It was a frosty winter night in port Adelaide, the snow sprinkling down from the sky onto the fresh pavement. I shivered and wrapped my long cloak around me just a fraction tighter, before entering the slightly medieval building just off the corner.

Of course, it had had many renovations prior to becoming an open, public lodge; but you just couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling that far too many had been there before your time. The air was dull and stiff, like someone had squeezed it flat beforehand.

I swung the door open, hearing the sharp creak and thud behind me as it shut. I couldn’t help but repress a shudder at the sudden noise, echoing in the vast waiting room. Swinging on a new office chair was the receptionist, her little name plaque gleaming a golden ‘Elizabeth D. Jameson.’

“Hullo little redcap, life treating you alright?” She gave me a quick flash of her creamy yellow teeth. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but undoubtedly nicer than that of the other receptionist here. Dingy little hotels attracted dingy little people, I noted.

“Alright.” I confirmed, hanging my coat on the rack, despite the ‘customers only’ sign that could have only been placed by our manager, Mr. Crouch. I ignored the red cap comment- a porter was still a better job than a garbage collector. Despite my father’s efforts, this was the best job a high school dropout could find. “Yourself?”

“Okay, though I’ve been having to do a lot of overtime lately. I still got to save up to break Jimmy out, but have enough money to keep myself going, y’know.” She said wearily, releasing a sigh. Jimmy was Elizabeth’s little brother, sent to prison for ongoing charges or something. I didn’t dare ask her, as it wasn’t a real public topic.

I hummed in agreement, taking my seat next to the hat-rack. “Got any new ghost stories for me?” Ghost stories were one of Elizabeth’s favourite ambitions, after tattoos. She could dissolve into a good plot, like I could dissolve into a tub of strawberry fondue.

Her face screwed into that of puzzlement, looking at the thick white clouds through the glass-stained window to the right of the front door. “It’s a little early, don’t cha’ think?”

I shrugged, shifting in my seat marginally. “I suppose you’ll just have to tell a longer story than usual, then.”

“I don’t really have that many long stories…” She mumbled, twirling around her seat.

“You have to have some long story or another somewhere.” I hassled. My gaze shifted to a fierce looking red-back spider tattoo on Elizabeth’s right forearm. “I thought you said you didn’t like spiders, Eliza, so what’s the story about that there, hmm?”

If anything got on Elizabeth’s goat it was being called Eliza. She usually dismissed my nickname as teenage rebellions, but I could hastily refer that a young woman in her twenties would only be slightly older than myself. Besides, Eliza couldn’t possibly be worse than ‘redcap’.

“Fine.” She sounded irritated, but smiled nonetheless. “You see it all started back in my high-school days. That silly bat Johnson was teasing me about my short hair again, so me and Jimmy decided to play a little prank in return…”

Elizabeth got that dreamy look on her face that came along with her tales. She fell into the void of story telling and I went with her. By the time she’d finished, it was nearing midnight, the only breaks in to attend to the stray customer. Despite that, it barely felt like a minute had passed since.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence. “Any other stories, you want to tell me, Eliza? How about why you and everyone else in this world hate nicknames?”

Her smile seemed uneasy and forced. “I’m not a god, remember that, Edgar. If I could answer the questions of the world for you I might just do that.”

“How about why you hate being called Eliza, then?” I pressed earnestly. “You don’t exactly seem to mind calling your brother Jimmy…”

“Well I don’t ever want to get his name confused with Johnson’s again. He was a fair trifle mad when I did that last time.” She let the sentence hanging in mid air. I could imagine- Elizabeth’s brother wasn’t exactly the nice sort sometimes.

With a frown, I realised that Elizabeth had avoided my question. She did that sometimes. “Come on, Eliza, answer. Why do you hate it? Would you prefer me to call you Ellie?”

I got an arrogant snort in response. She was saved from a proper answer by a grubby looking woman walking up to the desk- though she reminded me of a toad more than anything else. Her eyes had bags that drooped down her face, and she was probably twice times older than I thought.

“Hello.” Said Elizabeth, giving that sickly forced smile. “How may I help you, miss?”

Toad-woman gruffly answered, “Ms, actually. Not that you’d care- young whippersnappers. I need a room, two nights.” The toad dropped her bag on my foot, a common way of saying ‘take it buster’. I complied hastily, and Elizabeth took her money muttering something about room thirteen and handing me they key.

I mentally grimaced- Elizabeth must really hate this lady if she gave her the haunted room. Elizabeth had stories of vampires and spirits seeking vengeance haunting the tiny living space. Being the gullible fool, I believed her. Her stories were just so hard not to believe.

I unlocked the door, putting down her baggage at the foot of the room, and rushing back down the corridor, and almost tripping down the stairs. Truthfully I had faced much fiercer guests, but the old toad’s ragged breathing down my neck was spooky.

Elizabeth spun her seat around and smirked at me. “Scared, Edgar? Tiny little redcap frightened of the mean old lady?”

“You didn’t seem to be to happy to see her yourself, Eliza. She must’ve really made you mad to have the accursed room, and I’ve seen far worse first impressions made towards you than that.” I made a dramatic pause, before adding; “perhaps you know her from someplace, maybe you could enlighten me- possibly…?”

She shook her head sadly as I took my seat. “For someone only here for a month you sure know me well. The other staff think so to0. Mr Crouch reckons you’re a brilliant actor, though he won’t admit it himself. Too much pride, that man.”

I sighed, loudly. “You’re avoiding my question again, Eliza.”

“See?” She babbled, arranging her red hair nervously, “you read people like an open book. Twice as scary as any ghost story ever known, thank you very much.”

“So you admit in avoiding the question?” I asked, “why not just say you don’t want to tell me?”

