by Glenn Rolfe
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–Gordo
n 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.
Chapter Eight
Kenneth’s virginity had died a wonderful death at the will of his rescuer, the Ice Queen. He didn’t count having his man-pussy ravaged by “Uncle” Wes as his official first time. He no longer cared about that, she had given him this beautiful girl as a reward for his dirty work in the woods. This girl had cried and fought for the first couple of minutes, but a few hard shots to the face had subdued her. He was about to explode his gift into Meghan Murphy when he was rudely snatched from behind and thrown to the far side of the room. His sweaty back slammed against the far wall, his hard on, slick with the girl’s fluids, firing cum into the cold air. Eric had robbed him of his moment. Kenneth’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the big guy moving in and out of their latest recruit. He imagined himself walking up behind the dumb lug, putting a blade in his spine, and watching him bleed all over the floor, but he knew she would not be pleased with such an action. Imagining the vengeful act would have to do, for now.
…..
Meghan felt a change spiral through her. Her body betrayed her. Looking into the eyes of this larger man, there was a sense of desire coursing through her veins and a wetness between her legs. He entered her, fast and hard, driving into her sex–a Mack truck barreling down a steep hill with no breaks and no cares. More confusion, more impossible thoughts attacked her mind while he attacked her body. Her hatred faded, replaced with hunger. Her grunts came louder and with more ferocity at each powerful thrust. She sunk her long black nails into his broad back drawing blood as she dragged them down to his ass, pulling him closer, begging him to drive deeper. She moaned and growled until she felt herself racing toward climax. The moans turned to shrills of ecstasy. The anticipation was near unbearable. She began to whimper, began to cry. “Now! Now! Now!” she said. She felt his release; an electrical current blazed through her womanhood and up through her entire body. Her mind was slammed with a white heat as a dark red vision slipped over her sight. Images of a river of crimson pleasures, splashing across her own naked form buried the last shred of evidence that Meghan Murphy had ever been.
…..
Eric had done as she had told him. This girl was now theirs. He finished his part and then pulled himself free and watched the spell take hold. The pretty girl’s eyes rolled up into the back of her skull, her hands pawing at every inch of her body following the new energy moving through her. Her legs twitched, toes curled. One second she was laughing, the next she was crying. The scream that signaled the end of her transformation ripped through the room bringing a dark grin to his face. As the scream died out, her body fell still.
…..
Kenneth McGowan needed a release, and not just the wasted jism he had decorated the floor in room 209 with. There was a monster inside of him that wanted out. He left Eric and the changing girl in the room, and walked down to the room he’d seen the man and the boy with the Red Sox raincoat earlier come from. He thought about them whispering about him.
I’ll teach you to keep your mouths shut.
Kenneth knocked on the door and waited. After a minute, the man opened the door.
“Yes?” the man said. His eyes drop to Kenneth’s nakedness. “What the hell?”
The man tried to close the door in Kenneth’s face, but with the new gifts given to him by her, Kenneth pushed his way into the room. He grabbed the man who was almost half a foot taller than him and threw him to the ground. He slammed the door shut.
“What do you want? Money? I haven’t got much, but I could–”
Kenneth slammed the heel of his bare foot into the man’s mouth, feeling a surge of power and excitement at the sight of the blood. It was as if each act under her command gave him a little more strength; he liked it. He liked it a lot. Before the man could plead his benign case for mercy, Kenneth smashed his bleeding heel down again. He continued the violent act until the man’s face was ruined.
“Daddy,” the boy said, waking up from his slumber.
Kenneth McGowan limped over the broken body on the floor, stepping up to the cowering boy on the bed.
“You’re Daddy’s gone. I’m here to take care of you now.” He raised a blood-splattered hand to the boys head, petting his blond crop of hair.
“Wh-wh-who are you?”
“You can call me Uncle Kenny.”
Chapter Nine
The lights of the Bruton Inn came into view as Rhiannon turned the corner. Emotionally wiped, she’d already decided she would be staying the night; no way was she going back to her empty apartment. She needed to sit down and try to wrap her head around what the hell was happening.
She pulled into the parking lot of the inn. The pavement was wet. She hadn’t seen a drop of rain in Hollis Oaks. The building stood silent. Room windows were lit up sporadically across the front side. For the amount of cars in the front lot, there should have been more signs of life. It was quiet. Oh stop it, she told herself. The nervous part of her brain wondered if she’d been wrong about the middle-aged quitters who believed in what? Ghosts? Demons? Something or someone had been in Kurt’s room at the hospital. She wasn’t fucking crazy. Whatever it was had chased her into town and that old man into the intersection.
She pulled around to the back lot. It wasn’t nearly as full as the front. See, there really aren’t that many guests tonight. No ghosts, no goblins. The thought was comforting, but there was still no way she was walking around out here in the dark. She turned around near the back corner, and drove back around to the front rolling up and parking beside a red mini-van. She shut the car off, got out, and walked into the lobby of the well-lit hotel. The front desk was deserted. She saw the Be Right Back sign sitting next to the little round silver bell and the Ring Bell for Service sign and decided to grab some coffee while she waited for Jeff.
…..
Jeff ascended the stairs with caution certain that someone or something was going to jump out at him and send him plummeting down the stairs like Meghan. Maybe I should quit reading so many horror comics. He reached the top step and glanced down the hall. Kenneth McGowan came charging out of a room buck naked. Jeff stood quietly in the stairwell as Kenneth McGowan hobbled across the hall and knocked on the door.
What are you up to?
The door opened and Kenneth disappeared into the room; the lights along the hall flickered and then steadied. Jeff’s mouth went dry.
Chapter Ten
Kenneth knocked on the door for room 225. A man opened the door. Kenneth walked in and pushed him backward. He closed the door, shutting the couple off from their only way out.
The woman on the bed in the sexy negligée covered herself at the sight of him. With one quick strike, Kenneth kn
ocked the nose of the man between them up into his brain, dropping him to the floor
“Jonathan,” she cried. Kenneth charged at her. She held her hands up in a weak attempt to defend herself. He picked up the phone from the nightstand beside the bed, yanking it free from the wall, and with the hard plastic base, smashed the shocked woman over the head. He was flooded with a lifetime of weak moments. He thought of Uncle Wes and his violating touch (he smashed her head again), he thought of his mother’s denial and betrayal, her outright choice of his stepfather over her own son, her abandonment (he smashed the bloody face again, a piece of flesh clung to the underside of the hard plastic base), he thought of the big guy, Eric, and his intrusion upon her reward (he grabbed the makeshift weapon with both hands, bringing it up over his head) he saw Eric pushing into the pretty girl in 209–with all of his newfound strength and every last bit of rage built from his 19 years of guilt, shame, and impotence, Kenneth bashed the sickly, bludgeoned human skull, separating the jaw from the rest of its brutalized face.
He wanted to smile, he wanted more than anything to feel better, but he didn’t. He was drained, and beneath the exhaustion running like a river forever winding, the anger flowed. For now, he needed to rest, to recharge. There would be time to kill the rage inside. If not, then he would just kill.
He lied down on the bed placing an arm over the gory mess next to him that still looked like a woman from the neck down. He closed his eyes thinking of her and slipped into dream. She was waiting for him. In the vision he lied down beside her on a bed of dead roses, the smell of her pool water perfume stung his nose, but faded as she held him in her arctic embrace.
