when they were trying to sleep, and seeing glimpses of a bespectacled man in a bowler hat, watching them in the mirror over the washbasin.
Ambrose and Ezra had a lot of fun terrifying some people, especially the ones who came in declaring they didn’t believe in ghosts, and that one man who’d walked in and ordered them to show themselves. Other guests they left alone. Ambrose had a soft spot for newlyweds, especially, and Ezra refused to do anything that might frighten a child.
Room 18 became known as the Shaw Suite, named for Ambrose and his storied life, with rumors of the two murdered men of the law forever haunting the luxurious suite. More often than not, it was left unoccupied.
They once again lost track of the passing of time as they waged their private war, but now and then they would be reminded of it. They carried on through earthquakes and fires, witnessing the passing of the horse-drawn buggy and the introduction of the first odd trolley car to roam the streets. They bore witness to the birth of the city and the deaths of many, all the while protecting unsuspecting citizens from the icy fingers of Jennings’s grasp, occasionally failing in their duties and left to mourn over another life lost to the monster’s bone orchard.
In 1906, an earthquake devastated the city. Ambrose and Ezra were forced to watch as people died, crushed under buildings, smothered by smoke from fires that ravaged the streets. They could only help so many people, unable to be in more than one place at a time to lift debris off the injured or comfort victims so close to death they could already see Ambrose and Ezra clearly. But they helped those they could, then stood in the middle of the ruined street, watching their home burn as Boone Jennings laughed from his ghostly gallows.
It was the darkest time in Ambrose’s memory. The only light in his existence was Ezra, and it was a powerful light indeed. They were without a home, without a place to ground them, but they walked hand in hand through the ruined city together, facing the horror of the possibilities ahead. What would happen to them if the city never recovered? Would this be it for them?
They had each other, though, and somehow that was enough amidst the rubble.
It took three years before something familiar reappeared from the ashes—three years of wandering through a foggy, unfamiliar landscape where disappearing was always a frightening prospect because nothing grounded them but each other. Their relief was immeasurable when fittings and salvaged mementos were gathered and placed in the New Palace Hotel down the street, which was rebuilt grander and sturdier than before.
Ambrose and Ezra sat atop the building materials and watched as the place was erected. The bar top from the old Continental was installed in the New Palace, and one morning after a rather spirited boxing match with Jennings, in which Ambrose had finally gotten ahold of one of those red eyeballs and squished it between his fingers with a whoop of joy, Ambrose found himself at the bar of the New Palace Hotel, seeking a light for his cigarillo, more confused than usual. It took hours for Ezra to track him down, but once he did, they realized they might have a new home. They’d long ago established that their true home was each other, but it was kind of nice to have a bed somewhere too.
The grand new hotel stuck with them, weathering the storms, growing old gracefully until it’d become one of the oldest buildings in San Francisco. Eventually, Ambrose and Ezra became so grounded there that when they awoke each morning, they were still wrapped in each other’s arms. For the first time in decades, they were able to take advantage of waking up without clothes on.
When the Palace Hotel was placed on the historic register, Ambrose and Ezra breathed a mutual sigh of relief. Their home would be safe, protected from the inexorable march of progress, protected even from the earthquakes the city was prone to
Ambrose and Ezra had a lot of fun terrifying some people, especially the ones who came in declaring they didn’t believe in ghosts, and that one man who’d walked in and ordered them to show themselves. Other guests they left alone. Ambrose had a soft spot for newlyweds, especially, and Ezra refused to do anything that might frighten a child.
Room 18 became known as the Shaw Suite, named for Ambrose and his storied life, with rumors of the two murdered men of the law forever haunting the luxurious suite. More often than not, it was left unoccupied.
They once again lost track of the passing of time as they waged their private war, but now and then they would be reminded of it. They carried on through earthquakes and fires, witnessing the passing of the horse-drawn buggy and the introduction of the first odd trolley car to roam the streets. They bore witness to the birth of the city and the deaths of many, all the while protecting unsuspecting citizens from the icy fingers of Jennings’s grasp, occasionally failing in their duties and left to mourn over another life lost to the monster’s bone orchard.
In 1906, an earthquake devastated the city. Ambrose and Ezra were forced to watch as people died, crushed under buildings, smothered by smoke from fires that ravaged the streets. They could only help so many people, unable to be in more than one place at a time to lift debris off the injured or comfort victims so close to death they could already see Ambrose and Ezra clearly. But they helped those they could, then stood in the middle of the ruined street, watching their home burn as Boone Jennings laughed from his ghostly gallows.
It was the darkest time in Ambrose’s memory. The only light in his existence was Ezra, and it was a powerful light indeed. They were without a home, without a place to ground them, but they walked hand in hand through the ruined city together, facing the horror of the possibilities ahead. What would happen to them if the city never recovered? Would this be it for them?
They had each other, though, and somehow that was enough amidst the rubble.
It took three years before something familiar reappeared from the ashes—three years of wandering through a foggy, unfamiliar landscape where disappearing was always a frightening prospect because nothing grounded them but each other. Their relief was immeasurable when fittings and salvaged mementos were gathered and placed in the New Palace Hotel down the street, which was rebuilt grander and sturdier than before.
Ambrose and Ezra sat atop the building materials and watched as the place was erected. The bar top from the old Continental was installed in the New Palace, and one morning after a rather spirited boxing match with Jennings, in which Ambrose had finally gotten ahold of one of those red eyeballs and squished it between his fingers with a whoop of joy, Ambrose found himself at the bar of the New Palace Hotel, seeking a light for his cigarillo, more confused than usual. It took hours for Ezra to track him down, but once he did, they realized they might have a new home. They’d long ago established that their true home was each other, but it was kind of nice to have a bed somewhere too.
The grand new hotel stuck with them, weathering the storms, growing old gracefully until it’d become one of the oldest buildings in San Francisco. Eventually, Ambrose and Ezra became so grounded there that when they awoke each morning, they were still wrapped in each other’s arms. For the first time in decades, they were able to take advantage of waking up without clothes on.
When the Palace Hotel was placed on the historic register, Ambrose and Ezra breathed a mutual sigh of relief. Their home would be safe, protected from the inexorable march of progress, protected even from the earthquakes the city was prone to
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