Ian Hunter hated travelling away for work. He would rather put a twelve-hour shift in the office, than be sent to a random place with people he didn’t know. Every eighteen months or so, these things would crop up, and he would be told by management that he had to attend this training course, or that seminar, and always in a different part of the country.

This time, the two day course on logistics and hazardous regulations, was in Chester, about an hour’s drive from Ian’s native Salford. His manager, a man with a pony-tail haircut, and who still carried a Filofax as though it was 1987, had not only insisted that Ian attend the course, but that he stay over in a hotel. Ian had initially tried to wrangle out of attending, and when that had seemed futile, he had tried to get out of the overnight stay.

‘I really don’t need to stay over. Chester isn’t that far.’ Ian had said.

‘Ian, you’re staying over. I’m not having you arriving late, because of traffic, and there’s road-works everywhere, these days.’

‘I will set off early, give myself plenty of time.’

‘I will not hear another word about it. I will sort the hotel out.’ His manager had said, his tone implying that was the end of the matter.

And so, after work one evening, Ian tossed his suit, and overnight things, in the back of his car, and set off for Chester. He would be staying two nights in the Duke of Richmond hotel, on the outskirts of the city. As he left industrial Salford, and headed out into leafy Cheshire, Ian wondered what the hotel would be like. Knowing his manager, and the penny-pinching company, he would be staying an absolute dive of a place. Not holding out much hope to the hotel, Ian set off on the comparatively short journey to Chester.

Just over an hour later, Ian turned off the main road, and pulled onto the gravel of the sweeping hotel driveway. He had been expecting a real dump of a place, but the Duke of Richmond hotel was a grand, old-fashioned, red-brick building, in the middle of freshly-mowed lawns. Ian had to admit, he was impressed. The places work usual sent him were poky little rooms, in dingy tower blocks in the roughest parts of town. He pulled up beside a gleaming Rolls Royce and climbed out of the car.

He stood there for a long moment, just gazing up at the glorious building. This place looked amazing. It was the kinds of building that the National Trust took over and opened to the public. He could also imagine the place being a popular wedding venue.

Suspecting he had punched in the wrong post-code in his car sat-nav, Ian went through the creaking wooden doors. The large hallway reminded him of those detective films set in the 1920s and 1930s. He could just see a moustachioed detective gathering all the suspects together in the drawing room of a house like this. Up ahead on the left was a dark wooden counter bearing the sign Reception. Ian went up to the woman behind the counter. She wore a crisp white shirt and a waistcoat and smiled at him as he approached.

‘Is this the Duke of Richmond?’ Ian asked.

‘It certainly is. Welcome.’

Ian gave his name and explained that his office should have made a reservation for two nights. The receptionist produced a large book and flicked through the pages. Ian had expected her to check on a computer, rather than the antiquated book. Mind you, a computer and its paraphernalia hardly went with the aesthetic. He sensed that the hotel would not have Wi-Fi or satellite television in the rooms. It looked like a glorious old place, maybe no internet or mod-cons was the price you paid for the old-fashioned charm.

He would be staying in room 477, on the fourth floor. Ian took the room-key, an actual key not an electronic card, and headed in the direction of the lift. The lift was, in keeping with the rest of the building, wonderfully old-fashioned. He dragged his bag and his suit, packed in its carrier, into the lift. The doors to the lift were metal gates that had to be pulled shut by hand. Ian felt like he had gone back in time.

The lift shook and shuddered its way up to the fourth floor, before jarring to a stop. Ian yanked the metal gates back and stepped out into a long corridor. The walls were dark wood, and the carpet was a deep purple colour. The décor was old-fashioned, in keeping with the reception area, but having travelled up in the creepy lift, the place had more of a sinister feel to it. He had felt like he was on the set of a 1920s quaint murder mystery, but right now, it was more like a 1970s horror film.

Room 477 was classic and old-fashioned. There was no wall-mounted television, rather, a wooden framed radio on a cabinet. The bed, while not four poster, looked like something Queen Victoria may have slept in.

