How A Haunted Hotel's Plumbing Changed My Life

Utterly overwhelmed with the ongoing noise in my personal universe, I'm on a quest to recall moments in my life that brought me faith in humanity and to renew my sense of satisfaction with being human.

Right now, I can only think of a few moments, but this is going to be an ongoing 2024 Quest at Silver Bloggers for me. There are quite a bit more than just a "few", I'm sure of it. I'll do my best to navigate the perilous journey of my existence for the benefit of this project. One such moment has been ricocheting in my brain for a while, mostly because it's just so darn wonderful. Let's start with "How a haunted hotel's plumbing changed my life."

All of this is, sadly (in some ways) true.

Some years ago I was working at the front desk of an American treasure, and one of the top ten most haunted places in the United States, Manresa Castle. My daughter had worked there for a summer and I became friends with the owners at the time. When my daughter went back to college, they needed someone to take over her place and so I stepped in. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, but I truly enjoyed connecting with the guests, the occasional television shows that filmed there and the staff. The more I think of it, the more I realize I loved Manresa with all my heart.

I wish I could say that I've embellished on this event, but (and this is the sadly part) I haven't.

Manresa Castle, Port Townsend, WA 2017 || Sarah Nash

Towards the end of my employment at Manresa, we had a man staying with us for an extended period of time who seemed vaguely familiar to me when he first arrived and as it turned out, he was a producer/director for showbiz. We did tend to have some rather notable people stay from time to time and while I will admit to being somewhat egalitarian in my approach to our guests, there are some that truly stand out. Mr. Producer Guy is one such person.

Evidently, he was renovating a home he had just purchased in our haven of Port Townsend. He was spending some of his time with us at Manresa and some of it on his yacht in the local marina. He and I became "solid mates" as he described it, and we shared several mornings and afternoons over adult beverages. Mostly coffee with a shot of something profoundly not coffee.

I began to "block out" his preferred room selection in advance and when I knew he was arriving, I'd make sure to air out his room, leave a few snacks I knew he'd enjoy and reserve him a table at the restaurants he ate at. Before you wonder, no ... we didn't accept tips at the front desk. Our housekeeping staff appreciated his generosity though. That was good enough for me, because our afternoon conversations were better than any money. I can't believe I'm saying that, because ... money. But I'm serious. This guy was terrific. Once in a while, he'd bring a well-known actor or political figure to stay for a night and it was in those moments he appreciated me not interfering or getting gobsmacked tongue tied while checking them in. I left him and them alone.

The Old Lobby At Manresa Castle || Sarah Nash

As I already explained, Manresa was a hub of haunted show material and occasionally hosted some programs for writers and aficionados of paranormal hooplah. Sometimes these guests were not as informed of their insignificance in the world as they should have been. Mostly because they were bizarrely entitled assholes. Mr. Producer was staying during one such Paranormal Research Week at Manresa, and that was the week to end all weeks for me. Not only had several rooms been double booked (not my fault, there was an inept events manager who shouldn't have been in charge of tying their own shoes let alone responsible for more than lining cans on a shelf) but the maintenance staff were also on vacation.

I'd like to point out that Manresa was one of the first palaces built on this side of the Rockies of this size, so it is old, and what comes along with old places? Maintenance. I'd managed to get one of the staff to purchase several additional toilet plungers due to the underwhelming plumbing issues, and we had them lined up in the closets on the upper floors for convenience.

There I was, in the middle of chaos and plungers, attempting to navigate several parties checking out, while several parties were in need of bathroom maintenance, and the wedding of the century supposedly taking place in less than three hours, during a Paranormal Research Committee conference. And I ... the only person on duty. In fact, the person who was supposed to be working with me had called in with a broken down vehicle miles away. They were on their way but.... it was becoming a bit obscene.

Mr. Producer was sitting in the lobby, watching while I expertly managed to hold back the darkness. He and I would occasionally lock eyes, he'd wave and hold up his whiskey glass ... erm, coffee cup and point at it, look at his watch and shrug. He wasn't going anywhere, nor was I.

