June 8, 2024 0

Haunted Restaurant: Part 2 (“I haunt” Series)

in Viviana Ioan Books

This tale recounts a ghost hunting night in a restaurant. A photo spree on old streets among once glorious properties ended with a lush supper. The venue—a fin de siècle palazzo revamped high-end restaurant.

As Laura and Amanda wander in the restaurant’s corridors, strange things scare their phone viewfinders. Guests, staff. And … a mirror.

. . .

End of Part 1

“Mandy. Let’s turn around. The creepy gran clock shows twelve. What if they close and lock us inside? Aw. I wouldn’t spend the night here.”

“That clock’s dead. My actual iPhone says twenty past. Then, do you think they leave the premises without mopping? And washing up?”

“They? Ugh. At … near twelve, this word gains horrific dimensions. In my novel—”

“Darxination? Forget it. We’re not in your novel. Calm down, Estera.”

“Estera was you. I depicted myself in Carola.”

“Whatever. But—Laura. You forgot our mission. Tonight, we hunt for spookiness, right? The absolute kind. That’s how we started our adventure. Your second edition needs spooky pictures … for real.”

“You’re right. I’ll sacrifice my guts’ peace … for art.”

. . .

Restaurant chagrin room

A door creaked. When we turned around, an elderly gentleman exited and fleeted off—swish. Past the Art Deco Cozy Hall, and into the dark opposite end. We retraced our steps to inspect that door’s whispers and flavor.

Mandy glued her ear’s cartilaginous helix to … the air sheet that guarded the panel. Ha. Its metaphysical stand-in. “Giggling,” she said. “Oh. A girl’s.”

Intrigued, I too got near the door’s intimacy barrier. “Yeah. And whimpering. You hear? Ooh, an eerie combination. In Darxination, a boy’s, or girl’s, mixed with chagrin. A late reveal. God, Mandy, I’m spoiling your reading.”

“Laura. Shut up!”

“OK. No more … untwisting.”

“I meant, come on! Don’t tell me a scene in your novel hides in here.”

“It’s indecent to open this door, anyway. So we’ll never find out.”

“OK. Let me see—”

“Mandy. No!”

“—what title to choose. For this hotel chapter. Venetian, something. How about … Masquerade?”

“Come, Mandy. Let’s continue our raid.”

“Hey, Hollywood Lows Cliché. Does that sound OK?”

A hushed-heeled soubrette

I grasped Mandy’s hand. And, despite her interested vibes, I dragged her away.

Once we reached the head of the stairway, our clamped lips blasted. In a chortling cloud, we descended, caring a hoot about restless moppers and dishwashers. Or guests hiding in locked fancy rooms.

Or … figure that. Corpulent magnates smoking cigars atop roofs. Naked. Under night stars and unstained sleek glass.

“Girl. Lower your sound,” Mandy said. “We’ll scare the unclean spirit out of everyone here.”

“But where’s everyone, Mandy? Have you seen the staff?”

“Ha ha. They are tucking kitchen utensils into soft drawers. Some mopping, right? Others scraping dirt off pans, pots, silverware. And whimsical crockery.”

“The staff’s looks and demeanor are weird. Their uniforms, too stylish. Footwear too polished. Mandy, you noticed?”

“My husband noticed,” she answered. “A curvy black dress hugging a waitress here last summer. To make up, he bought me a red strapless in the same hug.”

“Start writing yourself, Mandy. With your humor and gist, you’ll conquer … the Internet.”

“Oh-la-la, I bet.” Then she pointed ahead. “But here flits a hushed-heeled soubrette.”

I looked. A young woman was gliding across. “Ooh,” I said. “Black attire. Ghostly, how else?”

For a sinister shot, I raised my android. On the spot.

The slim figure thrust a mushy, murky-painted pout at us. Hm, lips pretty fleshy for a ghost’s condition. And her pupils, ugh, spitted glints. Devilish.

One touch, and the android cheeped. But the hostess’ eyes snapped a still, too. Yikes. Of my guilty thrill.

I froze. And the mop lady, or dishwasher, melted. Away from my viewfinder.