Ian headed back down to reception. He needed a drink and something to eat, not that he could go too crazy, as he’d have to be up early for the meetings. When he asked if there was a restaurant in the hotel, she receptionist shook her head.

‘I’m afraid not. We do serve breakfast in the dining room, over there, but apart from that we do not serve food, unfortunately. There is a gastro pub over the road, the Black Swan, that I can highly recommend. They serve food until 10pm, I believe.’

While he munched on his burger and chips, and sipped his pint of lager, in the Black Swan, his mind went to the training course he would be attending. He hated all this. These days the job was getting more and more corporate, more pointless meetings, conferences and courses that taught him things he either already knew, or didn’t need to know. Having finished his meal, he downed the last of his latest pint, and returned to the hotel. It might have been the few beers he’d had with his food, but the hotel didn’t seem quite as foreboding as he returned. He bid the receptionist good evening as he went by and rode the rickety lift back up to the fourth floor.

As he was fumbling with his key in the lock, a guy came out of the room next door. He was in his early twenties and had dark, scraggly hair that reached his shoulders. He wore ripped blue jeans and a black t-shirt emblazoned with a rock band logo. He shrugged into his leather jacket and locked the door behind him.

‘Alright, mate?’ Ian said.

‘Hey, man. Is this your first night here?’

‘Yes, I’m here tonight and tomorrow, with work.’

‘Cool. Did you know this place is haunted?’ the guy said.

Ian shivered, this was the last thing he wanted to hear. When Ian did not reply, the man continued.

‘This place is haunted, I’m telling you. I’ve been hearing and seeing such strange things. I was down at breakfast this morning, and I saw a Roman centurion. I was making a cup of tea, and this dude in armour walked right by me.’

‘Really?’ Ian said.

‘I swear. This Roman feller marched right past me. I could see through him. It’s like he was there and not there all at the same time.’

Ian wished he wasn’t there altogether, and wondered how much the guy had been drinking, or maybe it was what he was smoking that was causing him to see things.

‘I’ll keep an eye out. Goodnight, mate.’ Ian said.

‘Have a good night.’ The guy called out, as he sauntered away down the corridor.

Ian assumed he was off into town, headed to some rock music joint.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Ian was disturbed by noises from the corridor outside. It was usual, these days, when he stayed in hotels, to hear late-night revellers coming back to their rooms at all hours. There would be the laughing and talking and screaming and shouting and then the shushing as they told each other to be quiet, while still talking at the top of their voices. But, right now, the noise coming from outside his room, didn’t sound like some drunken group, heading for their beds, it sounded different. He tossed the bedsheets back, and crossed the room. He stood at his bedroom door and listened to the sounds coming from the other side.

It sounded like footsteps, not just the sound of someone walking by, it sounded like marching, like hundreds of soldiers, an army, marching right by his room. The clomping of marching steps, and the jangle of armour. A shiver went through him. It sounded like a Roman legion was marching down the corridor. The noise grew louder and louder, as the soldiers thundered by his room. The heavy stomping went right through him, ringing in his ears. The words of his neighbour in the hotel came flooding back. He had seen a Roman soldier, walking through the dining room. Ian had doubted him, but with the noise coming from outside, he suspected he was right.

The noise was like thunder, echoing around the hotel. Ian reached a hand for the door handle. He had to see this for himself. He wanted to see the legion of ghost soldiers stomping down the hotel corridor. Maybe the hotel had been built on the site of an old Roman fort or something. The city of Chester did have a history steeped in the Roman Empire. Even the name, Chester, came from the Latin meaning an encampment.

Ian carefully took hold of the door handle, slowly opening the door slightly, and peering out into the corridor. What he saw really shocked him. The corridor was empty. Empty and silent. The marching noise had stopped. In the glow of wall-mounted lamps, he could see nothing but the purple carpet and wooden panel walls. There was nothing, no ghost soldiers, no marching troops. All he could hear was his own breathing. He shook his head, closing the door. This was so strange.

