by A J Rivers
It isn't completely derelict, but it's obviously not what it used to be. I park in one of the many available spots and walk under a sagging portico into the lobby. There's a cavernous feel to it. There should be more people to take up the space.
Not just the physical space. But the energy of it. The air. There should be more sound, more vibration of existence.
Instead, it's just still.
I cross the lobby to the front desk. A woman standing behind it looks up at me and offers a hopeful smile.
"Good afternoon," she says. "Welcome to the Garden View. My name is Cheryl. How long will you be staying with us?"
"Actually, I'm not getting a room. Can I speak with the manager?"
She looks at me with a flicker of hurt in her eyes, and I smile at her in what I hope is a reassuring way.
“Sure,” she says. “I'll be right back.”
She walks into an office behind the desk, and a few seconds later, a man comes out. He walks up to the desk with a smile that feels just a little off.
“Hello,” he says. “My name is David Robinson; I'm the manager of this hotel. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” I say. “I'm actually looking for somebody who I think is staying here. I haven't been able to get in touch with her, and I need to speak with her.”
“And what is your name?” he asks.
“Emma Griffin,” I say.
His eyes lift to me with an incredulous expression.
“Agent Emma Griffin?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, my eyebrows sliding toward each other as I narrow my eyes at him. “How did you know that?”
“I was actually getting ready to call you,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
This visit is already not off to the most reassuring of starts.
“We have a guest who we had not heard from in almost two days. We entered her room and found it empty,” he says. “But her personal items were still here.
“Lydia,” I say, letting out a breath with her name.
“Yes,” he says. “While we were looking for her, phone calls came from you to her phone. I was going to ask you to come here and claim her belongings.”
Part of me feels that is just a subtle way for him to say he wants me to settle-up her bill. What I'm more worried about is where Lydia is and why she hasn't been seen or heard from.
“Is everything still in her room?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “We left it just as it was except for checking her phone.”
“Can I go up and see it?”
“Yes, of course. But you understand, I will need to accompany you,” he says.
This feels like the beginning of a movie I don't want to be a part of, but I agree anyway. It's the only way I'm going to be able to get into her room and figure out what happened to her. Robinson steps back into the office for a second and comes back with a key card. I follow him to the elevator, and we go up to the third floor.
“It's just right here,” he says, guiding me to the fourth room down the hall. He uses the key card to access the room. I step inside, and the room feels as if Lydia was just there. There's a lingering perfume smell in the air, and her suitcase is open on one of the beds.
“No housekeeping came in?” I ask.
“They did but noticed she hadn’t even used the beds.”
I sift through her suitcase and the drawers. Her computer is here, along with the small notebook she carries with her. On its own, that is disturbing.
“And she didn't say anything unusual to anyone?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “She checked in and did not interact with the staff again. We do have our suspicions that she left the hotel, perhaps to avoid her bill.”
"Why would you think that?" I ask.
“Surveillance footage shows her movements," he says.
"You have surveillance footage? Can I see it?"
“Come with me,” Robinson says.
I leave all of Lydia’s belongings in her room and follow the manager down to the security office.
The manager presses play on the footage and zooms in the first camera that catches Lydia. She comes into frame from the bottom, moving up the hall rather normally at first. Then she stumbles for a moment and stops to regain her composure. One hand goes to the wall, and she continues her steps, her fingertips tracing the way as she walks.
“This is the first time she shows up on the footage. She must have come in from one of the outside doors directly into this hall,” the manager explains.
“Are there a lot of those?” I ask.
“Only in that part of the hotel. The others are locked for safety purposes. They have loud alarm systems on them now, so no one uses them unless it’s an emergency.”
I nod and continue watching. Pointing at the screen, I look over at the manager again.
“It says ‘stairs’ here, with an arrow. Is that stairwell accessible?” I ask.
“Sure, but hardly anyone ever uses it, aside from exercise nuts who want to get steps in and people looking for a semi-private place to get kinky,” he says. I don’t like the way his lip curls up in a grin at the end of that sentence. The grossness of his grin radiates off him like too much cologne.
“Are there cameras in the stairwells?”
“No,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. I decide to let that one slide for now.
Lydia continues down the hall until she is out of view of the camera, and Mr. Robinson clicks the mouse. The view changes to another camera. This time Lydia is coming down from the top of the frame. As she gets about halfway down the hall, she suddenly stops and spins around. She is facing away from the camera, but it seems as if her jaw is moving as she’s talking to someone.
“Is anyone else in the hall with her?” I ask.
“No, the other camera, if you look on that screen, shows the first camera. It’s empty. It looks like she’s talking to herself, right?”
I don’t respond but sit back in my chair to keep watching. As Lydia makes her way down the halls, she begins to act more and more erratically. She begins to zigzag in the hall, occasionally bouncing off the wall and stumbling a bit. Once or twice she looks as if she’s half-heartedly trying a couple of doors, but they don’t open, so she continues.
