytona as cars whizzed past at alarming speed. It was when we hit the freeway that the nightmares began. I gripped my seat as Ellen gripped my leg. Our driver weaved in and out like he was a mad man on a mission, blowing his horn and cussing every five minutes. We were lucky to make it to our destination in one piece.

  Our hotel was booked by Marcus, and in reality it was far more impressive than we could’ve imagined from the online pictures. Oozing Old World charm combined with modern sophistication, the grand reception area left us in awe. Ellen glimpsed the ornate dining room with pale green velvet curtains and stylish antique chairs and tables with pale green tablecloths to match. She was compelled to wander in and admire the perfect setting.

  “This is how I imagined the first-class dining room on the Titanic,” she said.

  “Did it sink?” I asked.

  “Why do you joke about everything just appreciate this for what it is.”

  “Shame we’re not on vacation,” I reminded her. “Tomorrow Chris arrives, and then it’s work and that’s no joke.”

  “I know but for now and tonight we can enjoy this, can’t we?”

  She was right, I should have stopped thinking about what we had to face and indulged in this luxury for as long as we had the chance. Plus it was basically an all-expenses-paid working vacation. The only time I’d need to pull out the plastic was to buy souvenirs and extra snacks. Still, when we checked in, the guy at the desk asked for my credit card details. I reminded him that Mr. and Mrs. Drew were there as guests of Marcus Selbey. Case closed.

  Our room on the third floor was elegant and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows affording a wonderful view on the city center. It was big, and the “wow” factor was enhanced by a king-size, four-poster bed with white and burgundy covers and furnishings to match. It stood regally in the middle of the room, inviting and so seductive. “That’s a serious bed, don’t you think?” Ellen said with a wicked smile.

  “Absolutely, so much space you won’t be able to kick me in your sleep.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

  “Misunderstanding then, I’ll take it back.” Teasing her was one of my favourite pastimes.

  When we see the luxurious bathroom, we ooh and aah like two kids who’ve just been given a big bag of candy. There were two white fluffy bathrobes, white slippers, a double shower plus a complete range of toiletries. There was even a packet of disposable razors. The whiter-than-white towels were folded on a heated rail in such perfect alignment that we’re afraid to touch in case we disturbed them. The toilet paper was also folded neatly to a point hanging from a gold-plated holder but it was the ceramic stone floor that got my attention. “These must be at least 50 bucks a piece.” I said, referring to the high quality of the t
iles.

  Ellen had no interest in the possible value of a floor tile. Instead, she foraged around and discovered a mini fridge disguised behind the mahogany door of one of the cupboards. Pouring champagne from two small bottles into glasses, she made a toast. “Here’s to us, Belgium and good ghost hunting!”

  “I’ll drink to that.” I said as the dreaded jet lag and rumbling empty stomach took over.

  Ellen could sense I was fading fast, “Look, here’s the menu, and the dining room’s open. Let’s order room service I can see you’re bushed.”

  I guess food mattered; if we went to sleep, we’d wake up at three in the morning starving. “Thank God it’s in English as well,” I replied, in no mood to struggle with a menu translation.

  Forty minutes later, two perfectly cooked fillet steaks with salad and fries arrived on a trolley under two silver domed lids. Our dessert, two fresh fruit salads, looked divine, as did the bottle of white Foret wine sitting in the shining silver ice bucket. The young waiter in a white jacket set the table in the corner of the room and gently placed spotless white napkins on our laps.

  Both of us fell silent to receive this kind of Old World European service. We were not used to such formality. “I’ll do my best but don’t bug me if I don’t finish. I’m dog tired,” I confessed.

  “Me, too, darling but we have to eat something,” she replied softly.

  They do say that if you’re jet lagged don’t drink alcohol. The combination of a couple of beers, great food, and a bottle of wine resulted in us both stripping off where we stood and making a mad dash to the bed. Plans to have a romantic love-in were dashed as we passed out instantly in our own corner, the dinner trays pushed outside the door joining the ‘Do not disturb’ sign and our clothes strewn all over the place. Hours of travel and time loss floored both of us. I slept like a log, which could have been due to the comfortable mattress, sheer exhaustion, or too much alcohol.