A beyond-restaurant invitation

“You got lost, ladies?” A voice from behind. My heart startled. Our feet glued to the floor marble.

Next, we heard more. “If you didn’t know, in twenty minutes we close. For guests. So, I’ll show you … to our welcoming entryway.”

A young male voice. Then the owner himself. He had pussyfooted around the statuary couple we formed. To meet our stares.

Black suit, smoky shirt, splinter necktie. A prong of hell’s fork. Then, oh, pointed shoes. Lacquered. And anthracite hair sleeked backwards on top. As for … his smile? Sweet, lean, wry.

Amanda smiled back. “Thank you, sir. But we’d like to linger on the premises for a while. To admire this … absolute opulence.”

“Indeed. We deal in … choses absolues—excuse my French; a professional touch. In opulent services, too. No slim doubt.”

“I’m from across seas, you know? And quit town tomorrow.” Then Mandy glanced at the ceiling. At the tomb-like skylight, perhaps. “Oh, such refined taste. And artistic drive for a hospitality project.”

“Thank you for your far-fetched incantation. Of course, fetched from afar, I mean. But—allow me to ask. From which destination?”

“Oh. Cosmopolitan. Been many luxurious places. Throughout the globe. But nothing like this enchanted my voyager’s telescope. Please, will you grant us … a half hour?”

“If you leave port in 24, a half hour means a world more. So, granted. Not upstairs, though, where staff’s busy. Unrolling après-dining routines. Shall I call a night hostess to guide your steps? For … celerity.”

“No, thanks.” Mandy pointed to me. “My friend is a local fan of the restaurant and finds the trickiest corners blind. She’s a novelist.”

“Oh. Enchanté, mesdames. Then I suggest visiting our gallery. A private collection of refined artifacts. Of the earth’s quaintest.”

His pupils, glossy, drove right through my ecstasy. They played hell with me.

“There she will draw inspiration. Antique,” he added. Then his black pupils drained their luster.

I ogled the hospitality virtuoso. His now matt mien. Meanwhile, yuck! My nostrils drew in moldy drafts.

“Inspiration and gallery?” I said. “Aw, not in the crude sense, I gather. But in their most refined—and your … urbane penchant.”

His rigid torso half bowed before me. “Of course, madam. Yet, I admit. Inspiration, twofold. Since the building has a built-in system of ventilation.”

Cosmopolitan exchange

Here a smirk, there a titter. Mine and Amanda’s. Because, Lord, Mr. Mystery’s lips stayed stiff and bitter. In intermissions.

Now they split. “Still arranging the exhibition, so the gallery’s quasi empty. But please! Enjoy the evocative vibes. When we open, only a close circle of outstanding guests will have unbound access.”

Amanda showed her gapped teeth’s superlative pose. “Enchantée aussi, monsieur. Je viens de Quebeque. Et la prochaine fois—next time—I’ll come with Francois. Mon opulent epou Québécois. My spouse. Oh, he adores antiques. Tenues all-black. Culinary art, too. Et … Art nouveau. Bien sûr, ooh.”

I broke Amanda’s teaser. “Thank you, sir, for the nighttime granted. It’s thinning to scanty amounts, though. So, we’d better go.”

“Un moment, excusez moi! Sir, excuse my intrusion, but did we stand the high honor of conversing with … an owner?”

Already dizzied, the guy doffed his pose. Gave signs of exhaustion. And … polite self-exclusion. “Oh, only a flat and car.” Then he swiveled to go. Hurrying a question, though. “Oh. Shall I call you … a taxi?”

“En … une demi-heure—in half an hour?” Mandy asked.

“Yeah. Midnight sharp.”

“Thank you, but no. I drive my rental, monsieur.”

Obscure camera

Mandy’s dry answer must have hit the gentleman’s professional aura. Because, girl, it puffed in a gloam. Of course, whisking his scraggy frame with it.

After this extreme stage quit, we found ourselves stranded. Oh, but at our host’s suggestion, we had a gallery to explore. Quaint, he had said, but that attribute thrilled our passion. Also, our spooky intent.

We headed, therefore, to the door he had pointed. Padded in ruby velvet, so royal. Hmm. Once we opened it, we stepped into a new realm. Dark. Quieter than shadows’ home. The restaurant’s … obscure camera. An exhibition room, ha.

