Deadfall Hotel

by Steve Rasnic Tem

  He followed the sound into the darkness ahead of him. The doors to the normally locked music room were open. Something hit one of the ornate French panels. Inside, the gauze curtains were flying.

  Richard moved into the room and stepped to the side, away from the doors, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the moonlight seeping through the large bay window. Something circled him. A lock of hair fluttered across his forehead.

  Something white was flapping, flashing its wings, the beat of its wings quickening and its image coming clearer, brighter: white luminescent sides, finely-sculpted wings. The beak gleamed with orange lightning as the small head darted.

  Then the bird passed closer to him, and suddenly he was breathing wet air, and smelling the salty thing, the smell all over his face.

  “Abby?”

  The bird’s presence was small, but its effect substantial. Richard could feel it moving the air around in the long-closed room. The bird fell into a glide, improbable as that seemed in such a small space.

  Richard reached slowly for one of the curtains. He grabbed it at the middle, began to pull it down. The old gauze panel gave way with a brittle tearing, rotted threads popping, dust raining over his face and arm. With the cloth held carefully in both hands, he crept to the center of the music room, where the beautiful white bird hung suspended and flapping, as if on slow-motion film.

  The bird watched as he approached it with the gauze, its wings beating in a multiplied blur. Again, her smell drifted over him, and he felt fear and amazement over the terrible solidity of the bird. He reached out with the curtain in his hands and gathered her in. The bird filled the gauze and made it, too, appallingly solid.

  Suddenly the bundle became heavy, too heavy to hold. His arms dropped. The bird opened its wings and the gauze disintegrated into airy swatches and dust.

  Abby drifted aimlessly around the music room. She looked more haggard than the last time he had seen her. He couldn’t imagine why an apparition should change so. He was careful to use the word ‘apparition’ in thinking about the manifestation of his late wife. This thing lacked her personality, her attitudes – at best, it was merely a heartless image.

  But there was an agitated, nervous quality about her. A pacing, but no foot ever touched floor. Sometimes she turned so quickly pieces of her appeared to break off, float away, and evaporate into the darkness.

  “Abby,” he said. When she looked at him, her eyes swam with tears.

  But this did not move him. He wondered how he could be so heartless with her, apparition or not. When she’d been alive, he would have done anything to keep her, to hold on to her for just a little longer.

  She was just a vague presence in the air, a perfume, a lost ray of light. And it still amazed him how much weight a dead thing could have.

  Abby turned and turned in the air. He thought about just how far he should have gone to keep her with him. What terrible things he might have been willing to do. And he was thankful that human beings don’t get to make such choices. It was just a fantasy to torment ourselves, guilty to be still alive. He wondered where he would be now if Abby had not died. Certainly not managing this hotel.

  Richard had come to doubt what it was he mourned. Was he really mourning Abby? He couldn’t know what she thought about during those quiet moments to herself. Could anyone make such a claim? A life was a secret thing, even between a husband and wife. Your secret life was completely your own, and because it was unknown, would never be mourned. The secret life of each individual went unhonored through eternity.

  She twirled, faster and faster, until she was the white bird revolving in the air. And it was the white bird who passed unharmed through the closed window of the music room, leaving the air behind moist and warm and hard for Richard to breathe.

  He walked slowly through the pre-dawn halls to his quarters for a few minutes’ snatched sleep. Tomorrow would be another full day of the Deadfall’s seemingly endless spring disposal of dead plants. He considered himself lucky that last year’s cleanup had been completed before he was hired. Jacob had told him that it had been particularly nasty last year, requiring a month’s work and using hired labor for some select, less-exotic tasks. Still, Richard had to wonder how Jacob could have tackled that much by himself. If Richard had faced that chore his first month on the job, he would have been gone, with no regrets.

  Although Jacob had carefully explained why all this work was necessary, it still seemed wrong somehow, as if they were so ashamed of the past winter they were doing everything in their power to destroy all its evidence.