The next camera I see shows a wide shot of a hallway with a dead end. Elevators line the wall the camera is facing, and Lydia comes from the bottom of the screen. She trips and falls down but gets herself back up quickly, ducking behind a large plant and hiding like a child. Only there is no playfulness there.
“She must have been wasted,” David comments, but I ignore him.
Lydia peeks her head out from behind the plant and looks back down the hall in the direction she came from. Then, sneaking out, she crosses over to the other wall and ducks behind it. She looks back down the hall again before turning away toward one of the ends of the hallway where the camera doesn’t see. It looks as if she is still talking.
“Where is this part of the hotel?” I ask.
“Deep in the East Wing. That’s what’s so odd. We rarely have anyone staying down there.”
Lydia continues her conversation with whatever she thinks she’s seeing, then looks back down the hall again. She seems to relax, as if whatever is chasing her stopped. Then something gets her attention from behind her, off beside the elevators where she had been speaking before, and she wanders that way, disappearing from view.
“And that’s it,” David says.
“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? Where is the next camera?” I ask.
“There are none. That end of the hotel is blocked off to guests. Boarded up, even. Those elevator doors don’t even open. It’s why we don’t put people in those rooms often; that part of the hotel isn’t really used.”
“So, she just disappears?” I ask, my voice rising in frustration.
“Essentially, yes,” he nods, but there is something in his eyes. Something I can’t quite read.
“Essentially,” I repe
at. “Have you searched the hotel?”
“Of course we have,” he says, sounding slightly offended.
“Have you? Personally?” I ask. There is a moment where he stares at me and blinks. Then he nods.
“Yes, but if you would like, I can take you out there, and you can see for yourself. She vanished without a trace at that point.”
“Let’s go,” I say, standing. Something isn’t adding up. People don’t just vanish.
Mr. Robinson leads me down to the hallway from the video, and we begin to walk slowly down it. As we reach the area I recognize from the first clip, I see a door leading to the outside. There is an emergency bar on it, but it looks as if it’s compressed permanently.
“Is this the door you were talking about?” I ask. “Where she got in?”
“Yes, it is used fairly often, so we disabled the emergency lock,” he says dismissively. As if all hotels have doors that are randomly left unlocked.
We keep walking, and I touch the walls where I remember her fingers tracing. I look back over my shoulder at times when I remember her doing the same. But nothing stands out. It’s just a hotel hallway.
“This is where she fell against the wall,” the manager points, a note of disdain in his voice. “Whatever she was on was affecting her balance pretty badly.”
I peer ahead to the end of the hallway. The bank of useless elevators sits, gold paint peeling away from what I am sure were once impressive columns. I make my way directly to the area where Lydia was seen last. When we get there, I turn to where she went. There is a blank wall, a utility closet, the door missing, and nothing else other than disheveled equipment leaned against the wall in various places.
“What’s all this?” I ask, pointing at the buckets and boxes lying around.
“Ah, just remnants from when the remodel was in full effect. Since no one stays on this side of the hotel, there was no rush to clean up when they abandoned it.”
“Were they working on the elevators?” I ask.
“Among other things,” he says. There is a caginess in his response.
Something catches my eye, and I step closer to it. Behind one of the large pieces of plywood leaning against the wall is another door. It is newer and cheap, but the lock looks solid.
“Where does this door go?” I ask.
“Oh, that? That’s locked. It has been locked for ages.”
“Where does it go, Mr. Robinson?” I ask again, this time, my voice dropping a little.
“I told you, it is locked.”
I turn toward him, and my expression must say all the words that are needed.
“But, if you like, I am sure I have a key.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
As Mr. Robinson searches for the key, I move the plywood out of the way, shoving some buckets as well.
“You see all the stuff that’s here. It’s been in that exact spot for months, at least,” he says as he tries one of the keys.
“I’d still feel better if I took a look,” I say.
“Of course,” he mutters under his breath. “Ah, there it is.”
Turning the knob, the door gives, and he pulls it toward him. Beyond it is darkness.
“As you can see, there’s no electricity back here. As I said before, no one goes here. At one time, this was a ballroom used for conventions and parties and the like, but there was far too much for the owners to fix, and they elected to close it down until they wanted to deal with it. We replaced the door with one that locks firmly, and I assume they blocked even that with the plywood to discourage curious guests.”
“There’s no electricity on this side of the hotel?” I ask, stepping closer.
“That is correct.”
“Then what is that light back there?”
Mr. Robinson stammers for a moment, his eyes following my finger, pointing to the far end of the ballroom. Behind stacks of chairs, draped with sheets, there is a pinprick light glowing in the distance. I watch his head turn sideways, and his eyebrow wrinkles before he turns to me.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admits.
“Then let’s get one,” I say, moving toward the door.
