The Vacant Bridal Suite
Mackenzie Baines sat in Newark Airport, sipping a cup of Starbucks coffee and waiting for her flight to begin boarding. Her eyes wandered, briefly scanning the faces of the other passengers in the waiting area. There were the usual airport stereotypes: the businesspeople, hard at work on their devices; the smiling, chatty vacationers eager to get to their destinations; the exhausted and often sunburned returning tourists who wanted only to get home as soon as possible and recuperate from their travels.
Of the people waiting with her at Gate 35, only four were not on their cell phones: two men using laptops, a woman reading a magazine and a four-year-old girl playing with her doll. Everyone else was texting, talking, playing games or posting on social media. Mackenzie found it sad that humans were becoming slaves to technology.
If Griffin were here, he'd no doubt be glued to his phone, too, she thought.
She shuddered as an image came to mind of her fiancé sitting beside a pool, posting their honeymoon photos on Facebook.
Don't be silly! she told herself. Griffin is a grown man, not a teenager. I'm sure he's not going to be on his phone the whole time we're in the Bahamas. At least I hope he's not.
Mackenzie chalked up her anxiety to pre-wedding jitters. After all, she was flying to Orlando for her dream wedding. She had booked Sea Breeze Point at Disney's BoardWalk Inn resort for the ceremony, and would saunter down the aisle in a Vera Wang bridal gown. Griffin, who was currently in Houston on business, would meet her in Florida later that evening. After the wedding, the newlyweds would take a Disney cruise ship from Miami to the Bahamas.
"I'm going to meet Mickey Mouse," the four-year-old announced, looking up at Mackenzie with large blue eyes.
"So am I," the bride-to-be said, smiling down at the adorable child.
"Barbie is, too."
The girl held up the well-worn doll, its blond hair a mass of knots and its outfit—ironically, a wedding gown—was stained with what looked like fruit punch.
"Isn't she pretty?" the child asked. "She has blond hair like yours."
"So she does."
"She just got married."
As though the little girl had held up a funhouse mirror that gave her a warped reflection of herself, Mackenzie stared with dread at Mattel's iconic fashion doll.
Is that what's going to happen to me? Am I going to look like that once I'm married?
The idea was ludicrous, but she could not shake the alarm she felt seeing that haggard Barbie doll.
"Excuse me," she told the little girl.
Taking only her purse and leaving behind her carry-on bag, she quickly walked out of Newark Airport and hailed a taxi.
"Where to, miss?" the driver asked.
"The bus station."
Fifteen hundred miles later, Mackenzie Baines got off the bus in Oklahoma and immediately headed toward the nearest Walmart. She did not purchase a lot of things since she feared doing so would call unwanted attention to her. Instead, she bought two pairs of cheap jeans, three T-shirts, a nightgown, a six-pack of underwear, a new bra, a package of socks, a pair of cheap sunglasses and a baseball cap. Her next stop was a CVS pharmacy where she purchased a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant and a bottle of Lady Clairol to dye her blond hair a dark shade of brown.
It's a good thing I have plenty of cash on me, she thought, not wanting to create a paper trail by using her Visa card.
Eventually, she knew, she would have to replenish her funds. The seven hundred dollars in fifties and twenties she was bringing with her to Florida would not last long, especially since she would have to pay for a hotel.
It had better be a cheap one. I wonder if there is a Motel 6 anywhere around here.
There wasn't. Mackenzie had to settle for the stately Weatherly Hotel. Originally built in 1900, seven years before Oklahoma was granted statehood, over the decades it grew from a five-room lodging house to a one-hundred-ninety-room, luxury hotel. It was a place rich in history—three presidents had stayed there—but it was now in desperate need of major renovations. Thankfully, the room rates were cheap, primarily due to the decay of the surrounding neighborhood.
This place is perfect! the runaway bride thought, as she stood in Weatherly's lobby, which like the little girl's Barbie doll had seen better days. It's the last place people would expect to find me.
* * *
Despite the years having taken a toll on the place, the accommodations were clean, and there was a lingering scent of Pine-Sol cleaner in the air. Her room reminded Mackenzie of a well-scrubbed, tired old woman; for despite the housekeeping staff's efforts, the carpet was worn thin in places, the linens looked as though they were purchased at a thrift store and the pieces of furniture in the room—the dresser, night table and headboard—were constructed from different types of wood. The pine headboard clashed with the oyster-shell, French provincial night table and the imitation cherry Queen Anne dresser. To add to the flea market feel of the room, there was a garishly colored, crocheted granny square afghan on the bed.
The décor in this room is enough to give someone nightmares.
After the long bus ride, she showered, colored her hair and changed into the new clothes she bought at the discount department store. She looked in the mirror, barely recognizing herself.
