Ghosts

Brandon Figliolino

February 12, 2018

Ghosts

Guests of the hotel have made assertions

That the souls of those who have departed this earth

Wander the wide hallways

Dance gracefully in the ballroom

And wail into the night whilst banging the old radiators and knocking

Portraits off the walls in rage.

Cool, I guess.

During my stay

I wanted to meet the ghosts

Chit chat about politics and the current state of affairs in the hotel bar.

But none came.

Not the girl who tears apart plush teddy bears

Leaving shreds of fluffy entrails outside in the gardens

Not the former President, who would use the kitchen sink to drain the blood of his kills

After a successful hunt in the woods

Not even the woman who had a history of watching sleeping men

Cared to join me for libations.

Rude!

The hotel was the perfect place for ghosts

Ramshackle, degraded, a ruinous form of its former self.

Peeling wallpaper

Creaky wooden floors

Mismatched door hardware

The former villa mockingly “done-up” with cheap vinyl tiles

Fluorescent lights

And lots and lots of plaster.

Who would appreciate ornate woodwork anyways?

The shell of its former self

Adorned with

Lumpy sofas

Scratchy linens

And end tables with the names of former lovers carved into their tops

Warped from spilt wine and cheap liquor.

The former President could not accept my invitation.

Why lock yourself into such a dour space when the woods are calling?

The little girl was not of age to drink

And probably would not have been good for conversation anyways.

As for the woman who would hover over men as they sleep,

She is just waiting for the man to wake up and perform much-needed repairs to her home.

She might as well have a drink while she waits.

But think of the greatness

We could achieve

If the living and dead

Worked together!

Bringing majesty and grace back

To the forsaken place.

That would be a sight to see!

I’d toast to that.