LIFE AFTER DEATH

by SilverTurtle

*****'*****

Irene is irate.

No.

'Irate' is far too mild a word for how Irene feels.

For years her suite in the Boston Tipton Hotel had been her sanctuary. Unassailable by guests, accessible only to staff and herself. But that had all changed with those little twin boys, the Martin brothers. They had snuck into her room, showed it to their friends, told their story on the streets, and now hardly a day passes by when some hooligan doesn't try to enter her home.

Today was the last straw.

Today a group of three boys had come in off the street, broken into her suite, stolen some of her knickknacks, and broken her favorite lamp.

Irene is furious.

Irene is so blindingly angry that for the first time in nearly three decades she manifests outside of her room and directly in front of a very startled and fearful Marion Moseby.

"We had an agreement, Moseby," Irene intones in a low and dangerous voice.

"Irene!" Moseby stuttered a greeting, hoping to assuage some of the rage he could see in the ghost's face, even as he scanned the lobby to make sure no guests had seen her sudden appearance, "What are you doing out of your rooms? You aren't supposed to come down here!"

Moseby looked around again and saw no one. He breathed a brief sigh of relief as soon as he knew there were no guests to witness this. Ghosts, while a popular theme for some hotels, would ruin the Tipton reputation.

"And you are supposed to keep people out of my rooms!" Irene yelled. She seemed to tower in Moseby's vision, her form drifting purposefully towards him forcing him to back into a wall, glowing brightly and pulsing with her emotions.

Moseby looked confused, "We have been. No one has been in your rooms. Except for Grace to dust."

Irene glared down at the hapless manager, "You're wrong. There have been little brats sneaking into my rooms for the last three months! Those twins started it all and now I can't get a moment's peace!" She spun away from him and hovered a short distance away before whirling back. Her aura flared along with her temper as she cried, "They've stolen my things! And they broke my lamp! I can't take it any longer!"

"Irene," Moseby stepped closer, his hands up as a sign of peace, "I assure you, we'll do all we can to prevent another incident like today's. I'll have a bellhop posted outside your door. And I'll have security look into the ones that stole your things. I promise. Just, please, return to your suite before anyone sees you!"

Irene clenched the jaw she no longer had, some physical habits lasted long beyond the body too ingrained in the spirit to disappear, "You had better. Otherwise I'll have to deal with them. You remember what I did to you when you first dared open my door."

"Irene," Moseby said horrified, "You wouldn't."

"I would," Irene's eyes blazed with conviction, "And I will if another vandal crosses my threshold."

"Irene, you can't," Moseby argued, trying to be reasonable in the face of an angry ghost, "The agreement you signed with Mr. Tipton prevents you from taking that kind of action..."

Irene's wrathful spirit suddenly seemed to fill the entire lobby as she stared a shrinking Moseby down, "This was my home long before little Wilfred took stewardship of it. I'll not see it violated again; agreement be damned. If anyone not on the Tipton staff takes a single step into my home they will not step out again in one piece."

"But-but," Moseby stammered, attempting to recover from the force of her presence, "The agreement-"

"The agreement," Irene replied coolly, "Merely states I'm not to terrify the guests. In return, Wilfred promised my home would be safe and that his staff would protect it. I keep to my rooms as a courtesy and now they are under attack, I have every right to defend my home as I see fit. You know what that means."

Moseby, wide-eyed, took a deep breath and nodded resignedly. "I understand. I'll do my best to keep hooligans away, but if they somehow get in-"

She cut him off before he could give the pretense of permission, there was nothing he could do to stop her and they both knew it. "If they get in again they are mine to do with as I please. You want to protect the Tipton reputation you had better keep my rooms guarded well."

With her piece said she disappeared before he could make a reply.

***'***

Irene stuck her head through her door, keeping invisible as well as intangible, to check for the guard Moseby had promised. And there he was asleep in his chair and snoring, his bellhop hat draped over his eyes and nose as an ineffectual cover as it was too small to do much but teeter with every breath he took.

Irene almost smiled. It was an amusing picture, but it meant that her rooms were open to whoever decided to break in...and she'd felt a small group of youngsters sneak into the hotel just fifteen minutes ago while Moseby was distracted checking out a set of richer guests.

In fact, she could see the heads of two of that small group peeking around the corner down the hall, obviously scoping out the situation. She drifted fully through the door and hovered to look fully upon the children making the attempt today.