Though a lengthy grande dame, it sulked. Devoid of earlier flaunted exhibits. Dark oak paneled the walls. No wonder. In rest? Mausoleums of cabinets. And, mourning on griffin claws, a writing desk.

Thick curtains blocked starlight’s faintest flicker. Emerald, yet matt. But mirrors reflected the spent effusion of light fixtures stuck on walls. Mock-vintage stuff. Argh.

“I expected statuettes, jewelry. At least signed oils,” my friend said.

“You imagine the fiendish fellow inviting us here unguided? Unless the treasure lay locked? Ha. Till the grand … incipit.”

“Thank goodness, Laura. He didn’t invoke that monkey-lipped ghost to tour us.”

“Got her shut in my phone. Aw. It leeks creeps.”

“How about you stopped freaking? We’d better outsmart the nabobs. And capture more than a ghostly mutant haunting the premises.”

“Like what? What traumatizes a smartphone more?”

Huh. In the heat of … digging, imagine Amanda heeding my question. Not a hoot. So she took the command. “Par ici, ma chérie. Look, an arched door. A wine cellar for bigwigs’ palates. Or, if luck strikes, a treasure vault. Une vraie chambre forte.”

Restaurant Stygian mirror

We descended cautious steps to the basement. What else?

Here, settees and armchairs. In a turbulent, yet mute, clutter. Silks and velvet, threadbare, slept on them. Or were dead. Even the gold thread lost luster. Through squat transoms, nighttime mourned. Hm. Haggard gloom—as though in a theater backroom.

But an ancient mirror dominated the mess. In tall splendor. Stars, somehow, sneaked in to play candlelight. By a curious magic, the glass gobbled it, and stayed smoky. Only its aura shone. Burnished gold.

“A splendid antique, Mandy. Why on earth hide it underground?”

“Don’t know, ma chérie. God, what dark glass—it averts looking.”

“Ha ha. But you stare at it.”

“Who wouldn’t? Black attracts. The creepiest whim.” Mandy swiveled to me. “Boo!”

The gold-framed, dismal beauty bewitched my gaze too. As well, our steps.

So, I got nearer. “Whoa. A Stygian mirror. Not for public display, God. Never.”

Amanda joined me before the glassy emptiness framed. “Restaurant, ha! Renovated, but hell, where? Above a realm of perdition?”

“Then, think, dear. Next to the solemn museum in town. The riverside repository of history.”

“Not next, Laura. One unit. I recall what my father said—the communists split the old mansion. They housed evolution’s paraphernalia in the main wing. Western, of course. And tucked the sweet shop in the corner that points to orient.”

“Mm-hm. The ideal spot to serve Turkish stuff. Delight, braga, baklava. Wow! An inspired arrangement.”

“Sure, to befuddle townspeople,” Amanda said.

“Right, Mandy. Wicked bastards. To distract folks’ taste for history. Huh. Dull their curiosity buds. By indulging … their innate gluttony. Well, a success recipe.”

Restaurant’s underground connection

With hunched shadows of antique props behind, we ruminated. As, what else to do in that chamber?

“Laura, dear. So let’s start from here. History and dining museums share the property.”

“Not quite,” I said. “They split deeds. Politicians took over history while tycoons—” I pointed above. “—gluttony.”

We stole mutual glances, sneers ready to lapse into tittering. God, but the black mirror faced us. It forbade futile hilarity.

So, I straightened my features. “They share the basement, though.”

“Yeah. Undergrounds communicate. They extend into vaults. Ancient, my dear.”

“Turkish, as far as I know. We learned in history, right?”

“Ma chérie. If I stand still, I sniff their breath. Earthen galleries. I bet they reach the measliest suburbs.”

“In fact, locals talk of resumed diggings. Under the museum’s occult floors. The stone pavement of rooms banned to visitors.”

“Wow! Laura, and you kept mum. About such fresh news.”

“A journalist poked his nose into the matter. A traditional one, of course. Then wrote the story in a newspaper. Local, still physical. Therefore underrated.”

“Lucky you, Laura. To keep contact with our hometown.”

