TRAVEL
The suburban cul-de-sac accommodation was a quaint 4-star bed and breakfast. Furnishings were hand-picked from a variety of antique stores in Belfast. A floral botanical rose wallpaper graced the first and second floor with two guest bedrooms painted a soft raindrop white. During my single night stay, the house was horrendously cold and filled with faint echoes of the violin from the first floor. Sneaking a peek down the stairs and into the narrow hallway, I was frightened at the sight of our host appearing to glide to and from the front door, holding a lit candle in front of her stomach. Very disturbing indeed, however, I did not seek to complain about the slight discomforts. Otherwise, Number 4 Highslate Drive offered a cozy English-style feel that was not as common in the few hotels the other tourists were staying in that evening. Mrs. Thorpe, the 73-year-old widow roaming through the night, did not speak the following morning as she prepared an early breakfast. A fresh plate of haggis, fruit, fluffy scrambled eggs and a pot of hot coffee for myself and the American newlyweds—also touring through Northern Ireland.
Breakfast was unfortunately cut short as I received multiple missed calls from our driver, later finding him disoriented at the bottom of the hill near our bus.
“Derek!” The American husband shouted, gaining his attention.
“Ah! Here you are,” Derek waved from the folding door of the bus, “I had been knocking for ten minutes, where did you all come from?”
Confused by his question, I elected to respond, “Where you directed us yesterday—Number 4 Highslate Drive.”
“Mate, my drop-off sheet says Number 14 Highslate Drive.”
Caught in a moment of doubt, we looked at one another, flooded with thoughts that our minds could not find a formidable way of organizing into a single question.
“Here, let’s have a look. I have my drop-off sheet from yesterday, look—oh, oh…”
“What? What is it?” The American wife looked concerned.
“For some reason, the 1 was faded,” said Derek, “How could I have missed this?”
The Americans were eager to ask the questions, which was fine, as I had one very troubling thought in my mind that could not be true.
“How did you manage to get into the house?”
“I have a more pressing question, who the hell did we stay with last night?” The husband asked.
“Nobody, I would hope. The home is, sorry—was owned by a Mrs. Ruth Thorpe. She passed away nearly three weeks ago. The house was also a bed and breakfast. Not too sure what the children are planning to do with it now.”
“Guys…,” I looked at the newlyweds who were ghastly pale and seemed as if they had aged 10 years into their marriage.
“Wait, how old was Mrs. Thorpe?” The husband asked.
“Mid-seventies, I believe. Is everything alright? It looks like the lot of you saw a ghost.”
We did.
Breakfast was unfortunately cut short as I received multiple missed calls from our driver, later finding him disoriented at the bottom of the hill near our bus.
“Derek!” The American husband shouted, gaining his attention.
“Ah! Here you are,” Derek waved from the folding door of the bus, “I had been knocking for ten minutes, where did you all come from?”
Confused by his question, I elected to respond, “Where you directed us yesterday—Number 4 Highslate Drive.”
“Mate, my drop-off sheet says Number 14 Highslate Drive.”
Caught in a moment of doubt, we looked at one another, flooded with thoughts that our minds could not find a formidable way of organizing into a single question.
“Here, let’s have a look. I have my drop-off sheet from yesterday, look—oh, oh…”
“What? What is it?” The American wife looked concerned.
“For some reason, the 1 was faded,” said Derek, “How could I have missed this?”
The Americans were eager to ask the questions, which was fine, as I had one very troubling thought in my mind that could not be true.
“How did you manage to get into the house?”
“I have a more pressing question, who the hell did we stay with last night?” The husband asked.
“Nobody, I would hope. The home is, sorry—was owned by a Mrs. Ruth Thorpe. She passed away nearly three weeks ago. The house was also a bed and breakfast. Not too sure what the children are planning to do with it now.”
“Guys…,” I looked at the newlyweds who were ghastly pale and seemed as if they had aged 10 years into their marriage.
“Wait, how old was Mrs. Thorpe?” The husband asked.
“Mid-seventies, I believe. Is everything alright? It looks like the lot of you saw a ghost.”
We did.