  THEY WERE DOWN to a few remaining cleanup tasks, the final sweep-up of scattered leaves, bark, trunk fragments, and unidentifiable debris. Close examination of the last was ill-advised, Jacob had cautioned.

  “And why is that?” Of course the first thing he did upon hearing that statement was to look at what he was sweeping even more closely.

  “With so many fragments, and the way all nature mirrors itself – limbs and root resemble bone, leaf and bark recall skin, and so forth – these final pieces become a kind of Rorschach. And certainly you will find dead animal bits, a variety of decayed forms, without sufficient wholeness to allay your fears.”

  “In other words, it’s best to rein in the imagination when looking at this, umm, compost?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And after it’s swept and gathered?”

  “We burn it. With caution. In the beginning they were afraid the winds might sweep the fire toward the hotel, so they dumped these piles into one corner of the lake. But over time things began to grow there, and it became a home for various – well, ‘vermin’ would be a good word. So now we burn this bit. The ashes go into the gardens.”

  Richard didn’t want to insult the man, but he had to believe there was a better, less labor-intensive way. And once he was in complete charge, he would find one. But he certainly wasn’t saying so now. Instead he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such rapid, out-of-control growth.”

  “A few times in my life I have worked in jungles. It has a similar feel. You are surrounded by a bounty of lushness, of beauty, and then that beauty dies, and almost overnight you are surrounded by this bounty of death. Which you must deal with somehow, the debris left behind in the wake of paradise. What we are doing here is like cleaning up heaven’s garbage, you might say.”

  Richard found Jacob’s way of putting things on the eccentric side sometimes. Sometimes charming, sometimes annoying. But still, there was something about spring at the Deadfall that felt very wrong. All that green, new growth seemed like a sheet thrown over an underlying decay, camouflaging it under Mom’s best holiday tablecloth. It reminded him of those people who, instead of fixing the dry rot in a house, simply painted it a new color. But he had to admit there was a certain satisfaction in making these tidy piles of debris and then burning the piles, sweeping up the ashes, feeding the gardens. A guilty pleasure, taking solace in burning, after burning had cost him so much in his life. But cleaning up after the dead, making the best of it. He’d become good at that.

  The rake Jacob had given him for the job was a big, heavy thing, certainly the hardiest rake he’d ever seen. Its heavy iron tines proved razor sharp, so sharp Richard had to wonder if Jacob was in the habit of using it against things other than leaves. The rake head was reinforced by ornate struts and the thick handle was beautifully hand-carved. Certainly no everyday gardening tool. But for all that bulk it was amazingly easy to maneuver, shaped to the very contours of his hands. In no time at all, despite the thickness of the plant wreckage, he had constructed a number of tidy piles. Some of the dead vegetation had secreted a salty-smelling substance as it dried, pieces sticking one to the other until a multilayered, foul-looking conglomerate had formed.

  Spring had been Abby’s favorite season. When the weather was warm and dry enough, they’d had picnics in the backyard, the bright air enriched by the new plants breaking through the soil, releasing an earthy perfume.

&n
bsp; But spring had also been known to depress Abby. During these spells of depression, she might pass days without speaking to anyone.

  “What’s wrong with Mommy?” Serena would ask.

  “She’s just tired.”

  “She looks mad all the time.” Richard never knew exactly what to say about that, but he hated the stressed look in his daughter’s face.

  “Oh, no, honey.” Richard had picked her up and carried her out of the house. He felt bad for Abby, but annoyed by how her moods were affecting their daughter. Tiptoeing around so as not to disturb her intense silence became old after awhile. Sometimes he couldn’t say he knew her anymore.

  Even during these depressive silent periods they made love, but she often displayed a bizarrely mechanical affect. “I love you,” he said when he climbed into bed, kissing the back of her neck. Abby rolled over and opened her arms. But her face was almost expressionless, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. At those times he knew he should just leave the bed, but he craved the closeness. And so he felt himself fall into this lifeless woman’s arms, and made love to the stranger wearing his wife’s face.