“Mandy, oh. Listen here. They un-slabbed, aw, a layer of crypts. Recent, compared to history’s magnitude. And the speed of today’s existence.”

“Ma chérie. Alors, I invited you … to a historical restaurant. Soon turned historic in your writing computer. I bet.”

“I wrote about Braila’s subterranean mysteries. Guess where. In … my novel. The autographed one you carry in your tote bag.”

Mandy petted her bag. “I’ll read it.”

“Mind this. I wrote about ghost, too. Of natives and naturalized migrants. And, of course, conquerors.”

She leaned against me. “Oh, my God. A ghost city.”

“Well, not actual ghosts. Those who haunted my introspection.”

She giggled and said, “I can’t wait. To poke my fine nose in there.”

I grasped her arm. And, unaware, I gave her a scare. Because, God, shades moved in the mirror. If not, perchance, our figures.

“Laura. What’s got into you?”

My pupils dilated in my dry throat. I wowed. “Mandy. This mirror … enacts Darxination.”

At once, Amanda extended one graceful arm. “Well, meet the pith of your novel!”

Then a glint winked. God, from the glass. Furtive, elusive. To chase it, I entered its depths. I flitted beyond.

Reflections caught shapes. Chimeras snaked limbs, gaped mouths. Huge, hyperbolic. Oh, dear me. My style of writing.

Underground UFO—unidentified flickering oddity

After an odd while, my friend clasped my hand. Oh, in a sweaty pod. Then pulled. She shook my arm. Argh.

“Laura,” she said. “Stop gazing like that in the freaking mirror.”

I freed myself from her grip. “My God, Mandy. I see things. What do you see?”

“Your eyes in the darkness. Now, a flash—your phone.”

Ha. My finger had flipped automatic. Snapped a sly, mindless shot. I touched the shutter button again. My phone whined. Weaker and fainter, as though afraid.

One tiny explosion of light had exposed a shadow behind. “Mandy. Are you still beside me?”

“Still, yes. Give me your hand.”

“You haven’t moved? Are you sure?”

“Like hell. I’m stunned. Don’t have the nerve to budge.”

My blood froze. One more delicate touch will divulge … the shadow’s identity. Spooky, my guts guessed. Next, I touched.

An umbra flickered. I saw a goggle. And a grin. A hag, ugh. Blood crumbled to dust in my veins, my fingers scraggy, lungs parched.

Then, Mandy’s voice. “Ma chérie.” Oh, a breath of relief. “Yuck! Something had blackened the mirror. Laura, my nape’s stuck. A half-spin, and I drop dead.”

“Me too. I won’t touch the damn smart or it will pulverize my heart.”

“Laura, come on. You care for rhyming? In this … sepulchral environment?”

Right then, a funeral flicker piqued my visual memory. Ugh, the glass slab in the restaurant’s ceiling. “Sorry girl. My shaken senses crafted the rhyme.”

“Ha. Writers’ senses. They craft nonsense for sure. Then shake it to scare rational hearts out of us.”

“You have the guts to philosophize, huh? Criticize writers’ ghosts? Better mind the actual ghost behind us.”

“Shut up, Laura. And please, stop manipulating that shutter. You have just got the scariest shot. For your ghost novel.”

I had a sense the mirror listened. Enveloped in our freaked-out whispering, the smoky surface flailed. Then, swift, caved in. It slurped my consciousness. Dragged me into unbound depths.

Whoa! I popped into my novel. Carol waltzed barefoot in my fantasy garden while Marcus led Estera’s timid steps to the restaurant in the harbor. Oriental Glow, oh.

But a dark glow lurked in my chapters. Boys and girls shed tears in silken bedsheets. In obscure chambers hid ogres. And hags. Estera, though?

She swayed her sandaled feet from a cloud. A vaporous baldachin among stars. While I, the author, cried with Marcus’ eye.

I bled … darkness. Darxination. My novel took over.

Night or knight

A dark while passed. When I bathed, in a cinematic flow, with my characters.

Then, my friend’s voice brought me back to the plight underground. “Laura. Brace up, girl! Shall we pluck an ounce of energy? And flee?”