He returned to bed and tried to calm down. He lay under the sheets, in the darkness, trying to make sense of what had happened. His mind must have been playing tricks on him. The guy next door had told him about the ghost, he’d apparently seen, and then Ian had heard the noise. It had really sounded like marching troops, but, in actuality, it was probably the floorboards or pipes, in the old house. Yes, that must have been it. Had the lad not mentioned the Roman soldier, then Ian wouldn’t have assumed the noise was soldiers. Yes, his mind had projected that. A small voice at the back of his mind still insisted that the sound really did sound like the marching of soldiers, and not rusty pipes or ancient floorboards, but, Ian repeated it was nothing, and closed his eyes even tighter and tried to sleep.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, as he was at the point between waking and sleeping, there was another noise, this time from inside the room. There was someone in the room with him. He sat up, staring in horror. A figure in deep red Roman armour walked across the room, straight by, as though Ian wasn’t there. The figure was transparent. Ian could see the wooden unit and his suitcase through the apparition. The ghost soldier marched across the room in a straight line as though he was on some parade ground. Ian stared in shock and disbelief. He watched as the figure reached the other side of the room, and walked straight through the wall and vanished.

Ian swore to himself, running his trembling hands through his hair. Was this actually happening? Surely not. He didn’t believe in ghosts and the supernatural. When the young lad next door had told him about the hauntings, he had assumed he was either lying or drunk. But now Ian had seen it with his own eyes. He had actually seen the figure, just as the lad had described.

Was this really going on? Maybe, it was because he was half-asleep. Could the fact that he had been drifting off to sleep, and going over things in his mind, have caused him to hallucinate? That certainly seemed more plausible than the other option. The other explanation would be that he was staying a haunted hotel, where there were as many ghosts as guests. No, that just couldn’t be the case. He had been drifting off to sleep when he’d seen the vision. He must have dreamed it.

By the following morning, as he was dressing in his shirt and tie, Ian had convinced himself that the apparition he had seen was nothing more than a dream. That’s all it could have been, he told himself.

The hotel dining room was a large open space, with windows along one side. Morning sunlight spilled over the white table-cloths. There were a few people sitting at the tables but the room was mostly empty. Ian plonked himself down at an empty table.

He was just wondering if there was a self-service breakfast counter somewhere, or if there was waiter service, when a tired looking man in his twenties approached him. He was wearing white shirt and carried a small notepad.

‘Good morning, would you like to order breakfast, sir?’

Ian ordered a full English breakfast. He figured he deserved the fried breakfast, not only after the strange events of the evening, but also because of the course he would be sitting though for the next three days. The waiter nodded and headed off to the kitchens. Ian was mulling over what the training course would entail, when somebody took the seat facing him. It was the guy from the room next door. He had on the same t-shirt from the night before. Had he made it to bed yet or come straight for breakfast on the way home? He sipped from a mug of coffee.

‘Morning, mate. Did you have a good night?’ Ian asked.

‘Yeah, man. It was wild. Remind me not to get on the single-malt whiskey after a skin-full of beer.’

Ian laughed.

‘Did you have a good one?’ The guy asked.

Ian simply shrugged in reply. The guy leaned forward, suddenly very interested.

‘You’ve seen something, haven’t you? The haunting.’

At that moment the waiter returned with Ian’s breakfast. He gave Ian a look he couldn’t quite read. When he’d gone, the guy spoke.

‘See that? They don’t like us talking about the ghosts. They think it’s bad for business. Anyway, what exactly did you see?’

As Ian tucked into his breakfast, he explained about the marching sounds coming from the corridor, and the soldier he’d seen. He added that the sound could have just been old building noises, and that the vision could have been down to him being half-asleep. The young man still was not convinced.

‘I’m telling you, this place is haunted.’

Ian checked the time. It was later than he thought. He wolfed down the last of his fried breakfast, and downed his cup of tea. He told the guy it was time he was getting off.

‘What’s your name, by the way?’ Ian asked.

‘Keith.’ The guy said.

‘I’m Ian.’

‘See you later, Ian. Have a good day, mate.’

By the time Ian arrived back at the hotel that evening, the strange goings-on at the hotel were not on his mind at all. His head was mashed with the training course. He climbed out of his car and tugged his tie loose a couple of inches. That was the first day over with. Halfway there. He had one more night’s stay in the hotel then the course and then he could get back to normal. Back to the usual office, his own bed, flaking out on his own sofa at night. Yes, halfway there.

