FROM THE WINDOW OF her second story hotel room, Lara could see her dinged-up 1979 maroon Thunderbird in the parking lot. Even in the twilight, she could make out the faded sticker on the bumper: Today is the first day of the rest of your life. She’d inherited the ancient T-Bird from an old and childless hippy aunt on her mother’s side. The sticker stayed as she thought it was hilariously naive.

Lara turned away from the window, tossed her bags on the hotel bed, and flopped down beside them. She’d spent eight hours on the road and was exhausted, planning to unpack what she needed for tonight and leave the rest for tomorrow morning.

She mentally prodded herself to get up and get going. As she leaned over the bed to unzip her bag, someone smacked her bottom through her jeans. Not a flirty pat, but hard, like a rough spanking. Lara gasped and spun around, placing her hand on her backside. Tears welled in her eyes. Who did that?

Had she briefly dozed off while stretched out on the bed and dreamed it? No, she reminded herself, she was about to unpack when this happened.

She was fully awake.

Lara went into the room’s small bathroom to splash cold water on her face, then looked at herself in the mirror. Her mascara was smeared into the burgeoning crow’s feet around her eyes. Not a good look, but who would see her tonight? Worse, she noticed for the first time the dreadful marionette lines on either side of her mouth. Ugh. She hated getting old. Good thing she had an appointment to see Dr. Barney in a couple of days. She’d snagged the appointment thanks to Bernard pulling some strings. He’d promised Lara the doc would fix her up, no matter the cost.

Before she had time to turn away from the sink, Lara caught a glimpse of a man-shaped, shadowy—something—in the mirror, directly behind her.

Smack! Just as hard as the first time, someone swatted her butt again.

Lara looked around, but no one was there, just like before. A chill raced up her bare arms, her neck, and ended on top of her scalp. She went back to the bed and sat down. From the depths of her purse, she found her hairbrush. Fretting over the situation, she ran the brush through her dry, frizzy hair. Lara knew the roots needed a touch-up, and her hair needed a hot-oil treatment. She’d find a salon after her consultation with Dr. Barney.

Carelessly, she tossed the hairbrush onto the bed and unzipped her suitcase, then pawed through her clothes until she found the nightie she was looking for at the bottom. Not the sexy, sheer lacy one—that one she’d save for her night-time liaison with her lover Bernard, who was married but oh-so-unhappy with his wife. She grinned at the thought of Bernard, the skin around her eyes crinkling like wadded tin foil.

Lara kicked off her shoes, pulled off her shirt, and shrugged out of her jeans. Her undies dropped into the pile of clothes at her feet. Sliding the nightie over her head, she crawled into bed. Exhaustion got the better of her, and she was too tired to brush her teeth..

She pulled the sheet and cover over her body and rolled over on one side. The quiet tranquility of sleep was almost hers when—whoosh!—someone jerked the sheet and cover off and roughly flipped her onto her stomach. She tried to raise herself up, but whatever had flipped her over was holding her down.

Dear God! She panicked. Am I about to be raped?

Whack, whack, whack! The flat side of her hairbrush came down again and again on her bottom.

She was finally released and heard a man’s low chuckle close to her ear. Lara scrambled out of bed and ran to the door. A man stood before her, holding the door closed with one hand. A portly, black-eyed man with short, slicked-back gray hair. He wore a fitted vest over a white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, and the pants were pleated and cuffed. An unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. With his free hand, he stroked his pencil-thin mustache. Reminded her of Errol Flynn

“I’ve visited the memories of your assignations with this man, this Bernard,” he said as he fingered the knot of his silk ascot. “My God! It was like watching a deliciously decadent stag film!”

He continued. “Why, dear girl, it appears to me...” The man paused to lace his fingers together; he then stretched his arms out before him, cracking his knuckles. “...that you like it rough!”

He laughed as Lara flung the door open. She could still hear his laughter as she charged down the staircase to the front desk. She pounded the call bell next to the sign-in book.

The night clerk shuffled out of the back room behind the counter. The woman yawned and rubbed sleep from her eyes. The name on her brass tag read, Ruth. Ruth looked at the clock on the wall behind the desk. It was one o’clock in the morning. She squinted at Lara. “Can I help you?”

“There was someone in my room! He attacked me! He...he…”

Ruth sighed. Lara was on the verge of tears. “He spanked you, right?”

“Yes! Several times...he….he...”

Ruth opened the day’s ledger and ran her finger down the list of rooms until she came to Lara’s.

“Okay, it looks like you were given room eighty-three. That’s Spanky’s room.” Ruth yawned again, covering her mouth with long, bony fingers. Lara noticed the night clerk’s red polish was chipped.

“Who the hell is Spanky, and how did he get in my room? He hit me! That’s assault! I’ll sue!”