Until, the bitch.
She had been calling incessantly from her room because her toilet was clogged. I had explained that our maintenance staff were not on duty at the moment, but that I had made certain that the rooms on her floor all had their own bright and shiny brand new plunger, that I was quite sorry for the inconvenience, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. The bitch didn't seem to understand the words coming out of my mouth, and her histrionics could be heard all the way to the lobby as she wailed her way down the stairs into the main hall and pushed her way to the front of crowd and began slamming her hand on the wee bell next to me, while frothing at the mouth that she had never plunged a toilet, and today wasn't going to be the day that changed.

You can't imagine the mayhem and noises that followed. The people waiting to be checked in for the wedding of the century included the bride who began sobbing. The people who were waiting to be checked out and then checked back in from the Paranormal Research Committee began wondering out loud if there were demons that were causing the clogged toilets, and the bitch with the bell was shouting at everyone she was going to have the place shut down if her toilet didn't get plunged in the next fifteen minutes.

I shook my head. Nope, said I to myself. Nope. I began walking backwards from the desk, clearly with the look on my face that said, "All I need is some gasoline and a match."

Mr. Producer had snuck in through the side office door (he knew the hotel quite well, including how to get in where other guests could not) and he had put on one of the maintenance jumpsuits complete with the "Manresa Maintenance" baseball hat, grabbed an extra plunger and stood behind me just close enough that I bumped into him. Shocked, I whirled around and there he was, grinning at me.
He whispered, "Let's do this! I can't have you quit right now, where the hell will I stay?" He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hallway, stomping very loudly, and exclaimed in the best damned Cockney Accent, "Ladies and Gents, no worries, I'll shuck this womans shyte and show her how it's done, we'll be back in a jiffy!"

Manresa Castle Back Hallway Behind The Front Desk || Sarah Nash

He gleamed at the bitch (who had finally stopped slamming her hand on the wee bell at the front counter) and waved his hands AND the plunger, motioning for her to lead the way. There was a stunned silence from everyone. The bride even stopped sobbing. The bitch started to say something but Mr. Producer started to swing the plunger like it was a baseball bat and winked at her, again motioning for her to haul her butt up to the offending scene of her clogged crap. As she headed up the stairs someone started clapping and Mr. Producer turned around and said (agian, that Cockney Accent) → "Not the time, boyz, the deed ain't done yet."

The silence continued. Even from the bitch.
Mr. Producer clomped his way behind the bitch like a Clydesdale on crack and when she opened her door, she flung herself into the arms of some other woman in a robe who may or may not have been a relative and exclaimed that this nice man was going to make everything better. The other woman was mightily relieved. Evidently, she was also incapable of plunging a toilet.

Mr. Producer stomped into the bathroom after turning the baseball cap around with a huge flourish and made a giant display of plunging and gagging, then flushed the toilet, put the plunger in the waste bin, picked that up and waved at me to leave the room with him. The other woman in the robe ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. The bitch glared at us both, "She really had to go."

As we headed back down the hallway and into the lobby, Mr. Producer began laughing even though I was still in shock. He turned to me and said, "If you knew how bad the marina showers and toilets were, you would understand that this moment was more enjoyable for me than you realize. And besides, you were going to pull a runner. I could see it. You've put up with quite a bit of shyte Sarah, enough was enough. Someone needed to rescue you, so you could rescue that damn wedding."

His eyes were twinkling and I'm sure mine were too, from tears. There was no way I could repay him for his act of service, and although we had made a pretty good team in the past several months for a myriad of events and circumstances, this was the best. I did rescue the wedding, and during the reception hours later I could hear a few of them say "not the time boyz, the deed ain't done yet" followed by loads of laughter.

The Paranormal Research Committee invited Mr. Producer to come dine with their group. Evidently, he told them to remember that the only demons they truly needed to worry about were overprivileged bitches who made his most famous leading ladies look like saints in comparison, and to put in a good word for the Goddess at the Front Desk.

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