Mackenzie then turned on the television and watched the network news, relieved to see she was not on it. Since no one was likely to recognize her, she went down to the hotel restaurant for something to eat. Like everything else at the Weatherly, the bill of fare left a lot to be desired, offering a small selection of unhealthy foods all served with French fries.
"I'll take the salad," she told the waitress, settling for the only healthy item on the menu.
"Anything to drink?"
"Water will be fine."
The salad was a disappointment, dull and unimaginative. Just lettuce, tomato and sliced cucumber with oil and vinegar dressing. There were no croutons, hardboiled eggs, fruit, cheese, chicken strips or nuts. No doubt she could have gotten a tastier salad at Wendy's or Chick-fil-A.
Normally, she took a walk in the evening, an integral part of her daily exercise regimen. However, the neighborhood around the Weatherly Hotel was nothing like the New Jersey suburban community where she lived.
"Excuse me," she called to the waitress. "Is there a gym or an exercise room here at the hotel?"
"I guess you could call it that," the middle-aged woman answered with amusement. "There's a treadmill, an exercise bike and an old Nordic Track in the room next to the pool."
"There's a pool here?" Mackenzie asked with surprise, wondering if she ought to go back to Walmart and buy a cheap bathing suit.
"Yeah, it's outside in the courtyard."
After finishing the unappetizing salad, she made her way to the courtyard. The small pool, which looked like an overgrown sunken bathtub, was in need of a good cleaning.
I'll bet this place gets rave reviews on Yelp, she thought facetiously.
Mackenzie spent forty minutes on the treadmill, a cheap home model from Sears rather than the higher quality equipment found at commercial gyms. Since her iPod was in her carry-on back at Newark Airport, she had no music to listen to, so she hummed her favorite tunes as she jogged. Before going to bed, she turned on the network news. Again, there was no mention of her name. She wondered if the police were actively searching for her or if there was a waiting period before a missing persons report could be made.
My parents must be frantic, she thought guiltily. And Griffin might be worried to the point that he actually put down his iPhone. More likely he's texting everyone we've ever met and asking if they've seen me.
Mackenzie had not turned on her own cell phone since leaving Newark. She probably had dozens of messages from her fiancé, but she had watched enough true crime dramas on the ID channel to know that police often relied on technology to locate people. Using credit cards, an ATM machine or her cell phone would be like sending up a flare.
As she lay on the bed in the dark hotel room trying to fall asleep, she wondered what she should do next. Her money would run out in a few days, and then what? She had no place to live, no job and no friends she could contact.
What have I gotten myself into? she wondered.
* * *
When Mackenzie woke up the following morning, she put on her second pair of Walmart jeans and a clean T-shirt. With her extremely limited wardrobe, she would have to find a Laundromat. Hopefully, the hotel had a working washing machine and dryer.
I don't have a comb or brush, she thought, as she ran her fingers through her tangled hair. I suppose I'll have to make another trip to the store. While I'm there, I'll pick up a bottle of shampoo as well.
There was no coffeemaker in her room, so she returned to the restaurant. Normally, she did not eat breakfast; but having eaten nothing but a salad the previous evening, she was hungry.
"I'll take two eggs over easy and whole wheat toast," she told the same waitress who had waited on her the previous evening.
"Coming right up, dear."
While Mackenzie was waiting for her food, a young couple, barely out of high school, sat down at the next table and ordered pancakes.
"I don't know why they wouldn't let us stay in the bridal suite," the girl complained in an annoying, whining voice.
"Maybe they know who we are," the boy suggested.
"You think so?"
The idea pleased the girl, and her petulant frown turned into a smile.
"We do have a big Internet following, especially after we posted those photos of our Fort Reno investigation."
"But if we could get into the bridal suite, think of how many more followers we would get."
"Maybe we can bribe one of the maids to let us into the room for a few minutes, just enough time to snap a few pictures."
"Maybe, but I'd rather spend the night there."
The couple proceeded to discuss infrared photography, fluctuations in electromagnetic fields, ambient temperature measurement and electronic voice phenomenon. It was apparent from their conversation that they were paranormal investigators: ghost hunters.
"Excuse me," Mackenzie said. "I couldn't help overhearing you. Is the Weatherly supposed to be haunted?"
"You don't know?" the boy asked.
"I'm usually not into the whole supernatural thing, but since I'm staying here ...."
"Yes," the girl, whose name was Freya, eagerly answered. "The bridal suite has quite a troubling history. Are you surprised?"
"I'm surprised this place has a bridal suite."
Riley, her boyfriend, whose back had been to Mackenzie, moved his chair to the opposite side of the table, so he could talk to her without having to twist his body around.
"It's not an actual suite," he explained. "It's just a name given to Room 424 because of the brides that were killed there."
"Really? A bride was killed in that room?"