I pondered. “Wait,” I said. “Best, let’s fathom the current situation.”

“Got no reasoning left. To fathom … anything. God, Laura. I thought you fainted. On your feet.”

Back from that absurd slumber, I avoided further troubling Mandy with my novel. Better let her … devour it.

So, I said, “That apparition, argh. What the hell? A mirror–camera joint effect?”

“Hm. A flash clash. Between antiquity and the latest technology. It must have produced a mutant chimera.”

“How else? In our crossroads era.”

At the rhyme, we burst into crazy peals. The crystalline screams resounded gongs against the vault’s chilly walls. And frigid realia. What if we stirred the phantasm into fresh action?

God, we did. An icy breath reached our napes. Then, a reverberated reply. “And you, my night.”

We switched our stiff necks in horror. A rickety settee lay there. Bare of occupant. Desolate.

“Blah. A mere reflection in the damn mirror,” said Amanda. “Foolish girls. Hm. To let a cocky backrest of a rococo settee scare us! On top, decrepit, ha.”

“But the voice, Amanda? You heard it too. Right?”

“Through my spine’s marrow. Because we are plight–twins, Laura. I bet we experienced an identical vision and sound effect.”

“We experimented, my dear. Damn quantum physics. Well, the hazard of wobbling underground.”

Amanda touched my smart phone. “Damn right. A hands-on experiment.”

After a pondering intermission, I said, “Tell me, Mandy. You heard night, as in midnight?”

“What else? The phantasm intended we had made its night. Ha ha ha.”

Poor Mandy. She laughed for relief, of course. Those words, though, meant a world more for me.

So, I broke her fit. “You see? I heard different: a replica of Estera’s words. My knight, as in shining armor.”

“Cliché. You disappoint me, writer friend.”

“Estera plays my ingenue. Soppy is her mark in the novel. As rhyming is Marcus’ stamp. So, don’t blame me.”

“Laura. Touché.”

“For Carol, though, my other protagonist, it’s a dancing knight. As in Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights.”

“Oh. You love ballet, ma chérie.”

Velvet night

When our in-sync phones spotlighted midnight, we scurried above. Ran the length of the blind exhibition, then exited in the wide lobby.

But here, the main chandelier … shone no host. No glowing-coal eyes awaited us. At the promised sharp.

So, the restaurant’s Lucifer ignored us. What a laugh. But what if we had conversed with … a ghost?

This thought, though, scared me not. On the contrary. My thrills flopped.

“Mandy. Where is our Lucifer? I expected him to usher us out. For a complete … circuit.”

She hugged me with a tender arm. “Oh, dear novelist. You sound disappointed.” She smiled. “He might be doffing his stage suit. In a back room.”

“I’ll miss him. True.”

“Please, don’t invoke the guy now. Ghosts deserve to sleep, too. As well as … devils.”

“Ha. What if the soubrette wakes instead? God, no!”

“She sleeps inside your cell phone, Laura. You have control over her. So wake the dark tease … whenever you please.”

“Yeah. When I write my next—”

“Ghost story. Ta-da!”

“Oh, Mandy. We speak the same language. I love you for that.”

After saying this, my lips stiffened. Then my pupils wowed. Into Mandy’s.

“Ma chérie. What happened? Did you see … the murky soubrette? She lurks at my back, or what?”

My lips split at once. Wide, a gape. Next, laughing peals screamed. Climbed up the monumental staircase. Knocked against the stained glass in the ceiling. Scared crystals. Of chandeliers and mirrors.

“Laura. Stop hysterics. Or you’ll anger the furies … in the ghost matrix.”

“Amanda, my dear. Don’t panic. I laugh because … I spoke with … Carol’s words.”

“Oof. Writers are mad. Let’s get out of here.”

We scanned the whereabouts once more and then took adieu. The front portal greeted us … out, with colorful glass. Through it, we slipped into the velvety harbor night.

“Bye, Art nouveau.”

I held on my cell phone tight. “Mandy, praise this tiny slab. In it, we’ll scavenge tomorrow for fun.”

“Yeah, sure. The horror kind.”

“Who knows what I shot? Well, we’ll find out. Together, my girl.”

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