The Haunted Halls (4 page)

Chapter Six

November 14, 1983

Two days after running away from home, Christina met her new best friend, Sarah Ford. Late that night, with seven dollars left in her pocket, Christina hitched up Route 5. Tired, weary, and nearly ready to cave in and call her mom to bring her home, she was picked up, literally and emotionally, by Sarah Ford in her sugar daddy-rented red Pontiac Firebird.

Since running away from home, Sarah had been living with her boyfriend in a shitty apartment in Denver. Something bad had happened. Some sort of fight or physical altercation between them, she hadn’t really wanted to talk about it. She’d taken a Greyhound from Denver to Boston. There, she said she met another guy, this one from Maine. He played in a band and brought her home with him after a show. According to Sarah, that relationship lasted for three months before she was forced to leave him. She wound up shacking up with a married man in Farmington. He stashed his new teen squeeze at the Bruton Inn, supplying her with ample cash and a rental car.

“So this guy just pays for your room, and that really cool car?” Christina said. The sweating bottle of Schlitz in her hand and the warm buzz the alcohol was delivering to her exhausted body felt like paradise.

“Well, I mean, it’s not like it’s for nothing,” Sarah began. “I have to fuck the guy like three nights a week, and suck his dick about twice that.” She paused to light a Marlboro. “He isn’t even good-looking, but he’s fucking loaded.”

“Wow. What about his wife?” Christina reached for the pack of cigarettes lying on the bed between them.

Sarah exhaled, handing her the pink Bic, “What about her?”

Christina lit the cigarette, took a drag, and asked, “Have you met her? Does he talk about her?”

“What do I give a fuck?”

“Do you want him to leave her?”

“No fuckin’ way.” Sarah said, rising up from the bed. She was dressed in a Van Halen t-shirt, and a pair of cut-off blue jeans, and with her long dark curls and perfect ass, she loosely resembled Daisy Duke from the
Dukes of Hazzard
. She was beautiful. No wonder she had a married man wrapped around her finger. Christina envied her.

Sarah went to the mini fridge by the television, grabbed two more beers and continued, “Tina, just look at this. This is fucking perfect. I get this rad room, money, beer and cigarettes, and that fucking car, and I don’t have to live with this guy or all of his fucking problems.” She handed Christina one of the brown bottles. “If he leaves this cunt, I’ll have to live with him and put up with his small dick every night. No thanks.”

Right off the bat, Sarah had taken to calling her Tina. It was not the first time her name had been shortened. Her Algebra teacher, Ms. Dalton, had also called her Tina. Christina liked her name just fine, but was cool with whatever anyone else liked, especially Sarah. She was in awe of this girl. Sarah had it all; looks, grit, coolness, and she had the attitude to make it all work. Christina couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman so strong, so sure of herself, so in control.

“What will you do if he tells you he wants to leave her?” she asked, scooting her bottom up against the headboard.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her expression like a junkyard dog; mean, and nasty. “Let’s just hope for his sake, he isn’t that fucking dumb.”

The look didn’t quite fit her beauty; it was too dark, too heavy. Christina didn’t like it. Sarah Ford was something all right, but Christina wasn’t sure what.

Present Day

The second floor hallway was different, yet the same. It took Jeff a minute to figure it out. The light at the opposite end went out, and he realized what it was–the portraits lining the corridor walls were all upside down.

Approaching room 211, the second light from the end went out, then the next, and then the next. He stopped.

“They won’t stop screaming.”

Jeff turned to find Gale Thompson standing directly behind him. He hadn’t heard the tall blonde creep up on him, and found it unnerving. Her ice cold blue eyes stared beyond him. Turning to see what she was looking at, he was terror-stricken by the two people approaching from the shadowy end of the hallway.

The tall guy from room 213 and a beautiful dark-haired girl he had never seen before stalked in their direction. The big guy, wearing a blood-covered grin, carried something in his hand that was dripping all over the plush maroon hallway carpet. The severed head of Ben Thompson. The dark-haired girl’s long, sky blue gown was also splattered with blood. Black orbs stared out from their skulls in place of eyes. Depthless, yet infinite—no white, no color, just perfect darkness.

Jeff tried to retreat, backing into the tall blonde whose husband’s head was in this monster’s hands, but she didn’t budge. He turned backed to her and found her blue irises had also gone cold. She unleashed a heart-stopping scream as the blood began to seep from the corners of black eyes.

