Room 1617

“If walls could talk…” The voice was soft, but excited.

I yawned. I was too stiff to give myself a proper stretch at that point. I opened my eyes and looked down at the guest. The guest wore a three-piece grey, tweed-like suit. The guest had side parted, short hair and a thin moustache above the upper lip. I stopped learning their names after Lady Fletcher. I merely refer to them all as ‘the guest’.

The guests never stayed long. Some did their best to ignore me and avoid looking for too long. Some engaged in conversations, as if with themselves, but out of politeness, I always answered.

Some were deliciously entertaining. But most were unnerved by my presence.

This new guest pulled out a device from their pocket. It glowed as it lit up, and then they began speaking into it.

“I’m here, it’s 18:43, the sun is due to set in 11 minutes. The room is as expected for one unoccupied or entered for over fifty years…”

Fifty years?! Has it truly been that long since my last guest.

“Today’s date, is the fourth of March. Hotel Drury shut its doors thirty-two years ago… There were always roomers about room 1617, also known as Queen Anne’s suite.

“The window…” The guest walked towards my window. They tried, with no success, to open it. I recalled the day the hotel manager nailed my window shut, the day after Lady Fletcher.

“The window is jammed shut. But I have a clear view of the Cockpit Theatre across the street. The room itself... I can see the majesty it once had, long ago…”

Long ago? Oh how frightfully shameful of me! My skirting boards were dusty. My delicate floral wall-paper was peeling in the corners, and the whites were yellowed from the sun. Everything looked ashen and unkept.

The guest then put their device down and sat. They began unpacking a small bag. I assumed my guest would not stay more than one night. Two at a push, given the small size of their bag.

Each device the guest unpacked was small and lit up and whirled. They had a notebook and what appeared to be the latest version of a camera set on top of a tripod. I knew what a camera was. I had been photographed many times in my day.

The guest pulled out a small lamp, which required no gas or wire to plug into my electrics—for the best as I could not feel my electrics buzzing for a long time now.

Finally, the guest pulled out a black leather book. The guest held onto it with reverence and gently placed it on my desk that they sat at. They opened it and the pages flaunted and flaked as they spilled open.

The guest lit their small lamp, as the sun fully set and my chamber darkened.

I repositioned myself in order to see the book better. I wished I had stretched. My bones creaked and my walls groaned as I positioned myself better to read the guest’s book. To my astonishment it was filled with clippings from newspaper articles. They were all about it me!

“He-hello…?” The guest’s voice trembled. They looked cautiously at me and reached for one of the small devices.

With a flick, it turned something one. It lit up and released a continuous tone. This seemed to excite my guest.

They worked briefly on the camera, and then they grabbed their device that they dictated into earlier and began speaking into it, once more.

“Is there someone there?! Spirit, are you trying to communicate with me? Knock once for yes, and twice for no.”

The guest wanted to speak…with me?

I knocked once.

“Oh gosh. Um, Spirit, did you die in this room?”

I knocked twice.

The guest’s face puzzled at my response.

“Spirit, did you die in this hotel?”

I knocked twice.

“Spirit… di-did you die?”

I knocked twice.

“I can’t believe this.” The guest chuckled. “I have had communication. The Spirit does not believe they have died. I may try the ouija board... I think it's still in my bag... The Spirit is knocking on the walls, let’s see if we can get some words.”

The ouija board came out of their bag. I thought they had emptied it all, but this had been hiding at the bottom.

“Spirit, d-do you think you could communicate through this board?”

I knocked once.

The guest was delighted and jittery. They placed their fingers on the small oculus piece, on top of the board.

“Spirit, can you tell me your name?”

I slid the piece their fingers laid upon. I slid it, and it slid and it slid. I stopped it.

“No…” The guest read my response. Their voice was almost quizzical, but mostly disappointed.

“Spirit, do you know who you are?”

I slid the piece. I slid it. I stopped it.

“Yes.” The guest was visibly more intrigued by me, with every response that I gave.

“Spirit, why can’t you tell me who you are?”

I slid the piece. I slid it some more. I slid it all over my answer. Then, I stopped.

“I -- A-M -- N-O-T -- A -- S-P-I-R-I-T… If you are not a spirit, what are you?”

I thought for a moment how best to answer this.

“I -- A-M -- T-H-E -- R-O-O-M… I don’t understand. You're the room?”

I knocked once.

This no longer excited the guest. Their smile slid down off their face and they looked visibly shook by me. They jumped from their seat and looked around at me.

“You are the room.” Their was concern in their voice.

I knocked once, but from another wall. They spun on their heels to look at me, and from where I made the noise.

“Somethings not right…” the guest whispered to themselves.

They hurried over to my door. They were trying to leave me.

How dare they try to leave me like this? They loved me, I could tell from their book with clippings about me. I would not be left alone for fifty years again!

I slammed the door shut.

“This room isn’t haunted by ghosts,” The guest spoke in a panicked manner into their device. “This room is the haunting. What have I done…”

The guest threw their device into their pocket and frantically jiggled at my door. But they couldn’t leave me, not yet. It was too soon and they were too frantic, what if they got hurt when running away?

I threw them over, onto the bed.

Perhaps a goodnight's sleep would help my guest calm down. I sat on their chest and held them down. But they resisted me. They began having a toddler-like tantrum.

The guest screamed. It was a blood curdling scream, if I had blood that is.

But I must have been weaker than I realised. The guest pushed me off of them.

Then the guest did the unthinkable. They broke my window and tried to jump out of it, just like Lady Fletcher all those decades ago. She jumped out after I had had a conversation with her. The police photographed me that time. I had fewer guests after that.

I couldn’t let this guest make the same mistake.

I pulled the guest in. I held them tight against my walls. Oh, it felt wonderful to have contact again.

“Shhh…” I whispered into their ear. “Shhh, I’ll keep you safe.”