“Calm down, girlfriend. Like I said, you’re in Spanky's room. He didn’t ‘get in’ there. He’s always there. Has been since the mid-nineteen-thirties, when an irate husband shot him in the throat.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s a ghost, dear. He always spanks the women he finds alone in his room. It’s his thing.”

“A ghost? He left a mark!”

“Did he, though?”

Lara snaked her hand around and up the nightie to feel her backside. It wasn’t tender anymore. She glanced back. No red marks. Curious.

“I want another room. Now!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t flip your wig.” Ruth eyed Lara’s wild, frazzled hair. She reached under the desk and pulled out a room key chained to a small brass square with a number stamped on it. She held it out to Lara, who snatched it with a scowl and stomped off.

“You’re now in room eighty-five, sweet-cheeks, a couple of doors down,” Ruth called after her. “You’re welcome. And good luck.”

***

Lara threw her bags on the new bed. As the one bag had been unzipped already, its contents spilled out across the floor as it flew toward the bed. She kicked the clothes out of her way and crashed onto the mattress.

What a story this night would make. Switching off the light on the bedside table, she closed her eyes, imagining the tale she’d relate to Bernard—making the encounter with Spanky sound much more erotic than it actually was. He’d like that. After the stress of driving all day and dealing with that pervy ghost, Lara began to doze.

“You could at least pick up your clothes, you crass slattern!”

Her eyes flew open.. It was a woman’s voice. She looked around the dark room. Must’ve been a dream… She dozed off again

“I said, pick up your clothes!”

Lara sat up and clicked on the lamp on the bedside table. Again, the room was empty. She struggled out of bed and picked up her clothes from the floor, dumping them in the room’s Art Deco armchair. More awake now, Lara pulled her sexy nightie from the pile and held it up. She admired the pattern of red roses on the sheer black background, the lacy straps, and knew Bernard would want to—

Slap!

She dropped the nightie. Instinctively, her hand went to her burning cheek.

A voice whispered, “How dare you sleep with another woman’s husband!”

Lara slung her head around, scanning the room. There was no one there but her.

Another stinging slap, this one to her other cheek, brought tears to her eyes.

“Years we invested in each other, the trials and troubles we went through—”

Smack! Lara’s head twisted violently to the side.

“—the bond we shared. And you, you harlot, you think you will sever those ties?”

Lara put both hands on her cheeks, shielding them from further slaps. She slid out of bed and made her way to the door. A thin, strong hand grabbed her arm and turned her around. The spectral shadow of a thin woman raised her hand, palm open, and slapped Laura so hard she spun around. The shadow gained form. A frail, pale older woman with tight auburn curls stood before Lara. The woman threw her head back and sniffed the air.

“I can smell him all around you—that man, that… Bernard.” The woman tilted her head from left to right and back again, like a nervous bird. “His wife at home… Helen… she cries herself to sleep every night over their broken marriage. And you—”

The ghost woman reached into the pocket of her gingham house dress. “You cold-hearted mongrel, you know...” She withdrew a man’s folded straight razor from her pocket.

“And you don’t care.” The woman opened the razor.

Nearly blind with tears, Lara fumbled with the door, getting it open at last, and ran down the hall and the stairs, only stopping when she reached the front desk. With her fist, she banged the counter, then rang the bell, again and again, until Ruth returned from her den.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Ruth grabbed Lara’s hand in midair to stop her incessant bell-ringing. “What now?”

“There’s a crazy woman in my room—an angry woman—she—”

“Let me guess: She slapped you.” Ruth scratched the back of her head and yawned.

“Yes! Several times!” Lara raised her hand to her cheek and found there was no tenderness, no heat. Her cheek felt like it always did.

“Yes, well—when I gave you your key, and you stormed off with it. I didn’t have the chance to mention that you’d be sharing a room with Slappy.”

“Sharing a room? No, I’m not about to share a room with anyone!”

“Slappy’s no longer an ‘anyone,’ honey. She’s a ghost. She viciously attacked her husband’s mistress in the room where they held their weekly trysts—your room, number eighty-five—before ending her own life with one sure stroke of her husband’s straight razor.”

“So this Slappy thinks I steal husbands?”

Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you? Aren’t you in the habit of sleeping with another woman’s man?”

“What? How dare you ask me such a rude question!”

“Why did you check in here, Lara? Why this particular hotel? Did you know this place was a famous ‘no-tell hotel’ back in its heyday? All sorts of bad things went down in these rooms. Why are you here?”

Lara almost replied, I didn’t pick this hotel, Bernard did, and I’m here because he’s paying for it. Instead, she said, “It’s none of your business why I’m here!”

Ruth shrugged and began walking back to her den. Lara glanced at the clock above the counter. Two thirty a.m. She was too weary to pack up and leave, to find another hotel or motel.

“Please, please, please just put me in another room—something far, far away from Spanky and Slappy. Something ghost-free. Can you at least do that?”

Ruth stopped. Over her shoulder, she said, “There’s a room at the east end of the hallway—all the way at the end. Number one-eleven. It’s open. It has no lock, so no need for a key. You’re welcome to it.”

