The Haunted Halls (11 page)

Chapter Four

Rhiannon drove like a mother rushing her child to the emergency room–on edge, yet determined. She had no idea what was happening tonight. Who was the strange girl at the hospital? What was she doing in Kurt’s room? Had she really been in the car with the old man? What the hell did it all mean? All these questions riddled through her mind at warp speed and then cycled back unanswered as if the train of queries was an endless loop.

She raced down Route 5, heading back to the hotel. She considered going home, but she was too frazzled to sleep, and her TV and Mr. Mittens, her cat with the extra thumbs, wouldn’t listen. She desperately needed to talk to someone. Jeff had offered to be there, and at the moment, he was really all she had. She wasn’t sure how or why, but she just knew he would believe her when she told him about the crazy shit-storm she’d just been through.

…..

“I don’t want to be alone right now. Come upstairs with me,” Meghan said. Her eyes danced between brown and black.

“I can’t,” Jeff said, denying the change in eye color. “I’m the only one on right now. I’m waiting for someone–” he paused, realizing he hadn’t mentioned what happened to Kurt.

Meghan pulled herself from his arms. If looks could kill, Jeff would be an extra from
The Walking Dead
.

“What is it? Do you have a girlfriend you failed to mention?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Then who is it?” She crossed her arms.

Jeff rose from the Futon, placed his hands on his hips, and hung his head. “It’s my friend, Kurt–the goofy kid that works here in the afternoon?”  He saw her indifference and took it as uncertainty. “The guy with the fro of blonde hair? Sings while he works?”

“What about him?”

“He had to be taken to the hospital today after–” Jeff hesitated, not sure he should tell her about the couple that had died in the hallway “–after he started his shift. He fainted. One of my co-workers went to the hospital to check on him. She’s supposed to stop in on her way back.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll just go back upstairs.” Meghan stood and headed past him, going straight to the door.

“Meghan, wait.”

She stopped and glanced back at him. “Promise me one thing,” she said.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Promise you’ll come and check on me later?” Her eyes flashed to black, then back to normal. It happened so fast, Jeff convinced himself he’d not seen it.

“I promise.” He walked her out of the back office and handed her the ice pack.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she said, planting a kiss on his lips before he could respond.

He watched her walk away before returning to his nightly post behind the desk. Waiting to for Rhiannon, he noticed that the odd couple, Kenneth and the big guy, had vanished. His bad feeling returned in spades.

Chapter Five

Eric stood behind the door to the stairwell, waiting for Meghan to step through. Before she could scream, he clamped one large hand over her mouth and clenched the other around the back of her neck; her ice pack fell to the floor with a soft thud. Dragging her up the stairs while she kicked and struggled, he sneered.

When they reached the top of the stairs, he flung her into the wall next to the door, covering her mouth and easily pinning her in place as he glanced down the hall for other guests. The corridor was clear.

Without a word, he hauled her back down to room 209.

…..

Meghan’s mind felt corrupted. Strange currencies of offsetting emotions fought for control over her senses. One moment she feared for her life, horrible thoughts of why this man had been waiting for her and what he planned to do. The next, while still quivering on the outside, inside she was cool as a winter’s night on the verge of a storm; calm and ready for the forthcoming surge of power.

The timid half of her psyche regained control as the big guy shoved her inside the doorway to her room.

I must have left the door open.

There was a smaller but creepier man–naked and waiting–at the edge of her bed.

“Oh no…no, no, no…” she cried. The big guy’s hands wrapped around her throat. Spots danced before her tear-filled eyes. When she was thirteen, she’d nearly been raped by her cousin’s best friend. Back then she had managed to claw her way from his grasp before he could force himself inside of her—running all the way home in just a t-shirt. Up until now, that moment had easily been the most traumatic experience of her life. She had a feeling this would be worse.

Chapter Six

In the arms of the girl who called herself Sarah, Timothy Laymon was reborn. His mind tingled, his skin–tight and slick with sweat and the scent of sex–felt brand new. He wanted to conquer the world, just like that old Bad Religion song, but before he could open his mouth to share these feelings of renewed vigor with her, she placed a cold hand to his chest; calmness settled over him. He was asleep within seconds. He dreamed, or rather,
remembered
the death of his ex-girlfriend, Shannon Huber.

August 22, 2007

Shannon had been acting strange the last week or so, but he just figured it had something to do with her new job at the little bookstore downtown, Burt’s Book Nook. She had only been working there for three weeks when her boss, some queer from California, decided that Shannon could handle running the place by herself while he and his boyfriend ran off on vacation. She had to do all the deposits, handle all the orders, and work from open to close the entire week. She stayed late each night, slinking through the door to their trailer after ten o’clock, looking exhausted and heading to take a shower, then straight to bed.

Today, he was going to surprise her. Her boss had finally returned from his trip, and she had the next three days off. Timothy had planned out a whole evening for them to chill out and relax. He rented a room at the Hampton Inn in Freeport figuring a romantic walk along the quaint little streets filled with mom and pop shops snuggled in among the multitude of outlet stores would offer them a nice getaway. Maybe they would grab a lobster dinner at the Muddy Rudder before heading to Helena Park to stare up at the stars. The night would conclude with them making love. 

In order to execute the surprise, he pretended to leave for work at eight in the morning as usual, when in fact he needed to pick up a couple of last minute gifts. Upon his return, he was surprised and confused to see the little red Jeep in his driveway.

Timothy walked up the steps gazing back over his shoulder as he reached for the door knob. It was locked. A sick feeling swirled to life in his stomach. He fumbled his keys out from his jean pockets struggling to unlock the door with his shaking hands. Upon entering, he instantly heard the unmistakable sounds; skin slapping skin, grunts and moans–Shannon and someone else’s. His mind went red. He dropped the bag of gifts by the boots that were not his, grabbed his autographed Mo Vaughn baseball bat from his Red Sox shrine behind the TV, and stormed toward the heartbreaking, anger-inducing soundtrack coming from his bedroom.