Jeff Braun woke up screaming and sat bolt upright in his hotel bed. Sweat, exuding from every pour, slicked his bare chest and back. He frantically searched for the lamp on the night stand, knocking the alarm clock to the floor. The little black box landed with a soft thud. He found the switch, and with a trembling hand, turned the bedside light on.

He swung his legs out of from under the heavy covers and placed his feet on the plush carpeting feeling the full fibers between his toes. Bending over, he buried his face in his sweaty palms, trying to rub the nightmare away. His right leg was shaking up a storm, a nervous tick he’d had since he was a kid. He saw the dark pools that served eyes of the people from his dream flash across his mind.

He jumped up from the bed. “Fuck.”

He was in room 109. On average, he slept at the hotel about once a week, usually when he hadn’t gotten much sleep the day before, or if he was just in need of a break from his roommate. Last night’s odd trio of events had sunk in a little deeper than he had thought.

He made his way into the bathroom, filled the Dixie cup with cold water, and guzzled it down. He put it on the counter, and picked up his cheap brown wristwatch lying next to a blue and white bottle of toothpaste.

9:38

He’d slept the entire day away. It wasn’t that strange considering he had been up most of the day before and worked until seven this morning, but he usually rose well before sunset when he stayed at the inn. As comfortable as the king-sized beds were, he still had a tendency to wake up after only five or six hours of shut-eye like he did whenever he’d stayed at a friend’s house, or on the floor after a party somewhere he’d never been before; there was an anxiousness that set off his internal alarm clock so as not to overextend his welcome.  He chocked it up to the dream.

What a fucking dream
, he thought, starting the shower. Letting the water’s heat seep into his skin, washing the perspiration and the nightmare away, he thought of the odd couple in room 213, replaying last night’s peculiar events:

After
receiving the phone call from the Thompson’s in 213 about the noise coming from 211, he rushed up to the second floor. Unhappy guests usually get a full refund– Bruton Inn policy. Upon exiting the elevator, he turned the corner to find Mrs. Thompson and her husband, Ben, standing in the hallway staring at the door of the room next to theirs.

“Hi, I’m so sorry about this,” he started.

“Shhhh, don’t you hear that,” Mrs. Thompson said, placing her ear to the door.

Jeff couldn’t hear a thing, but made an effort to extend his guests the courtesy of being interested. “I don’t hear anything,” he said, before turning to Mr. Thompson. “Did you say that they were screaming?”

Ben Thompson, dressed in blue-and-white-striped pajamas, grabbed his wife by the wrist and pulled her away from the door, pushing his way past Jeff without saying a word. His wife just smiled, staring at Jeff with eyes that danced like a witch at a séance.

Without another word, they returned to their room and shut the door. Jeff never heard from them again. Perplexed by the overall strangeness of the moment, he decided to take another listen, this time placing
his
ear to the door to room 211, not sure what, if anything, to expect.

There was nothing, and then–he thought he heard a giggle, like a small child playing hide and go seek. Trying not to give themselves away, but unable to hold back their excitement. It sent a chill spiraling down his spine. He wanted to back away, but could not. There was movement behind him.

He spun around, startled by the presence. It was Meghan Murphy

“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered, embarrassed by his fear.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she whispered back. Her brown eyes looked at him playfully. “I hope you haven’t been eavesdropping on me, too.”

Her devilish grin erased his resonating dread, along with the unwarranted hurt he’d felt at her for ignoring him earlier. All was forgiven.

“Of course not, I am a gentleman. I would never stoop to the levels of lesser men.” They moved away from 211, heading back down the hall in the direction of the elevator.

“Good,” she said, looking ahead. “I wouldn’t want you hearing what I do to myself in the privacy of my own room.”

The bizarre statement swam between them, awkward and out of place. Nonetheless, he blushed imagining her masturbating.
This girl can’t be for real
.

“Sorry we couldn’t hang out tonight. I had some work to catch up on.”

“Aw, that’s all right. I had some business to take care of, too.” He nodded in the direction of room 211.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night, okay?” She bit her bottom lip, and placed a hand on his forearm.

His flesh tingled under her touch. A rush of warmth flooded his face, but he remained cool. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be here.”

“Good night.” She leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips.

Fireworks went off in his mind, accompanied by a sense of light-headedness. He smelled and tasted the cherry flavored Chap Stick on her lips. She kept her soft mouth pressed to his for an extra couple of seconds. He tried to say goodnight, but was speechless.

She smiled, and disappeared behind the door.

“Good night,” he whispered, swimming deep in the love buzz.