  One of the waste piles exploded into a shower of grit. It got in his hair, all over his face. He coughed, tried to spit the decayed matter out. When his vision cleared he could see something all bone and black skin racing from pile to pile, destroying his work, rocketing up one of the skeletal trees on the edge of the clearing. There it froze, indistinguishable from the tree limbs.

  In the destroyed piles were several oddly-shaped skeletons of animals he did not recognize, many of the bones heavily scored, gnawed, or hacked.

  “They’ve been showing up the last ten years or so,” Jacob said behind him. “I’ve never had one slow down enough to see what they really look like. But this seems to be the only time they come around, just for a meal or two. Then they’re gone until next year.”

  Jacob helped him carry the re-raked piles out to the ancient brick incinerator in large wicker baskets. ‘Hotel Deadfall’ was hand-painted in ornate script on the side of each. They stood and watched as the flames licked up over the chimney, in reds, violets, rich velvety blacks, shards of green. Jacob said they had to wait until the fire was completely out before leaving, for the safety of the hotel and its grounds.

  A half-hour into their silent vigil, Jacob said, “By the way, we have a group coming in this week. I apologize – I should have told you earlier.”

  “A group? Like a convention?” It was hard to imagine – a convention held at the Deadfall. “How many?”

  “I believe it was a hundred, two hundred, something like that – I have the rooms checked off in the ledger. No, no conventions here. The Senior Reverend Johnson and his family arrive tomorrow, which includes his father who is also his predecessor, now Senior Reverend Emeritus Johnson.”

  “Reverend? You mean this is a religious group?”

  Jacob looked uncomfortable. “Well. Yes, they come every year at this time, but last year they missed. Some sort of accident, I was told. The day after the Senior Reverend and his family arrive, we will be seeing subordinate reverends, acolytes, members of the council, followers, and the women’s union. The vast bulk of the congregation, however, should straggle in on Thursday.”

  “Acolytes? Followers? They sound, um, cultish.”

  Jacob looked somewhat flustered. “I’m really no expert, but they seem, ostensibly at least, to have a more mainstream religious flavor. So I would answer no, but then I have found no understanding, or comfort, in religion for quite some time. They might all be called ‘cults,’ as far as I’m concerned, at one time or another. It is much like joining a club, I believe. You think that, as part of a collective, you are going to do some good, but then the club wishes you to change the way you wear your hair, or insists that you wear a different tie, and then they shame you when you do not conform, they humiliate you, and some of the members get, how do you say, out of hand, and then you feel that your physical life, or your spiritual life, is in danger. But it is important to be tolerant, don’t you think, even when we don’t understand? “

  “So, explain this to me. Given the nature of the Deadfall’s clientele, why would they choose to meet here?”

  “Richard, are you thinking in terms of the E-word?”

  “Evil? I don’t know. We haven’t really discussed evil before, have we? Certainly one encounters evil here at the hotel from time to time?”

  “My own beliefs are simple, perhaps a bit too uncomplicated. I am sure of very little. I believe that to treat another of our species as if they were not a legitimate human being, that is evil. To take lives with malice, or because of some self-involved need or perversion, is an evil act. Hitler and Stalin were evil men. Jack the Ripper, whoever he might have been, was evil. But the subtleties of modern ethics are beyond me – I feel I understand less and less.”

  The flames had died down and now a thick, gray smoke slipped smoothly from the chimney. Richard wondered what the EPA might have to say about what they were doing, but suspected their inspections in these parts were rare. He leaned lazily on his rake, feeling vaguely disgusted. “So why here? You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Perhaps they see it as some sort of challenge. Firemen seek fires, do they not? I do not honestly know. They began coming here during my predecessor’s time, when Johnson Senior was in charge of their group. There was an arrangement. The Deadfall honors such arrangements. When you are fully in charge, you will find that you, also, will honor such arrangements; you will not be able to help yourself.” Richard had an urge to object, but did not. He didn’t understand, but he knew Jacob was telling the truth. “I hope this does not cause too much conflict with your own beliefs.”