He kicked the half-closed door open and confirmed what he already knew to be true. Shannon had her palms on the bed and her ass to the short, moustache-wearing motherfucker standing behind her.

“Timothy? Oh my God, Timothy–this, I’m–” she sputtered as she drew herself from the naked, sweaty loser behind her, trying to cover her filthy whore ways with the sheet,
his
sheet.

“Hey man,” the naked moustache offered up, backing away, covering his throbbing cock with one hand and reaching down to the floor for his underwear with the other. “I don’t want any trouble, man. I’ll leave—I-I’ll fuckin’ leave.”

Timothy gripped the bat in both hands holding the solid stick of ash out before him like a katana blade, ready to slay his enemy and exact his revenge. He turned his gaze to Shannon, the blood in his veins boiled at her pathetic look. She should have been sorry, she should have been apologizing over and over, instead, she looked like a teenage slut caught having sex with some boy; shameful, but with a hint of a smile waiting to return. He no longer gave a shit about the loser with the moustache.

“Get your shit and get the fuck out of my house.”

“Yes, sir,” the moustache said, without even glancing at Shannon. He had his pants on in seconds. Timothy stepped aside to allow him passage to the narrow hallway. He waited until he heard the front door close. He listened as the Jeep out front started and pulled away. Then, he turned his full attention to her.

“Timothy, I–”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said.

“Tim…” Shannon reached out a trembling hand to him.             

Timothy went cold–the last two years, a lie, a sham, wasted.  Before Shannon’s filthy paw could reach him he had the bat cocked behind him. He swung as hard as he could at the extended appendage. He heard the bone snap and saw the broken arm aiming in the wrong direction. Shannon screamed. He brought his second swing down over the top of her skull, silencing her. Eternally.

Chapter Seven

Lee Buhl lit the smudge stick and a Lucky Strike. Despite the modest wealth provided by his publisher and his “special” clients, he liked to slum it in the budget hotels whenever he was outside the big cities. The smaller, economy brand motels offered a more interesting cast of characters, and more importantly–smoking rooms. The Hollis Oaks Motel 6 was his home for the next week. He was originally only booked for the two nights, but after discovering the strange stories about a place called The Bruton Inn, he’d extended through the next week.

Lee didn’t usually make a habit of bringing his basket of shaman goodies into his rooms, let alone waste his supply of sages and Mugwort, but he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something here with him. Whether it was his tired mind and his hyper-sensitive imagination conspiring to unnerve him or the fact that something knew he was here, he couldn’t tell. Not at the moment anyway. He decided to burn the smudge either way.

After the quick cleansing, too tired to actually fall asleep, he decided to haul out his laptop and do a little more digging on the Bruton Inn. His search produced a number of additional bizarre tales and rumors about the out-of-the-way hotel.

The original owner, a businessman by the name of Nathan Ford, had been murdered during the inn’s inaugural year. He’d been the victim of a violent home invasion that left his live-in girlfriend an invalid and his young daughter to the wolves of foster care. According to the article on the website, both Mr. Ford and his girlfriend, Kerry Anders, had suffered multiple stab wounds before being mutilated and sodomized.  Ford was pronounced dead when the ambulance arrived. Ms. Anders was taken to Mercy Hospital in Portland arriving in critical condition, suffering from major blood loss and brain trauma. Another search told Lee that Ms. Anders had died four years later while still tied to machines. Nathan Ford’s daughter disappeared off the grid altogether after the age of twelve. A Canadian by the name of Francois La Roux had snatched up the Bruton Inn shortly after the tragedies and reportedly still owned the property to this day.

Another tidbit he uncovered was the quiet fact that in 1983–the same year the two girls died in the swimming pool and the man whose room they’d stayed in went missing–another guest turned up reported as a missing person. Jason Perry was reported missing by his wife, Janet, that same fall. Mrs. Perry said her husband had gone out to have drinks with an old friend and never returned.

He kept searching and found the hum dinger of them all. In an article from March of 1984, it was discovered that the room the two girls–one Christina La Roza, a runaway from Colorado, and one Sarah Ford, the orphaned daughter of the original owner, Nathaniel Ford–occupied prior to their drowning’s had been the scene of multiple murders. The article went on to say that the investigation had been kept quiet per request by hotel management until the case was closed. In total, it was presumed the two girls had lured and killed at least two men–Gordon McDonough and Jason Perry. Massive amounts of blood from both men and some from each of the girls were found all through the room.

Lee lit another smoke and poured three fingers of Jameson in his glass. He punched Christina La Roza into the search. It came up with a few articles rehashing the same story he’d just read, plus one featuring an interview with her mother. He knocked back the drink and then typed in Sarah Ford. A number of articles popped up about the death of her father and his girlfriend, most of them linking the brutal attacks to Sarah. There was no proof in any of the accusations, but dots could easily be connected considering her actions six-years later.

He sat back in his chair, staring at a picture of a young girl with long brown curls, and eyes as dark as night. The notion of a biography on this girl scrolled across his thoughts followed by a bag of cash and fantasies of a
New York Times
bestseller.

He jotted down the idea on a notepad, closed the laptop, and poked out his cigarette. He got up to stretch and noticed the room was cold, much cooler than it had been when he came in from the storm. He walked to the little smoke-stained thermometer on the wall. It read seventy degrees. He tapped its side and watched the orange needle slowly drop, stopping at fifty-eight. A bad feeling slipped past his whiskey buzz. In his mind, he saw the face of the younger Sarah Ford and those dark, dark eyes.