His thoughts were only of her for the rest of the night; the odd couple from 213, and the disturbing giggle behind the door of room 211, all but forgotten.

Now, standing in the shower in his room, he remembered the taste of Meghan Murphy’s lips, and thought of her pleasuring herself in the privacy of her room. He imagined what tonight might have to offer, while doing a little pleasuring of his own.

Chapter Seven

In room 211, Eric Gentry opened his new eyes and saw red.
She
had spoken to him.
She
had caressed him.
She
had changed him. He brought his hands up before his face; the red luminous outline faded fast returning the pinkish skin back to the more flesh-toned covering he was accustomed to. They looked the same, but beneath the surface, he knew they were not. Eric was no longer what he appeared to be. He wasn’t sure
what
he had become, but whatever it was felt strong, far stronger than he had been before his transformation at the hands of the icy apparition.

He rose to his feet, t-shirt covered in blood. He moved through the spacious suite, knowing she was gone, but seeking her nonetheless. He was alone. He stepped into the bathroom to gaze upon his new eyes. Blackness stared back.

A voice inside gave him his first initiative.

“I will.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Eric Gentry went to the door, exited room 211, and headed back to his room.

“What the fuck…” Jimmy Curran managed groggily. He heard the door open, and through squinting, adjusting eyes, saw the silhouette of his large roommate dressed in the pale hallway light. “What time is it, man?” Jimmy gazed at the red LED’s of the alarm clock next to his head.

3:33

“Shit, dude. Did you get lucky, or something?”

Eric moved to his bedside, looming like Frankenstein.

“What are you doing?” Jimmy fumbled for the lamp behind the alarm clock.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Eric said.

Before Jimmy could ask why, Eric locked his fingers into Jimmy’s curly brown locks, effortlessly lifting him up off the full-sized bed and tossing him across the room into the TV stand.

Jimmy felt his ribs snap as he crashed against the large piece of oak furniture. A cry escaped his lips. He pulled his knees up under him, and reached out in the dark toward the shape coming for him. “Jesus Christ, Eric, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Eric’s size 12 boot smashed square into his face, exploding Jimmy’s nose in a bloody mess and sending him flat on his back.

Gagging on two of his front teeth as they hit the back of his throat, the pain from his cracked ribs was a distant memory in comparison to the abrupt rearrangement of his face. Jimmy’s thoughts tumbled over one another in his befuddled mind, swimming through a mix of fear, confusion, and pain. Through tears, coughing up the blood now pooling in his throat, Jimmy Curran made one last attempt to make sense of this sudden whirlwind of chaos. “Why are you doing this?” He stared up at his dark friend. The crack of light, suffusing through the partially open door, gave him the first glimpse of the thing before him, and its black orbs. “Y-your eyes. What the hell’s wrong with your–”

Eric Gentry slammed the heel of his army surplus combat boot through the mess of his friend’s face; the impact making a sickly crack, pop, and squelching sound. A mix of blood, other fluids, and bits of brain matter sprayed a splattered pattern of gore from where he planted his foot through the last terrified expression of his roommate’s face.

The voice within was pleased.

November 19, 1983

“Bring her in. She can watch.” Gordon Kilpatrick licked his lips as he gaped at his naked teen beauty as she picked up the receiver by the desk. He couldn’t believe she had a friend who wanted to join them. He was one lucky son of a bitch.

Sarah had to dial down to the lobby where Christina was killing time during Gordon’s visit.

“He wants to meet you…No, Tina, its fine. You don’t have to do anything. Just come up while we finish, okay?” There was a pause on the other end of the line. Sarah lit a smoke as she waited. “Okay, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die. Just get up here already.”

She hung up the receiver and moved to the fridge for another beer.

“Well? Is your little friend coming up to play?” Gordon said. He lay naked, propped up on his right elbow, still sweating from their last fuck.

Sarah was disgusted by the look of excitement and anticipation upon his ugly mug. Her disdain for him was furthered by the thin black mustache sitting above even thinner pale lips, and the sweaty tangle of graying chest fur that extended down to his thick patch of pubic hair. His giddiness was getting on her nerves, but she had a plan.

The door opened. Christina crept in wearing dark sunglasses, a light blue Incredible Hulk t-shirt, and a red skirt she’d borrowed from Sarah.

“Hi Sugar, what’s your name?” Gordon said.

“Her name's none of your goddamn business.” Sarah stalked across the room, and smacked him hard across his twitching face.

He sat in shock for a split second before exploding in a rage, grabbing her by the breasts and pushing her into the wall beside the bed. As she gasped for air, he landed a right cross to her jaw, dropping her to the floor. He then turned his attention to Tina.

