Eva Parker checked into the Southern Pines Motel at six P.M. and grabbed the keycard from the tiny front lobby. Alyson Reed cursed Eva Parker, and the quality of the room.
Alyson twisted the controls on the window-mounted air conditioner to arctic settings before she pulled her pack off. A double bed with a bland plaid comforter greeted her, accompanied by an off-brand wall mounted LED television, a small bedside table with a paperback bible on the top, and a tiny refrigerator that, to her surprise, still ran.
She opened the front pocket of her pack, and drew a black light from its confines, and stared at the bed. She ripped back the top sheets, and wasn’t surprised by the filth she found. She threw the comforter back over the deeper layers, finding the top less offensive than what laid beneath. She tossed the black light aside, and tucked the tails of the blanket beneath the mattress.
The ancient digital clock ticked the night away as Alyson indulged in her evening rituals. Her computer charged under the bed, hidden from view. Her mobile was plugged into the side of her computer. She skipped the next step; the other device charged last night, and wouldn’t need to be charged yet.
Alyson whispered thanks that the bathroom was clean. She peeled away her clothes, and jumped into a searing hot shower. She bathed, and stood in the scolding rain until the water ran lukewarm. She wrapped herself in a towel, and put her clothes in the basin with the tiny bottle of complementary shampoo in a halfhearted attempt to erase the film of sweat that lined all of her clothes.
An hour later, she hung her clothes up to dry, and checked on the whereabouts of Eva Parker. She deleted a few more check-ins where she thought applicable. She didn’t indulge too deeply; the staff of the Southern Pines didn’t seem to care who took a key so long as they paid. Eva was still pushing towards New Mexico, with no visible sign of stopping.
Alyson sighed as she flopped onto the bed, her feet sticking out from the end of a long towel she was employing as a blanket. A trio of truck horn blasts screamed past her window. She cursed beneath her breath, double-checking to see that the curtains were drawn.
She stood up, and barred the door with a chair, and tugged the loops of the knot in the curtains. She checked her clothes, figuring that they would be dry by morning, and curled up on the bed. She rested her head on her backpack, and fell asleep.
Three A.M., and the shattering of glass ripped Alyson from her sleep.
She froze, afraid to face her window. Murky darkness concealed the room, aside from the miniature orange bulb next to the bathroom outlet safety switch. She wanted to turn on the bedside lamp, but if there was an intruder around, she didn’t want to signal that someone was in the room.
The curtains have already done that, she assumed. She muttered “fuck” and rolled off of the bed, out of sight, pulling her backpack with her. She fished out a tiny flashlight from the front pocket of her pack, and ignited it, pointing it at the floor. She reached back into her bag, and retrieved a switchblade. She triggered the narrow blade to shoot from the end.
She peered over the top of the bed, and dragged the beam across the mattress and to the window. No one had broken in. She heaved a sigh of relief, and turned the light off. She crawled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and fetched her clothes, redressing in the damp jeans. She counted herself lucky that her underwear and t-shirt were dry.
Alyson stepped back out into the room, keeping the flashlight off. She walked over to the door, the switchblade pointed to the floor, its handle turned backwards in her hand. She had never taken a class in self-defense. She wanted to, but it was hard to fit activities like that into someone else’s schedule. She felt ridiculous holding the weapon as she was, but she’d seen it done in movies; that had to be good for something.
She pushed her ear to the door, and listened. Someone was crying, at least forty feet away, maybe even around the corner. There was an indiscernible shout, drunken and slurred. Alyson thought about leaving, dropping the key in the slot and just running, and taking her chances in the street tonight.
The woman’s cries for help were stunted by the screaming of the Oct. The train phased in and out, replaced by a brief masculine shout, and the slamming of a door.
No, she thought. This is their business, and I don’t think they’re going to drag anyone else into it.
Sirens faded into earshot.
Alyson cursed their presence as much as she welcomed it. She crept backwards from the door and retracted the blade, stuffing it back into her backpack with the flash light, and turned on the lamp beside the bed. She could hear cop cars as they pulled into the parking lot below.
She tore the comforter off of the bed, and laid it in the floor, tossing her backpack on top of it in the corner. She laid down, undressing for comfort, and drew the blanket over her.
She shut her eyes, feeling them twitch and fly open with every obscenity punctuated shout that echoed through the breezeway.
A Ballad of Wayward Spectres: Day 1 Page 2