Three young boys, two blondes and a red-head, and brunette girl with pigtails. What luck! It was the twins who had started all her troubles with two of their companions. She would get her revenge on them and their little friends.

Irene did smile then.

These children were the perfect age; impressionable enough that they would be traumatized by what she would do to punish them, and young enough to tell their story to anyone who would listen but old enough to discourage any further attempts on her rooms. The lesson would stick. And even if it didn't...well, Irene would have her fun with her victims at least.

She followed them as they tip-toed down the hall and to her door.

One of the blonde boys tried the handle and found it locked. The other blonde boy pushed his brother out of the way and pulled out a stolen credit card; this one must be Zack, then. He shoved it between the door and its frame, jiggling and pushing on the door until it popped open. He turned to his cohorts and made a mock bow gesturing them into the room.

Each child stepped with trepidation across the threshold of her rooms, taking a few bare steps, only going far enough for each of them to fit in the room.

Irene waited until all four of them were inside before she followed them in and used a bare fraction of her power to slam the door loudly and seal it closed.

The children screamed.

The girl shoved the boys out of the way and tried the door only to find it wouldn't budge. She flipped the lock back and forth, testing several times, her tugs growing more frantic as the feeling of being trapped settled in. "Guys," she said in a shaky voice as she pulled her hands away from the door and stepped closer to her friends, "the door won't open."

"What are you talking about, Max?" the red-head asked, stepping up and puffing out his chest with all the bravado of the young. He tested the door for himself and promptly deflated. He started to breathe heavily, "What? This is impossible! We're trapped! Trapped like rats! I'm too young and handsome to die!"

Zack grabbed the red-head by the arm and slapped him once, "Get a hold of yourself, Bob!"

Bob shook his head, "Sorry. Sometimes my fiery passion comes out like panicked girly screaming. I'm better now."

The other blonde boy, Cody, was busy inspecting the room. "Irene?" he called softly.

Irene spoke in a whisper, "Hello, children." Her voice was low and sinister and caused a shiver to travel down the children's spines, like an icy finger had been dragged down the center of their backs.

When she allowed herself to become visible she had put on the most terrible guise she could think of, the very face of death, and she grinned unpleasantly as the children shrieked and renewed their frantic scramble to escape.

***'***

Mr. Moseby had been called from six different suites complaining of excessive noise. Screams and yells had been bothering a number of his guests for the last half-hour and they hadn't let up. One particularly colorful woman had described the sounds as banshee howls and the cries of dying animals.

Moseby had gotten the number of each suite which had called and quickly realized they were all placed where Irene's suite would be in the center of the ruckus.

"Oh no," he moaned, "This can't be good." He sank his head into his hands and rubbed, hoping to ease even the tiniest bit of stress he could feel building behind his eyes as a massive headache.

With a feeling of doom settling around his shoulders like a cape he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for Irene's floor.

When the elevator doors opened to discharge him he had only to take four steps beyond corner of the hallway before Irene's door flew open and out came a tumble of screaming children, each bald as an egg and white as a sheet.

As the children flew past him and crashed into the elevator, screaming at each other and hitting buttons indiscriminately, Moseby could only sigh. He rubbed his own bald head and finished his walk to Irene's room. He knocked on the door frame before stepping in. "Did you have to bald them?"

"The lesson has to stick," Irene answered, looking down her ghostly nose at him and crossing her arms over her chest. All over the floor at her ghostly feet were piles of tangled hair mixed together. "It worked when I did it to you."

"Yes," Moseby said ruefully, he rubbed his hand more vigorously over his scalp, "You scared me so thoroughly that I still can't grow a full head of hair thirty years later."

"Hmm," Irene hummed, pleased with herself, "And no one entered my room for all those years until those twins came along. Now they'll leave things be again."

Moseby chuckled, "I wouldn't count on that with those two."

[THE END?]

Irene sniffed, "Well, at least it'll keep the rest away. The girl and the red-head won't forget that haircut in a hurry."

[Or is this THE END?]

Moseby sighed again, "I'm sorry my guard was so inadequate. I think putting a deadbolt on your door should help, though. It would probably be more effective than setting Skippy out here anyway."

Irene nodded and sighed herself, "I hope so. I won't be able to do anything that physical again for months. I'll be defenseless. I don't want to lose any more of my belongings Marion. They're all I have left to remember me by."