Christina circled around the room trying to avoid him. She glanced around the disheveled desk, searching for anything that could be used to fend this asshole off. She settled for a beer bottle.

“You wanna hit me with that? Huh? Come on sweet tits, take your best shot.” He offered up his chin.

“Fuck you.” She hauled the bottle back behind her head ready to strike down with everything she had, but never got the chance.

He dove for her, driving her to the floor with all 170 pounds of his nakedness.

She could feel his hard-on stabbing at her thighs as he reached up and swatted the bottle out of her hands. Pinning her arms above her head with one hand, and reaching beneath her skirt with the other, Sarah’s sugar daddy tore Christina’s panties off with one violent tug.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I
won’t
be gentle, but I’ll make up for it with a strong effort.” He squeezed a knee between her legs, prying them apart, leaned in close, and lapped at the tears streaming down her face.

Christina shut her eyes against him, and prayed for help.

Gordon suddenly whaled like a banshee in the night, releasing her throat and grabbing at his back. Tina screamed, pounding at his face with her boney knuckles. She managed to squirm her way away from the prong he had been trying to stick her with. His blood was everywhere as he started shouting, “You bitch. You ungrateful little bitch.”

Sarah pulled a knife out of his back, producing another scream from him.

Christina watched as dark clouds pulled back over Sarah’s pretty features just before the incredible, raging girl propelled forward and straddled her sugar daddy’s bleeding back. She raised the long blade above her head before plunging it into the back of the man’s neck.

Sarah left the blade buried within him as she sat up, naked and panting like a wild animal. She turned her gaze on Christina, the dark look holding for a second longer before dissipating into a look of determination.

“We need to hide him, and quick,” Sarah said. “There might not be a lot of people at the hotel right now, but chances are, someone heard that. They’re gonna call the front desk, or come banging on our door to find out what the hell’s going on.”

Christina sat trembling in the corner of the room where she had planted herself after her near-rape. Her eyes unfocused, her knees knocking together like the time after her mom spun them out driving too fast on an icy road last Christmas on their way to her grandmothers.

Sarah slid from the bleeding body, scrunched her naked form down in front of her, and slapped her hard across the face. “I said fucking help me. Jesus, Tina, do you wanna put us both in jail?”

Christina shook her head erratically, taking Sarah’s outstretched hand.

No one called. No one came to check on them. They had the dead body wrapped up in the thick comforter of the bed and stuffed in the back of the large walk-in closet.

Sarah, who had put on a clean flannel shirt and jeans, lit another cigarette as she watched her timid friend staring out the large hotel window at the setting sun. Tina was a nice kid, too nice maybe. But there would be time to deal with that later. “We’ll have to get him out of here tonight or he’ll stink up the place. I have his credit cards and his wallet. We can cruise to the K-Mart in Hollis Oaks and get some clean sheets. We should have enough cash to stick around here straight through to Christmas, at least. I always made him bring me cash.”

Sarah didn’t like the look Tina threw her. “You act like you’ve done this before,” Tina said.

“Yeah, well, guys are pieces of shit.” Sarah answered, taking a long drag from her cigarette.   

“I, I can’t believe you.” Tina stood up and shook her hands in the direction of the closet. “You act like this is nothing?”

“I can’t believe
you
. This fucking asshole, scumbag-fuck, just tried to rape you,” Sarah said. “And I stopped him.”

“You brought me up here. You’re the one who put me in that position,” Tina said.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. She stepped up to Tina’s face and stared the smaller, weaker girl down. She grabbed her beer off the desk next to her and flipped the television on. Jack Tripper was ogling a nice blonde down at the Regal Beagle. “You’ll go down at 3:30 and distract the old man that works the desk at night while I move that dead bastard out through the back entrance.”

Sarah went back to laughing at
Three’s Company
.

Present Day

In his room, Kenneth McGowan stared through a Thorazine haze out at the multicolored forest behind the Bruton Inn. Perched before the large window, his eyes drifted over patches of green, yellow, and auburn as they danced playfully in a soft breeze under the rays of a late October sun. His mind was on a holiday. Sitting motionless, barely breathing, he hid in the blurred-out corners of his mind from the beautiful girl with the hollow eyes sitting on the bed behind him.

Down the hall, after a refreshingly quiet night, Jeff Braun jerked and twisted, serving guests from a nightmare version of his hotel. He was talking in his deep, suffocating sleep. The words were prayers, each one colored in desperation.