"More than one," Freya said. "The first was back in 1920. There was a young bride—I guess you would call her a flapper—got drunk at her reception and somehow fell out of the window. Her husband found her dead on the ground outside."
A drunken woman falling out of a hotel room was sad, but hardly the stuff nightmares were made of.
"The next one was in 1945. A woman was waiting here at the hotel for her fiancé who was on his way home from the Pacific. They were going to be married as soon as he got here. Only he died in a plane crash on his way from California. When she heard the news, she knotted the bed sheets together and hanged herself from the pole in the closet."
That was a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare but, again, not really nightmarish.
"There were two more suicides," Riley said. "Both of them brides. One in 1950 and the other in 1991."
"No one is sure the death in 1950 was a suicide," his girlfriend corrected him. "That bride drowned in her bathtub. It could have been an accidental death."
"I think it was a suicide," Riley maintained. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the flapper jumped rather than fell from the window."
"The weirdest incident happened in 1963," Freya announced.
"Oh? What was that?" Mackenzie asked.
"There was a girl staying in Room 424—another bride. She checked in and no one ever saw her again. Her bags, purse, wedding dress ... everything was left in the room, but there was no sign of her. It was just like that woman in New Jersey the other day."
Mackenzie felt an electric shock run through her body.
"What woman in New Jersey?"
"There was a woman—get this, she was on her way to Florida to get married!—waiting for a flight in Newark Airport. She vanished without a trace."
"I watched the news on television last night. I didn't see anything about a missing woman."
"The TV news is a waste of time," Riley contended. "Nothing but Trump this and Trump that. We rely on our Internet news feeds."
"So, about this woman from New Jersey," Mackenzie prompted, "do they have any idea what might have become of her?"
"Police are questioning her fiancé," Freya replied. "They think he might have something to do with it."
"But he ...."
Mackenzie was about to say that the fiancé was in Texas on business, but she quickly stopped herself.
"He what?"
Mackenzie thought fast and answered, "He would have no reason to hurt her if, as you say, they were on their way to be married."
"Are you kidding?" Freya laughed. "Don't you know it's always the husband or, in this case, the husband-to-be? You wait and see. He either killed her or had someone else do it for him."
"You said she was missing, not dead."
"True. But if she's alive, where is she? No. They'll find her body."
"Don't be so sure," Riley teased. "They never found Jimmy Hoffa, did they?"
* * *
Not wanting to spend her dwindling finances on cab fare, Mackenzie decided to walk to Walmart. Besides being the most economical option, the three-mile trek would be good exercise—much better than the treadmill. The walk also gave her time to think.
Do the police think I'm dead? she wondered. And, like Freya, do they suspect Griffin had me killed?
Since making the rash decision to run out of Newark Airport, she avoided thinking about any long-term future plans. Her only concern had been for her immediate needs: clothes, food and a place to sleep.
What have I done? she asked herself, finally experiencing regret for her foolish behavior. I ought to be in Orlando with Griffin. I was supposed to get married, and yet I see a stupid Barbie doll in a stained wedding dress and freak out. I run away from everyone I love and hop on a bus to Oklahoma, of all places!
The wedding was to have taken place the following day. Maybe it was not too late for her to mend her fences. But would Griffin forgive her? She hoped so. Forgetting about the comb and shampoo, Mackenzie turned around and headed back to the Weatherly Hotel. She hurried through the lobby, into the elevator and up to the third floor. Her cell phone was in the dresser drawer on top of the nightgown she had purchased at Walmart. When she turned the phone on, she discovered the battery was down to less than five percent.
Damn it! My charger is in my carry-on!
She called Griffin's number, but the call went straight to voicemail.
"Hi, honey, It's me," she said. "I know you must be wondering what happened to me. Let me assure you I'm okay. I need to talk to you. Most of all I want to tell you I love you, and I want to get married, just like we planned. But I may need your help to get to Orlando in time for the ceremony. You see, I'm in Oklahoma. Don't ask me why Oklahoma because I have no idea. Look, I'll explain everything when I see you. Love you."
The runaway bride then made a quick call to both her mother and father. Neither one answered. She left the phone on in case someone called her back. Meanwhile, she needed to see about travel arrangements.
I don't want to waste power on my phone. There's probably a computer in the lobby. Most hotels have them for their guests' use.
When she got off the elevator, she immediately noticed that no one was at the front desk. She looked for a bell; there was none. Nor was there a computer anywhere in sight.
"Hello?" she called, hoping the desk clerk would hear her. "Is anyone here?"
Receiving no reply, she headed toward the restaurant. The middle-aged waitress that had been working there the past two days was no longer on duty. Like the lobby, the restaurant was empty. Perhaps there was a staff meeting going on in a back room.
"Please," she called loudly. "I need help."
Her cries went unanswered.
