by Glenn Rolfe
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 la
nded 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.
Chapter Eight
A day off from work meant Rhiannon could catch up on some much needed shopping. First up was the Goodwill. She managed to pick up a couple of cool new vintage t-shirts and scored a rare find: a purple pair of Chuck Taylors. Next up, she grabbed a sandwich at Subway, then headed to Barnes and Noble to hit up the only Starbucks in forty miles and grab a couple of new magazines to read at work.
A poster for an in-store signing this afternoon hung by the stack of “New Arrivals.” An author named Lee Buhl. She’d never heard of him or the series of books next to his picture. He was pretty cute, but had that smug writer look: condescending eyes over a cheap perfect, white smile. A lavender button-up shirt opened so you could see a wooden Indian pendent hung over his fit chest, and more rings on his fingers than any man should be allowed. Okay, maybe the “condescension” in his eyes was her projecting upon the guy, but she’d met enough uppity jerks at the hotel to recognize the type. Lee Buhl may be the sweetest guy in the world, but she had her doubts.
She grabbed the new Entertainment Weekly and the new Fangoria. She wasn’t a huge horror fanatic, but Jeff would probably appreciate it, and she enjoyed bringing in rags that her buddies could flip through as well. Her generosity ended at Maxim. She stepped in line and couldn’t help but notice the man who walked through the front doors. It was the author from the poster. He stopped just inside, reached in his shirt pocket and threw on a pair of sunglasses. Yep. Definitely a schmuck.
She laughed to herself and decided between the magazines and this jerk, she had enough reason to swing by the hotel and see Kurt.
…
Lee Buhl liked to get a feel for a book store and its customers prior to his autograph sessions. Some towns, like Dalton, Ohio, were overrun by scummy trailer trash. Others, like Portland, Maine featured a nice mix of wealth and character. Hollis Oaks seemed to be one of those in-betweens–not too ugly, not too pretty, just a bunch of regular folk. Plain was his preference. They were just happy to have a pseudo-celebrity in their midst. Their smiles were sincere and their requests were humble–a quick picture here, a “with love” there. In a place like Dalton, their smiles seethed with jealousy, in the bigger, hipper cities, the crazy fans or wanna-be writers were out in droves.
Lee smiled at a couple of blondes by the Nooks next to his poster, and then made his way to grab a shot of caffeine. The blondes strafed along behind him. No doubt recognizing him from the mini-billboard. He watched them from behind his shades as they whispered to one another, eying him. Dressed in tight jeans and t-shirts that left little to the imagination, the two girls looked dangerously young. They waited until he had his iced Frappuccino in hand before making their move.
He signed copies of his book they grabbed from the “New Arrival” table. One of them asked him to sign it to Sexy Lexi. He
did. Before they moved along, he produced his business card and scribbled his cell number on the back for “Sexy” Lexi. Nine out of ten times, they chickened out from making the call. He figured her a bit young to have the balls, but you never know. Young girls these days are full of surprises.
Another shiver danced through him. This time, he was pretty sure it was from the cold drink, but he’d been wrong before. He needed to find out if there was really something special in this town. He made a mental note to meditate on it when he got back to the motel.
Chapter Nine
Timothy Laymon pulled his purring blue 2012 Ford Mustang into the back lot of the Bruton Inn. In the two days since checking in he could not find one thing to complain about. Everything had been perfect. The breakfast was terrific (bacon and eggs). The indoor pool was 9-feet-deep, had a diving board and two Jacuzzi’s to boot. The inn, which seemed empty when he arrived on Thursday morning, was now crawling with beautiful college girls, and unfortunately, their parents. According to the cute young girl at the front desk, this was a parent’s weekend for the nearby college. The sights around the pool the night before were unbelievable. Blondes, brunettes, red heads, and even a punker girl with blue hair, all hanging out around the crystal clear water, wet from head to toe and showing off their nubile bodies in bikinis and hot shorts. He couldn’t believe his luck. Timing is everything.
He strode into the lobby clad in a midnight blue dress shirt, a Henry Jacobson black and white striped tie, and a pair of skinny jeans, armed with a case of Maine’s best beer, Shipyard Summer Ale. There were two dark-haired girls who could have passed as sisters watching him. He smiled behind his shades. They smiled back, the taller one on the left giving him a quick wave. This is going to be a great weekend.
He got into his room, unloaded the beers in his fridge, and flipped on HBO.
