Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 62

               The hotel is old, but not musty, and the stairs creak under the footfalls of other guests, but with charm, not age. I dare myself to stay the night here if I’m still in Rome when I get tired. Part of me wants to experience the night in charming opulence, but a ruling side of me fears waking up next to a naked old person when I’d presumed their late coming home meant the room was vacant.

                I consider ducking my head through each door to see who’s inside, but I find I’m far too polite. I stand in front of a walnut door and simply can’t bring myself to risk catching someone in a compromising position.

                I step back on the thick pile carpet and try another tact. I close my eyes, like always and reach out. If the man meant the matchbook as a message, then he’ll have made himself easy for me to find.

                The prickle spreads through my fingers like always and I’m surprised as I find nothing of a ghostly nature in the hotel. It’s silently serene. The absence of something I expect to find sends a shiver up my spine. I half expect the moleskin man to jump out at me at any second.

                I’m just about to turn away and give up on my latest peculiar experience when I notice something. Just an echo: a whisper on the air.

                I concentrate and try to trace the resonance. Because that’s what it is - a resonance. With the memory of the pub music still fresh, I see the spirit world a little clearer. I look at my own hand, and see the bright pulsing presence of my own continuing life, like my very being is coursing with determination.

                There, in my peripheral vision, a blur, a vibration.

                I turn my head and it’s gone, like it’s an echo of light that moves away, just as I had imagined when I first saw this place.

                I screw up my eyes and clench my fists. There is something there, living in the walls of this hotel.

                The image appears so slowly that I have to convince myself that I’m seeing anything at all.

                On the wall to my right, a handprint comes into focus, like an old photograph in a dark room.

                I raise my hand, feeling unsettled in a very real sense, moving with my eyes closed. I encounter resistance, like my hand and the print are the opposite poles of a magnet. Yet I feel compelled. Driven to touch the mark.

                Pushing with all my might, I pass through the resistance, as though I’m moving through invisible jelly. With a jerk, I’m through and my hand meets the image on the wall.

                The scream that splits the air takes the air from my lungs. An image, blinding as an eclipse bursts to my left. A man appears, but he’s not a man, eyes black holes, mouth disproportionate, locked in a terrible, never ending shriek.