After she’d disappeared into the darkness of her den, Ruth called out. “No charge for that room.”

Lara turned from the counter and tromped back up the staircase. When she was out of earshot, Ruth added, “If you can make it through the night, that is.”

***

When she flicked on the light switch of room one-eleven. This place was larger than her previous two rooms. The antique furniture wasn’t crammed together, and Lara felt she could at last spread her arms without banging into a dresser or chair. This room was luxurious. It was what she deserved.

She piled her luggage and loose clothes together on the floor in a corner by the bed, pulled the chain on the bedside lamp. It cast a cool pool of light across her pillow. She pulled down the bedspread. The sheets were white and crisp, unlike the busy floral of the worn linens stretched out on the first two beds.

She knew she looked awful, but was too weary to wash up. She promised herself to scrub extra hard in the morning, to clean away the night’s old makeup and stress. And if her makeup soiled the pillowcase, Bernard could pay for the extra laundering. Any price would be worth it for a good night’s sleep.

She walked over to the door, not worried about it having no lock. She hadn’t seen or heard anyone else in this little hotel—besides those two freaky ghosts, and weird old Ruth behind the check-in counter. She slapped off the main light switch and climbed into the huge bed.

Lara took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and was asleep before she knew it.

“Well, well, well. Who did Ruth send me this time?”

Lara opened her eyes. She groaned. Not another ghost! How was she supposed to get a good night’s sleep in this haunted dump? She tightly squeezed her eyes closed.

“Go away, you stupid ghost! I don’t have time for you! I have to get up early in the morning and—” Lara opened her eyes to look at the clock on the bedside table. There was no clock.

She sat up. The door to her room was open; light spilled in from the hallway. At the foot of her bed was the silhouette of a hulking figure. A man. She could smell his stale sweat. A laugh exploded from him, a laugh that devolved into a growl. He raised his right hand. It held a butcher knife.

Lara was tired of these overly dramatic ghosts. “And what do they call you? Stabby?” She laughed without a trace of mirth.

The man crawled onto the bed and over Lara, pinning her down. “They call me Jody.”

“That’s a stupid name for a ghost.”

Jody placed his meaty hand over her mouth, pressing her head into the pillow. Lara realized he was certainly more solid than the other ghosts she’d encountered. Heavier, too. Jody reached over and pulled the chain of the bedside lamp. The light revealed his sweaty bald pate, heavily scarred face, and foggy, blind left eye.

“That’s because I’m not a ghost.” Lara began to panic in earnest. With his hand over her mouth, she couldn’t scream—she could only moan. And she thrashed and moaned until Jody raised his gleaming knife, putting an end to her protestations.

As Lara’s life ebbed away, Jody ransacked the drawer of the nightstand until he found the hotel’s complimentary sewing kit. He patiently threaded a needle with black thread and commenced stitching Lara’s mouth shut.

***

The next day, mid-morning, Ruth made her way upstairs to tidy up and change the sheets in rooms eight-three and eighty-five. That was easy enough, as the rooms had not been inhabited for too long. Ruth grimaced as she thought about what waited for her in room one-eleven.

She pushed her laundry cart to the end of the hallway. The door to room one-eleven was wide open, as she knew it would be.

From the doorway, she could see Lara laid out on the bed. Ruth approached her, placing the tips of her fingers on Lara’s wrist. “Room temperature already,” she said aloud to herself. “Jody didn’t waste any time.”

Ruth proceeded to roll Lara up in the soiled sheets. Grabbing the tail end of the sheet, she pulled the body from the bed. Lara’s head hit the carpeted floor with a dull thunk. Ruth returned to the cart for her bucket of cleaning supplies, choosing to use old towels to absorb what blood she could; what remained was watered down with bleach, until only a large pinkish stain was left.

After it dried, Ruth decided she’d ask Jody to flip the mattress for her. He was very good when it came to helping out. As she gathered up her cleaning supplies, a shadow in the darkest corner of the room wavered and gelled. Its movement caught Ruth’s eye.

“There you are! I wondered when you’d show up.”

The shadowy figure solidified into the form of a youngish, wild-haired woman who was wearing a nightie with several large holes cut into it. Ruth could see stab wounds through each hole. The woman held out her hands and moaned, unable to speak as her mouth was sewn shut. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Hmph,” Ruth said as she walked toward the room’s door. “I guess we’ll call you Moaner from now on, since you can’t talk. All you can do is moan.” She stepped over the threshold, then stepped over Lara’s sheet-wrapped body to put her cleaning supplies back in the cart. She’d ask Jody for help disposing of the body. He was awfully clever when it came to axes and shovels.

Ruth returned to the open door of one-eleven and grabbed the knob. She stuck her head in the room. “Hey!” She called out to Lara’s ghost. “Guess what? Today is the first day of the rest of your afterlife!”

She shut the door.

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