Suddenly, she remembered the young couple she met in the restaurant. The two paranormal investigators had come to the Weatherly to investigate Room 424, the so-called bridal suite. Surely, they brought their ghost-hunting equipment with them.
They're bound to have a laptop, she thought optimistically.
With no clerk in sight, she went to the front desk and checked the register. (The Weatherly still had an old-fashioned sign-in book.) To her great surprise, hers was the only name on it.
What about Freya and Riley? she wondered. Aren't they guests at the hotel?
"Hello?" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "Is anyone here? Anyone at all?"
Her voice echoed through the empty lobby.
Determined to find a computer, she walked behind the front desk and headed toward a door marked OFFICE. She knocked. Not surprisingly, there was no answer. Mackenzie pushed open the door and found the room empty. Not only was there no computer, but there was no furniture either. There was, however, a pegboard on the wall containing the room keys. Rather than the electronic keycards most modern hotels utilized, the Weatherly still used metal keys with diamond-shaped plastic key holders identifying the hotel name and room numbers. The only key missing from the numerically arrayed group was the one to Mackenzie's room.
Am I the only person staying here?
Of the one hundred eighty-nine keys hanging on the pegboard, her eyes were drawn to one: that for Room 424, the bridal suite.
For the second time that week, she felt an overwhelming impulse. The first made her run from the airport. This one made her grab the key to Room 424 and take the elevator up to the fourth floor. She walked down the hallway, reading the room numbers on the doors to her right: 414, 416, 418, 420, 422 .... She stopped in front of 424.
"Freya? Riley?" she called. "Are you in there?"
Mackenzie put the old-fashioned key in the hole beneath the doorknob and turned. When the door opened, she stood on the threshold and gawked. She had expected to find a vacant room with the same shabby, drab décor as her own. However, Room 424 was an actual suite, one whose interior design might be found in the Plaza, the Ritz or the Four Seasons.
"What the hell?"
She walked into the suite's sitting room and gaped at the fresh floral arrangements, the large fruit basket and the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a Sterling silver bucket of ice. A familiar-looking wedding gown had been tossed on the chair.
"That looks like ...."
She picked it up.
"It is!" she exclaimed. "This is just like my dress."
Mackenzie then noticed the door to the suite's bedroom was ajar. Through the opening, she saw someone lying on the bed beneath the silk sheets. Only the top of the blond head was visible on the pillow. Good manners would have dictated she quietly tiptoe out of the suite and let the woman sleep, but she was past caring about proper etiquette.
"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, drawing nearer to the bed.
The woman did not stir.
"I need your help. There's no one else in the hotel."
Still no movement.
She must be a sound sleeper.
Less than a yard from the king-size bed, Mackenzie froze. Neither the scent of the flowers nor the woman's expensive perfume could mask the odor of decay.
Is this real or am I seeing a ghost of one of the brides who died in this room?
But the Vera Wang gown draped over the sitting room chair was not indicative of the past. It was from the designer's most recent collection.
"Are you okay?" she called in a voice loud enough to wake the dead.
In this case, however, it failed to do so.
Covering her nose with her hand, Mackenzie stood above the bed and looked down at the woman's head. The blond hair was a wild mass of knots. It reminded her of the Barbie doll she had seen in Newark Airport. The little girl's words suddenly came back to her: "She has blond hair like yours." The doll's wedding dress had been like hers as well—just like the Vera Wang in the sitting room.
The runaway bride had the urge to run again, to get as far away from Room 424 as was humanly possible, to flee the decrepit Weatherly Hotel and get the hell out of Oklahoma. Some force she could not explain held her there, however.
"Please wake up," she cried, trembling with fear.
The blond head slowly turned. Mackenzie was not even aware that she had reached out her hand and tugged at the woman's shoulder until she saw her own lifeless face staring back at her.
This isn't Room 424 at the Weatherly Hotel, she realized as agonizing memories suddenly surfaced. It's one of the bridal suites at Walt Disney World, where Griffin and I spent our wedding night. And ... and I'm ... dead!
Her screams of terror broke the invisible bonds that had held her in place. She ran out of the bridal suite and ... and into the waiting area outside Gate 35 at Newark's Liberty International Airport. The memories she had briefly recalled of her murder at the hands of her husband—Freya was correct; it was always the husband—were once again successfully repressed in her subconscious mind—at least for the time being.
As long as she refused to accept the truth of her tragic and violent end, the cycle would continue: a four-year-old girl and a disheveled Barbie doll would send the ghost of Mackenzie Baines running from the airport and lead her to the vacant bridal suite of the haunted Weatherly Hotel, a supernatural halfway house for deceased brides.
This story was inspired by the Driskill Hotel in Austin, Texas. According to legend, two young women (both on their honeymoons) committed suicide in the same room, roughly twenty years apart. Witnesses claim to have seen a ghost in a wedding dress.
I doubt this is Vera Wang's latest creation.
