The Timekeeper’s Call

I worked the night audit at the Meridian Grand, a once-grand hotel that had fallen into disrepair. The lobby’s chandelier was a web of dead bulbs, and the red velvet curtains were furred with dust. The hotel was said to be haunted by the ghost of a former maid, Elsbeth, who had died in the 1920s after falling down the service elevator shaft. Her son, a boy named Thomas, was supposed to have perished with her, but his ghost was never seen. I thought nothing of it; I had worked there for three years without incident.

On the night of July 24, 2008, the clock in the lobby read 6:00 PM. My coworker, Lila, and I were in the staff break room, washing the coffee cups that the day shift had left in a sticky pile. Lila had a new digital watch, sleek and black. I was fiddling with it, pressing the mode button to cycle through time zones, when I heard my name, or rather, the first syllable of it, spoken softly from the doorway. ‘Mar…’ It was unmistakably Lila’s voice, but when I turned, the doorway was empty. Lila was still at the sink, her back to me.

I froze, my heart thumping. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked. Lila turned, her face puzzled. ‘Hear what?’ she said. I told her, and she laughed nervously. ‘It was probably the pipes,’ she said, but her eyes darted to the doorway. We tried to leave, but the door wouldn’t budge. Not stuck, but as if something was holding it shut. We pushed, and then it swung open on its own, the handle cold to the touch.

We rushed back to the front desk, where our other coworker, Delia, was reading a magazine. Delia listened to our story, her face growing pale. She told us that the hotel’s elevator bank often had a draft that sounded like a woman’s voice, but then she admitted that she had seen Elsbeth’s white uniform in the basement storage room the previous week. Another coworker, Marcus, came in for his shift and shared his own experience: while checking the sixth floor, he had heard a boy’s laughter, but when he opened the door to the stairwell, he saw only a red rubber ball bouncing down the steps. We all exchanged uneasy looks.

The night wore on, and strange things began to happen. The front desk’s old phone would ring, but when I answered, there was only static, then a child’s whisper, ‘Help me.’ The clock in the lobby started running backwards, its hands spinning counterclockwise. I tried to reset it, but the mechanism was jammed. At 2:00 AM, I went to the basement to check the boiler, a routine task, but the hallway lights flickered and died. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I spun around, but there was no one. I saw the reflection of a woman in the dusty glass of a fire extinguisher case, but when I turned, it was empty.

I ran back to the lobby, and found Lila and Delia huddled near the front desk, their faces white. Delia pointed at the service elevator. The doors were open, but the elevator car was not there. A cold draft came from the shaft, and we could hear a faint crying from below, like a woman sobbing, and a boy’s voice saying, ‘Come play.’ I looked at my watch, which had stopped at 2:16 AM. Then, as if responding to my gaze, the hands began to move again, but they were counting down, not forward.

We decided to wait until dawn, huddled together in the manager’s office, the door locked. The strange sounds continued: footsteps above us, laughter echoing from the ballroom, and a voice that called my name again, ‘Mar…’ But I knew that Lila was right beside me. I realized then that the voice had been calling me not from the doorway, but from the mirror in the break room, where my reflection had momentarily turned its head before I did. I don’t know what would have happened if I had answered, but I never worked the night audit at the Meridian Grand again. The hotel was demolished the following year, but sometimes, when I pass by the empty lot, I still hear a child call out, ‘Mar… Mar…’ and I run without looking back.