“Miss Griffin, I must object. I don’t know what kind of equipment is in there or how dangerous the room could be.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I say and brush by him. I step into the darkness, and my footsteps echo off the hardwood floors. I turn back toward him. “You coming?”
There is a moment’s hesitation before he nods. “Yes,” he says.
“And that’s Agent Griffin to you,” I add.
I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight. It illuminates the room quite well, and I take in the vastness of the space. Tables and chairs are pushed against either wall, sheets draped over them gathering dust. I go up to a few of them, crisscrossing the room, looking for obvious signs of someone being here. Nothing jumps out at me, so we continue moving through.
“I just don’t understand there being a light on,” the manager wonders aloud as he stays rather close beside me. “The electricity in this part of the hotel has been off for some time. It has done wonders for the power usage. This room was extraordinarily difficult to heat in the winter and cool in the summer.”
“I imagine,” I note as I sweep the light up the walls to the high ceilings above.
I point the flashlight down toward where the tiny emergency light is shining. It does little to illuminate the giant room, but it does give me the impression that nothing will impede us, so we head that way. As we reach the end of the hall, the light hangs above us, and we both stare up at it. Just below it is another door. There is no lock on it.
“It’s an industrial kitchen,” he says without prompting. “When they would have weddings and things of that nature here, this is where all the cooking would be done. It’s dark in there, so I assume the electricity has been off in there for a long time. The emergency light must have been given an exception for some reason.”
“Or,” I said, pushing the door open. As soon as I am inside the room, I reach for the wall. My fingers stumble across it until I feel the plastic underneath, and I flip the switches with one finger.
The room lights up in brilliant white light.
“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Robinson says beside me. “These lights should be off. All of these lights should be off.”
“Shh,” I say, putting one finger to my lips and holding my other hand out to him. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The low humming sound.” Somewhere on the edge of my hearing, a hum drones at the lowest pitch. It’s constant yet quiet. Like an appliance that was left on.
“I don’t…. oh, wait,” he says, suddenly seeming to catch the sound.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Miss Griffin, I don’t know. None of this is making any sense to me.”
I follow the sound across the kitchen. The islands in the middle of the room are on wheels, but none of them seems to have been moved in some time, judging by the fine layer of dust on the floor. Except one. It is set beside a large metal door, and a streak of clean floor seems to suggest it was shoved there recently; the area around it has marks that look like footprints mixed together.
Suddenly, I realize the room is very cold.
“It’s the freezer,” I say, pointing to the metal door. “The freezer is on. And someone has been here not long ago.” I walk up to it despite a blubbering objection and a hand that reaches out to stop me. When I yank the door open, the cold air washes over me, and the chill runs up my spine.
But the chill from the cold is nothing compared with the one I get when I look down. Just beyond the door, to see the lifeless, frozen body of Lydia Walsh.
“You saw her on the video. She was obviously extremely drunk, or high, or something,” the manager stammers as soon as he sees the body. He doesn’t even recoil or act surprised. Immediately, his lips just start moving in an attempt to blame the victim, the woman who once lived
inside the skin lying near my feet. But his yammering is falling on deaf ears.
“You need to call the police right now. I’ll need to take pictures for evidence,” I say.
He doesn’t budge at first, and I take another step toward him. When I do, his eyes, which had been locked on Lydia, move over to me. Finally, he nods and takes a few steps away from the freezer, pulling his phone out of his pocket. I watch him dial and notice his hands don’t shake. His voice doesn’t warble when they answer.
“Yes, I have to report a dead body,” he starts, looking over his shoulder at me. I turn to take pictures but keep my ear out for him.
Poor Lydia. She’s curled up in the fetal position, as if she was trying to stay warm in her final moments. I take dozens of pictures, getting as close as I can without touching her, moving to different angles. I see no visible wounds. She must have frozen to death.
“Some girl,” Mr. Robinson’s voice cuts through my thoughts, “got drunk or high and wandered down into a restricted area of our hotel.”
He is laying the foundation for denying liability, shifting the blame to Lydia. But I know better than that. I might not have known her extremely well, but I knew she wasn’t the type to get blitzed and lock herself in a freezer. Especially when she thought she was working on a case.
“A restricted area that somehow has electricity,” I interject. Mr. Robinson sighs heavily. “Of course,” he continues into the phone, “I can meet the officers outside and bring them right in. Thank you.”
Pulling the phone away from his ear, Mr. Robinson stuffs it back into his pocket and stands there, his eyes falling back on the body. I turn toward him, and he looks back at me. I still can’t completely read the expression on his face.
“Why did this area of the hotel have electricity if you said it was shut off?” I ask.
“I would like to know the same thing,” he says, his hand sliding through his hair in exasperation. “But you saw the tape. You saw her tripping and stumbling and talking to people who weren’t there. She was clearly on something, Miss Griffin.”