  “No. No,” Richard said. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. The fact is, I respect people who can believe in something. And I’m not sure how far I’d really trust a person without any beliefs. But an entire group of people with the same belief? Whether it be religious, nationalist, political, whatever. That has always frightened me.”

  “Then gird yourself, if I may say so. I suspect that, starting tomorrow, we will both be tested.”

  THE NEXT DAY the Reverend Johnson et al. arrived in a huge, vintage black Lincoln Continental Town car. Richard watched from a front window as it slipped quietly through the ornate front gate, filigreed ironwork rearing up on either side of the broad fenders as if reluctant to let the vehicle pass. The Lincoln drifted serenely up the drive, engine humming as if it had rolled off the assembly line yesterday. It looked so new, in fact, Richard found it a bit startling. No dents, no flaws, no road dust, better than new. God’s car doesn’t get dirty, he thought, then felt a little ashamed of himself.

  The windshield and side windows were an opaque, smoky gray, but a small girl – dark-haired, beautiful, perhaps a year or two younger than Serena – had rolled down the rear driver-side window and thrust her head out, gazing solemnly at the passing ground, then the Deadfall grove, which seemed particularly stark today against the new green growth around it. When she looked at the hotel itself, she smiled.

  The car stopped in front of the porch. Richard felt compelled to make the extra effort of going out to meet them. Anyway, they might need help with the luggage. Enid’s son – whose name, he’d finally discovered, was Frederick – was unavailable, having been ill for over a month. Jacob said it “might be serious.”

  Richard waved to the little girl, who started to wave back, but then she looked down at the drive, and Richard could see that a small mat of the dead vegetation had somehow landed on the pavement. It was burnt around the edges – he figured the wind had picked it up out of the incinerator and dropped it there. But something moved on it, and the girl ducked her head back inside and rolled up the window. Richard watched as the mat grew legs and walked off into the bushes. He hoped the little girl hadn’t seen that.

  There were sounds of a commotion from inside the car. The driver’s door opened and a man about Richard’s age with longish blond hai
r and movie-star good looks climbed out. Seeing Richard, his face opened into a magazine-ad smile, and he made an economical gesture which might possibly have been a wave. “You’re the new manager?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “I’ll just be a moment. It’s my little girl, she doesn’t want to step out of the car just yet.” He mimed exaggerated helplessness with hands and shoulders. “She said she saw something.”

  “We have,” Richard began, not really knowing what he could say, “large… bugs… this time of year.”

  “Of course. It’s a time of renewal for so many of the Lord’s creatures. It’s a new opportunity for joy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, that’s certainly a positive way to look at it.”

  “Gotta stay positive,” the reverend said, going around to the rear driver’s side door. “We’ll be a minute. She’s always been… high strung.” He opened the door and slid inside. A few minutes later he climbed out again, leading his daughter by the hand, her shoulders slumped, face down. “Everything’s fine now.” He held out his hand. “The Reverend Tim Johnson. Pleased to meet you.”

  Richard took the hand. It was large, and very warm, and dry and steady. Richard wondered if that meant the man had steady nerves, or none at all. It was obviously too soon to tell.

  “Reverend.”

  “Call me Tim.”

  “Tim.” Then why did you introduce yourself as Reverend? he thought, again embarrassed by his small-mindedness.

  “And this is Annabelle. Hold out your hand, Annabelle.”

  She held up a limp, delicate hand without moving her gaze from the ground. Richard took it carefully with only a few fingers and gave it a soft squeeze. “Pleased to meet you, Annabelle. I have a daughter about your age. Her name is Serena. You’ll probably see her while you’re here.” No response. Richard straightened. “Can I help you with your bags?”

  “Very kind of you, but we really prefer handling our own. We just have some overnights. The rest of our luggage is coming with my staff, early tomorrow morning sometime. I always like to come a little early, get the family settled, before all the commotion starts. I get so busy with the congregation; there’s never enough time when you’re doing the Lord’s work! So I prize this family time.”