Moseby looked around the room filled with the memorabilia of Irene's tragically brief life, her portrait hanging tilted on the wall and her case of figurines missing key pieces, and nodded. "Perhaps a live-in guard?" he mused, "Grace, maybe."

"I like Grace," Irene agreed, "She's quiet. And dislikes people intruding on her almost as much as I do. I've seen her terrorize people often enough, she'd probably enjoy the job...as much as she enjoys anything, anyway."

"It's settled, then," Moseby said. "I am sorry this keeps happening, Irene."

Irene sighed sadly, "I just want my things left alone. The people I don't mind, but my things are mine alone."

"You know," Moseby said delicately, "None of this would matter if you would move on..."

She hung her head, "You know I can't do that, Marion. If I could I'd have been gone years ago. But I haven't gotten the closure my soul needs."

"He died over fifteen years ago, Irene." Moseby said gently, "Is that not enough?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?" she replied miserably, wishing she still had tear ducts to help her relieve the pressure of her feelings. "Please go."

And he went.

[Or maybe this is THE END?]

The next morning, to Marion and Irene's chagrin, there was a newspaper article all about the incident complete with pictures of the four bald children on the front page.

It prompted a surge of interest in the Tipton ghost. And while it raised tourism in the area and provided a new attraction for ghost hunters it also brought unwelcome speculation down on the Tipton brand wondering why a ghost would be inhabiting a Tipton property and what potentially unsavory acts had taken place in the hotel.

Thankfully Moseby had been thoughtful enough to install Grace in Irene's suite as soon as he'd returned to the lobby the night before, so the paparazzi and journalists who tried to gain entrance into her rooms were met with a scowling Grace wielding a broom like a sword and were chased away before they could get inside.

Eventually the interest died as no new stories were presented or collected.

One good thing had come out of that incident, though, aside from scaring away children and vandals from the Tipton for years to come. Irene had found a friend in Grace. And the reverse was true as well as the usually prickly maid found the company of the ghost less trying than that of living people, despite the initial unease of interacting with a spirit irrefutably beyond death.

Years passed and Grace continued to live contently in Irene's suite. The two alternating between periods of peace and terrorizing children with a rash of forced haircuts when they dared ignore the local warnings.

When Grace died suddenly Irene summoned Moseby, now manager of an entire chain of Tipton hotels, to her rooms.

He knocked softly on the door before stepping lightly into the room. The years had been kind to him, he looked no older than he had at sixty though he was now pushing eighty and he moved with all the grace he'd possessed as a much younger man. "Irene," he greeted softly, "what can I do for you?"

She looked wistfully at her old friend, "I'm going, Marion."

"Going?" Moseby's brow furrowed, "I thought you couldn't leave the grounds-"

"Not the grounds, Marion," Irene smiled indulgently, "Going. Moving on."

His eyebrows shot up and he made a soft sound, "Oh. But, what about needing closure?"

Irene shook her head. She drifted close to Moseby and raised a ghostly hand to cup his cheek, "I guess I just needed someone to show me the way."

Moseby drew a sharp breath and looked around for another spirit, "Grace?"

She smiled and nodded, "You won't see her. She's waiting for me."

"I'll miss you," and as he said the words he knew they were more true than he could have expected. Irene had been with him for his entire career with the Tipton, she'd been a huge influence on his personality...and his hair style. He felt his eyes well with tears and one spilled hot down his cheek.

"Don't," Irene told him, "We'll meet again. But not for a long while."

He released the breath he hadn't been aware of holding and nodded, "Well then. Farewell, my friend."

She smiled more beautifully than he'd ever seen as she drifted away from him and began to glow brightly. "Goodbye, Marion," she whispered.

And then she was gone.

He watched the curtains flutter in a breeze that didn't exist and knew Irene and Grace were saying one more goodbye. When the curtains fell still he knew he was alone. He stood for a long moment in a room that was suddenly more empty than it had ever been.

Moseby straightened his back and dabbed his eyes with the handkerchief he always carried. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him and allowing his hand to rest briefly against the wood. He tucked his handkerchief away, joined his hands in a loose clasp behind his back, and walked slowly down the hall.

Perhaps he'd turn that room into a mini-museum. One that told the story of the Tipton ghost and her living friend, their time together, and perhaps most importantly the end of their story...Irene certainly wouldn't object now.

[THE END for real]

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