It was her turn to sigh, gazing out the window at the cloudy night sky. “Some people have tact, Edgar. But I’ll tell you the story anyway, okay?”

I nodded, eagerly. Elizabeth rarely gave in for anything, but when she did it was always good.

“It was a cold winter, many moons ago. Much like this one- freezing and a blizzard every other day. There was a girl, Gabriella Delven working in a hotel- this very hotel, in fact. She was polite, but extremely curious- the worst type of gossip.” Elizabeth said.

“So, Gaby was a bit like me, you think?” I wondered.

She glared at me, for interrupting. “No. Gabriella would ask before interrupting.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes, daring her to continue the topic. She went on with the story, anyway. “But nobody called Gabriella Gaby or Gabriel or anything really, unlike her sister.”

“She had a sister?” I inquired.

“Yes, Gabriella had a little sister, Eliza or Elizabeth. ”

“No way.” I breathed, “you’re Gabriella’s sister?”

I met that frosty glare again, followed by a hollow laugh. “Do I look a thousand years old to you? This was way back in the late seventeen hundreds, when this Hotel just opened. Anyway, Gabriella was just in her early twenties the prime of her life. Eliza was her little sister a few years younger, just about the exact opposite of Gabriella. Where Gabriella was polite and formal, Eliza was rowdy and playful.”

“Bit like you, eh?” I asked.

She ignored my question, “Eliza got married at about seventeen. That’s what people did back then- bonkers if you ask me. And jealous old Gabriella tried everything to get Eliza’s spouse.”

“Everything?” I inquired.

“Everything.” Elizabeth confirmed. “Then one day he just went out and said it.”

“Said what?” I asked.

Her voice dropped to a low whisper, and she glanced around the room, as if suspecting Gabriella to jump from the shadows and attack. “He told her he hated her.”

“Bet she didn’t like that, did she?” I asked with a laugh.

Elizabeth frowned, and sighed, leaning back into her chair. “Look, just forget it, okay? I didn’t expect you to understand, Edgar. Just forget I ever mentioned it. I can tell you the story about the old cellar in the candy shop down the road, if you want.”

“I wasn’t trying to be offensive.” I said. Elizabeth just scowled. “C’mon, just continue, please?”

“Okay, well Gabriella got really mad and she just- she just… Murdered him.” Stuttered Elizabeth.

“Really?” I asked.

“Truly- I’d sware it on his gravestone.” She replied. “But he didn’t have a gravestone.”

“Why not?” I asked. Even commoners got graves- the cemetery the next town over was full of them.

“She hid the evidence.” Elizabeth growled. “She had a too bigger reputation, you see. But Elizabeth found the body in their attic. And then it was pretty obvious he hadn’t drowned in the creek.”

I grimaced, not daring to ask how Elizabeth’s husband died. After a few moments of silence, I asked; “So what did Elizabeth do?”

“She returned the favour, after figuring out who did it. But she didn’t know that Gabriella had poisoned that night’s steak.” There was a slight melodramatic pause before Elizabeth perceeded, “so then Elizabeth died.”

“And that’s the end?” I asked quietly, “I mean what does it have to do with you and your brother?”

“We’re ancestors. I mean, Jimmy and I. To her,” She said quickly. A little too quickly, I realised.

“But if Gabriella was infatuated with Elizabeth’s husband than surely she wouldn’t have a child with somebody else.” I said.

She muttered something incoercible, and stood up. “You were always too smart for your own good, kid. You want the truth? You were right originally. Well partly- I’m Elizabeth’s ghost. That was Gabriella, or what was left of her.”

“Wh-what?” I spluttered, grabbing my seat so I didn’t fall off it. What was this, Harry Potter? Although, for some reason I couldn’t place, everything seemed to fit. I regained my composure and asked shakily, “But you’re not invisible or anything! And your last name is Jameson, not Delven. Besides, you’re not a hundred years old or anything.”

“There are potions one can take to cure invisibility and regain youth, however rare and illegal they may be. Elizabeth changed her last name when she got married. Delven is her maiden name.” Elizabeth said.

“If these potions are so good then why doesn’t Gabriela look young and normal like you?” I asked suspiciously.

Elizabeth laughed sourly. “Just because the potions are brewable doesn’t mean they’re easy. Gabriella was always to busy with gossip to be any good at herbal lore.”

“Then why do you refer to yourself in third person?” I said.

“I am Elizabeth’s soul and spirit, not her entire being. I retain her memories and skills but that’s where the list stops.”

“What about Jimmy?” I asked.

Elizabeth looked as if she wanted to cry. “He’s her son. He died awhile ago and has been using the prison as a resting place ever since.”

“But- but your husband.”

“Mr. Crouch, who changed his name.” Elizabeth replied, “he got a job here and put a good word in for me.”

“So Gabriella lost her old job?” I said softy.

“Yes.” Elizabeth replied glumly. “She was fired. She had your old job.”

My watch beeped, signalising the end of my nightshift, a time to go back home. I had no idea what to believe; did Gabriella really kill Elizabeth’s husband or did Elizabeth lie? Gabriella seemed mean but she didn’t look like the sort to do anything of that sort. Perhaps the whole thing was just another of Elizabeth’s ghost stories.

I left the hotel without a word of goodbye. The next morning I signed my resignation contract. Once again was I a measly garbage collector. Many years later I returned to the Hotel, asking for a place to stay for the night. A bright looking woman took my bag happily when Elizabeth handed me my keys, looking not a day older.

On the porter’s little nametag was ‘Gabriella M. Delven.’ She and Elizabeth were great friends, somehow. I had a nice friendly chat over nothing with Gabriella. She seemed to like me; yet she had given me one room number seventeen. I sighed, fluffing my bed’s pillow.

Perhaps there was more to Elizabeth’s story than I originally thought…