Keith was leaning on the wall, smoking a cigarette by the front door. Standing there, smoking, in his leather jacket and jeans, he looked like the cover of a rock album. Maybe, Ian thought, that was the exact look he was going for. He waved as Ian approached.

‘Hello, neighbour.’ Keith grinned. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Yeah, not bad. Been a long day though, mate.’

‘Are you all set for another night in the haunted mansion?’ Keith asked.

‘Please, don’t. All that really weirds me out.’

Keith just laughed, as Ian headed into the hotel and made for his room.

As he walked down the corridor, he heard footsteps right behind him. A shiver went through him. Not daring to look back, he walked more quickly. The steps behind him continued. Ian’s heart was pounding. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of this. He stopped and turned round to face his pursuer. He would have screamed but the sound wouldn’t leave his throat. Standing right in front of him was a ghostly Roman soldier. The soldier’s face was a skull, hollow and pale, it was just inches away from him. Ian turned and raced to his room. With trembling fingers, he managed to unlock his bedroom door. He threw himself across the threshold, and slammed the door shut behind him. He locked the door, not that it would keep a ghostly intruder out, but it still made him feel slightly better.

He perched on the edge of the bed, unable to get the image of the skull out of his mind. At least this would be his last night. He would refuse to stay anywhere like this again, regardless of the pressure from management. He would check in advance of staying anywhere. He undressed, tossing his clothes on the floor and wriggled under the bedsheets. Leaving the bedside lamp glowing, he lay down and tried to sleep.

He awoke to a strange noise. He sat up in bed, heart pounding, and listened. The clock on the bedside cabinet said it was quarter to three in the morning. He listened for the noise. It wasn’t marching, or the rattling of armour that had woke him. He laughed in relief. It was music, rock music, the screeching of electric guitar, coming from Keith’s room. He couldn’t remember the name of the song but it was a classic rock track. He crossed and placed his head flat against the wall, so he could hear even better. The music was definitely coming from Keith’s room. He could hear the young man singing along with the high-pitched vocals. Any other night, Ian would have complained about the music coming from the room next door, tonight, he was just relieved that the sound was nothing more sinister than his noisy neighbour. And, besides, Keith was a nice lad. If Ian had knocked on to complain about the noise, Keith would have probably invited him in for a whiskey.

Still full of relief that there was no more surprises, Ian made himself comfortable and eventually drifted off to sleep.

He woke before the alarm and dressed quickly. He didn’t bother showering or shaving, and simply crammed his belongings in his case. He just wanted to get away from here. He didn’t want any breakfast. He would check-out and head to the last day of his course, and leave this hotel, and the strange episode behind him.

He handed over his key at reception and gave his room number. Room 477. The young woman behind the desk smiled at him and asked how his stay was.

‘Did you know the hotel is haunted? I’ve seen some really strange things over the past two nights.’ Ian said.

‘I really don’t think that is possible, sir. Whatever you think you may have seen, there must be some logical explanation. I can assure you that the hotel is not haunted.’

‘It’s not just me that has seen things. The guy in the room next to me, he’s seen weird things too. Just ask him, he will tell you.’

‘The next room?’ The receptionist asked.

‘Yes, there’s a young lad, a rock music fan, staying in the room next to me. He was playing his music late last night, but I am not complaining about that. Compared to everything else that’s going on, the guy next door playing music is nothing.’

She ran a finger along the line of the reservations book.

‘The room next to you is empty, sir. In fact, you were the only person staying on the fourth floor.’

Quite unsure what to make of all this, he simply gathered his luggage and headed for his car. As he crammed his case in the book, his mind was racing. How was it possible that he had been staying on the floor on his own? He quickly jumped in his car and started the engine. As he headed down the drive, he glanced in the rear-view mirror. He gasped as he saw the supernatural figure, the hotel brick-work visible through his being. Standing by the hotel door, was the ghostly figure of a young man in a black leather jacket.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom