The static of an old record painted the silence of 31st and Blair Way, an artifact of the Golden Haven’s glamorous past. Mr. Gremmel was playing a recording made in the old ballroom on the night of Gloria Magnolia’s death.
“Oh he was just a country boy, dreamin’ of somethin’ new; and then he was a city boy, oh how the weekdays flew! She caught him in a park bench, said ‘why don’t you walk with me?’; and oh sure oh sure oh sure, oh how their love grew!”
“And then they moved into a suite, for a while they were content!” Mr. Gremmel’s husky voice broke out in song, above the blaring alto saxophone. “But six months later, they realized how much they’d spent! She got a knife stuck inside her back, oh that was a pity; and oh sure oh sure oh sure, he could not pay the rent!”
The trumpets gave a few last stabs, and the record settled into whirring on the gramophone.
With his typical wand of rosewood, Mr. Gremmel slashed through the air, cueing some light jazz from the slowing vinyl. He lounged back in his armchair — it was one of those nostalgic days, when he looked a little too long at the old 1940s advertisement art, the newspaper clippings, and the old cutlery and wine decanters. He remembered their diamond shine as he first arrived on scene to investigate Miss Magnolia’s murder. His illusions preserved some of the Golden Haven’s glamorous art deco beginnings, but even he could not magically conceal the crumbling foundations and faulty pipes.
Just before he sank too far into memory, a knock sounded on his door — harsh and biting. An image of knifelike teeth, shadowy hair, and burgundy pupils entered his mind. He knew exactly who it was.
“Enter if you will,” Mr. Gremmel yawned. The door parted, and through its rift emerged a slender yet imperious woman, accompanied by a glass of uncannily red wine in her hands.
“Greetings, Lavinia. What pleasure do I owe your visit?”
“The tenants’ meeting,” she sighed, not entering the room as was her custom. Like most of the folk here, they had succumbed to the mob boss Top Hat — now a resident of room 604 — and his satanic transformations. These rituals had tanked the hotel’s reputation, and given them their newlives as … well, peculiarities. It had been unpleasant at first, but ultimately Mr. Gremmel had to thank the man for unintentionally bequeathing him illusion magic, and now they were on good terms.
Mr. Gremmel and Lavinia Chanticleer were some of the earliest tenants of the Golden Haven Hotel, and thus held some importance. They were the only people in confidence with Mrs. Ptarmigan about the location of the Cornerstone — the locus for the ghosts. Mrs. Ptarmigan was a ghost specialist of sorts and always made sure to look after their well-being in undeath. Mr. Gremmel was not one to abandon his community either, and for this reason, he was quite concerned by the frown on Lavinia’s face, and what it might mean.
“Tenant meeting?” Mr. Gremmel stood up, his bones cracking under his own weight. He drew out a potion from the nearby bookshelf and swallowed his usual strengthening elixir. “We haven’t had one of those in decades. What could the old hag possibly want from us?”
“She says it is important.” Lavinia did not move a single eyelid on her gray-hued face.
“Aye,” Mr. Gremmel sighed, and together, they made their way to the old ballroom.
Most of the Golden Haven residents were already assembled — including Top Hat, Mrs. Ptarmigan and Eddie the statue. The Persian carpet had not been maintained in years, and was almost entirely faded; and though the fairy-lights (his own illusion) kept the chandelier alive, he could not help but feel wistful for the warmer incandescent bulbs of the 1920s.
The tenants — his friends — all filed into their seats along a massive cherrywood table, presided upon by their landlady, Martha Grimsdock. She was the only normal human left in the building — although he had heard rumors of a certain Zander Colt who lived in room 112 with a whole bunch of expensive, state-of-the-art speakers.
In any case, it seemed like Zander had not got the memo about the tenant meeting either. It was, after all, very badly publicized.
“Good afternoon, Lavinia Chanticleer and Bennet Gremmel. You are five minutes late.” The old hag groaned as they took their seats together. “Now we can get down to it. I am old, and I’ve owned this building ever since the property value tanked when the mob took over. Thanks for devaluing the neighborhood, Top Hat, but I hoped the value would climb again at some point.”
Top Hat dipped his top hat in thanks.
“There is a time when one must sell, regardless of the value,” she continued. “There is a Mr. Tebot, who has great plans for this block. I’ve sold the building to him. I am finally retiring to South Carolina. The Golden Haven will be torn down.”
“WHAT?” hollered the general crowd. Mr. Gremmel was petrified. How could she do this, when she knew what kinds of creatures her tenants were? He was unsure if he would be approved to rent anywhere else in the city — not to mention all the fitth-floor ghosts. Mr. Gremmel and Lavinia looked at each other significantly. A meeting with Mrs. Ptarmigan would be necessary.
“You could try to buy it back, I suppose,” Martha shrugged nonchalantly; “otherwise, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“When will we need to move out?” Lavinia asked dryly.
“Eh, a month? I’m not that discourteous.”
“And there is nothing we can do?” Mr. Gremmel rasped.
“Mr. Gremmel, if I had a nickel for every time you thought you could do something when there was absolutely no chance of it, I would have three and a half nickels, which doesn’t make sense, but at least I know the joke. This building has been heading toward the wrecking ball for decades.
Meeting adjourned!”
As the tenants spiraled into their hushed conversation, confronting the question of their eviction and — in the case of the ghosts — their permanent banishment, Lavinia led Mr. Gremmel over to the old bar, from which they procured a bottle of Chardonnay.
“Blast the hag,” Lavinia swore. “I could bite her head off for this!”
“Alas, she has already sold,” Mr. Gremmel mourned, drinking in the sights of the Golden
Haven as if it was his first night here all over again. “I wonder if there is anything we can do about it.”
Just as he said the words, an eruption of electro-pop music shook the hanging wine glasses.
Behind the back wall of the bar was room 112, residence of the human DJ with the expensive sound system.
Mr. Gremmel sighed. “You’d think a kid who can afford $10,000 speakers would pay the premium for a new apartment out by Walmart.”
Lavinia bit her finger, eyes suddenly sparkling like carbonated champagne. “You know, Mr. Gremmel, I have just got an idea.”
“What is that?”
“Want to help convince that kid to buy a building?”