Candle

And it seems to me you lived your life/ Like a candle in the wind. -“Candle in the Wind” Elton John and Bernie Taupin

The trunk rattled like the gasps of life from a dying man. Apparently, the driver Avion Fosterton hadn’t paid attention to his suitcases, and failed to secure them inside the vehicle. They knocked against each other down the road in the back of the car. The nighttime had finally found the city in the beginning of October. Fosterton had packed his car and traveled to Wilmington, Delaware from Sussex County to write about the city’s Carhartt Hotel, which was alleged to be haunted. Fosterton, an atheist, knew better. He knew ghosts only belonged in stories.

As he pulled up to the site and slowed the car, the rattling from the trunk slowed as well, and then ceased.

He called for the bellboy, and left a five dollar tip for the young man to retrieve his luggage and bring it up to his room.

At the desk, an alert and bubbly young woman named Rella watched Fosterton enter.

“Welcome to The Carhartt, sir. Will you be staying long?”

“Three days.”

“Let’s look you up. May I see some identification, please?”

Fosterton reached for his wallet. He found it and produced his driver’s license.

“You know I didn’t recognize your face but I know your name. You’re the guy who does those hotel reviews for Knowtel.com.”

“I can’t deny it.”

“You’ve said each hotel that you’ve visited was never haunted, and you’ve never been spooked.”

“Yes.”

“Well the Carhartt is known for its ghosts. I see them all the time.”

“Right.” He shot a glance at another young woman receptionist. Her name tag read Stephana.

Rella returned Fosterton’s credit card.

“Okay. You’re all checked-in. Do enjoy your stay, and watch out for those ghouls.”

“Right.”

He followed the bellhop to the elevator.

Lavender paisley adorned the walls, while the black baseboards and doors provided strong contrast.

“You’re going to love it here, sir. You’re going to love the room. You've got a suite. You’re going to love it here.” The bellhop said.

“Thanks.”

They exited the elevator and arrived at his room: 302.

“You’ve got to be joking, right?”

“No. Room 302 is our main suite. It was named after—”

“The area code for the whole state.”

“Yes, sir. It represents all of Delaware.”

The bellhop smiled at the door. Fosterton gave him another five dollars.

“Thank you, sir. Enjoy your stay!”

Fosterton entered the room. He saw the large bed with the turn down service of fresh mints and a neatly folded towel atop the pillows. A card read: “Welcome to the Carhartt, Mr. Fosterton. Feel free to take in our amenities, and do enjoy your stay.”

Fosterton smiled and nodded in agreement. He surveyed the space, and took in the charm. The walnut doors and brushed steel fixtures combined to create a clean, sleek appearance. He unzipped the case to his laptop, and propped it on the desk a few feet from the bed. He opened his word processor. He tried to write, but he ended up surfing the Web using the hotel’s WiFi. He wasted about half an hour visiting sites, then straightened and began to write.

“The Carhartt offers many bits of hospitality and service. I think—”

Then suddenly, the power failed. All was dark save for one candle in the window. It flickered, but using electricity. He approached it with the light from his mobile phone. No batteries, the candle must’ve been wired to the generator. He wondered why the generator didn’t power the other fixtures. Fosterton moved slowly toward the candle where he could faintly hear a song emitting from it. He recognized the song as “Candle in the Wind,” but it was barely audible. And it was ironic that it was not in the wind. He started to back away from the candle, and shone the cell phone light near the door. He opened it and found two figures: one with a Marilyn Monroe mask and the other with a Princess Diana facial covering. He jumped.

“What the hell is going on?” He asked the two figures. They quickly scampered away.

“Jesus,” Fosterton said. With the aid of his light, he walked down the hallway to check on the other guests, but there were none.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He found the stairwell, dimly lit by emergency lights. After descending to the lobby, he emerged near the front desk, but there was no one there. At that moment, the song grew louder. Elton John’s voice seemed even more melancholic. Fosterton had a twinge of sadness for the two beautiful women who’d inspired the song alterations, but who’d also met such ugly, mysterious ends. The guitar strings and piano chords hurt his soul. In the pitch black, save for his cellular device, he kept the light trained on the main desk. His heart-rate quickened and his mind slowed. He used his reason to get through the lobby, then stepped outside to see all the cars except his sitting in the lot.

“Leaving already?” The Marilyn mask asked.

“You wouldn’t want to leave without all your belongings would you?” The Diana face queried. Their accents seemed to be of high quality.

Fosterton just said, “Keep them.”

He started his car and drove off into the night. In his mind, his reason told him what had happened. He made no excuses or rationalizations. He concluded he’d been run off by sadistic figures who wanted to spook him by using their otherwise accommodating hotel. The generator must’ve only powered the candle in his room. He knew the issue lied with his understanding that the staff and the other guests at the hotel created the confusion.

The two masked women, who had machines attached to their faces to change their voices, dropped their masks to the floor. The lights in the hotel illuminated once more, and the cars pulled back into the parking lot.

“Let’s just see what kind of review he will write for the Carhartt.”

“Yes. We made it our business to scare the hell out of him, that’s for sure.”

*****

About two weeks later, Fosterton received his luggage intact, including his laptop. He had not yet written a review of The Carhartt Hotel, but would make an attempt to now.

When he opened his laptop, he found a note attached: “We hope your legend never burns out, sir….”