“You’re not the woman I married,” said Alan. “I loved Cora.”
“You never even met Cora! It was always me! You loved me. . . .”
“No,” said Alan. “I loved the woman . . . I thought you were. And then I found out you weren’t her at all and never were.” He smiled briefly. Coldly. “Isn’t that why most marriages break up?”
His hands moved steadily across the controls while Elena fought and writhed in her chair . . . until the light went out of her eyes and she was still.
“For you, Cora,” said Alan.
And just for a moment, he thought he heard the sound of her laughter.
DOWN IN THE DEEP AND THE DARK
DESIRINA BOSKOVICH
It’s a crisp Friday in autumn, the day before my brother Aaron’s wedding, a week before Halloween. Aaron and his bride Kristina have planned a getaway in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, among the forested hills of the Ozarks. Eureka Springs is a tiny tourist town, once a mining empire and luxury resort, now reduced to a faded Victorian Era strip of generic art galleries and pottery shops, Vegas-style wedding parlors, and after-dark ghost tours. We’re staying at the Hidden Springs Inn: a grand historic resort, known for both its picturesque weddings and its rumored hauntings.
I’ve been appointed maid of honor, which would be great except I hate weddings, and dresses, and “vision boards,” and to be perfectly honest I’m not crazy about the bride. Neither are my parents, though they’re mostly hung up on the fact that she has a kid whose father isn’t in the picture, and Aaron, we love you dear, but aren’t you taking on an awful lot of responsibility?
Me, my mom, my dad, and my eighty-seven-year-old grandmother enjoy an appropriately nightmarish plane ride together. (It’s nearly Halloween, after all!) Gran curses joyfully at security and farts in the aisles and torments the flight attendants, while my parents pretend not to know her. Then there’s an hour-long drive, on a winding two-lane highway flickering in and out of steep, rocky hillside. My dad takes the curves too hard and my mom white-knuckles it all the way, gasping at every glimpse of the valley below.
By the time we reach the hotel, all I can think about is the fact that it’s 5 p.m. and I need a fucking drink.
* * * *
Kyle, my brother’s best friend and best man, is already at the bar and three beers deep. “Hey, Hillary,” he says, grinning broadly. We have always disliked each other, especially since an unfortunate incident that took place about a year ago. (We got too drunk. Mistakes were made.) He’s cocky, obnoxious, the quintessential bro, and he would be really stupid if not for the fact that he’s actually pretty smart.
While I’m ordering a whiskey and Diet Coke and trying to ignore him, he decides to bound right over and force me into this over-the-top fake hug. “Hillary! I left like a hundred messages on your answering machine. You never called me back.” (He’s being sarcastic. I think the joke is that he never called. Actually, I’m not sure what the joke is, but I’m pretty sure that I’m its punch line.)
“I’m filing a restraining order,” I say, and sip my drink, already certain this weekend is going to be the worst.
“How about this hotel, huh?” Kyle says. “Freaky. It’s like some Jack Nicholson shit.”
“It used to be an insane asylum,” I say. “And a sanatorium for people with incurable diseases. That was after it was a luxury resort for people with more money than God.”
I’d read about it, a bit. The Hidden Springs Inn was built in the 1880s when the town was a bustling metropolis, a luxury oasis for the millionaires who’d made their fortune on the backs of dead bodies now lost and buried inside the mines. Then the economy faltered, the veins dried up, and the town faded. The grand old hotel, with its sweeping ballrooms and crystal chandeliers, was repurposed as a hospital with experimental aims. Later—much later—after it became gauche to ship the mentally disturbed off to unsupervised prisons where they’d sit chained in their own feces, a renewed interest in history led preservationists to rebuild the old hotel. Though never restored to its former glory, at least it clung to a shabby dignity . . . and its tourist trade.
“I hope I see one of the sexy ghosts,” Kyle says. “You know, the ones who died in their lingerie and now they have to wander the halls with their tits eternally hanging out.”
Luckily, right then Aaron arrives and sits between us, intent on keeping the peace.
Aaron is a wonderful brother, and a wonderful person; accomplished, talented, attractive, nice. Maybe a little too nice, like the kind of nice that doesn’t really pick up on the fact that people who call you their knight in shining armor might actually see you as an easy mark.
Kristina had been a single mom since seventeen—her people didn’t believe in averting such things in the usual way. Her parents helped raise the kid, by spoiling him within an inch of his life, while Kristina earned a certificate in sports therapy and massage. They met after Aaron suffered an injury on the football field, which sounds serious until you find out that the football field was actually a casual Thanksgiving get-together and the injury was a tweak in his lower back. His angel appeared with scented oils to nurse him back to health. Less than two years later, here we are at the wedding. It’s either a fairy-tale ending or an embarrassing cliché.
My parents won’t say anything too pointed, because they practice courtesy as if it were a cult, but they don’t really have to. Aaron’s not dumb; he just pretends to be.
Still, I know, from the subtle hints they’ve dropped, and some less-than-subtle comments delivered on the harrowing journey here, that if in these final moments Aaron were to suffer cold feet, they wouldn’t be overly disappointed. And, as maid of honor and trusted older sister, should I find myself in position to sow a few fast-growing seeds of nagging doubt . . . well, who would they be to cast blame?
We’ve been catching up for a while when Kristina arrives in a dress and heels and greets me with way too many air kisses and oh my gods. And then she’s like, “Aaron, honeybear, did you ask?”
“Sorry, pumpkin,” Aaron says. “I forgot. Hil, would you mind watching Gabriel for a few hours? We’ve got dinner with both sets of parents.”
Somehow, I manage to both (a) not choke on my drink and (b) gracefully agree. “Sure thing. Let me tab out and I’ll be right up.”
Kyle snickers at me mockingly. He knows that I really hate children. Even more than I hate weddings. Or him.
* * * *
As I ride the elevator up to the third floor, I give myself a pep talk. Gabriel is bratty, but how bad can it be? It’s just a couple hours. Just a couple hours of sticky little hands, nonstop nose-picking, and endless six-year-old monologue, voiced like nails on a blackboard.
Kristina and Aaron point me to a stack of kids’ DVDs, then head out. At Gabriel’s request, I put on the most uninteresting film in history. While it plays, he warbles nonstop, just enjoying the sound of his own piercing voice. Then he demands fruit snacks and goldfish crackers, and a second movie to follow the first.
Finally, he settles down. His breathing slows, his eyes drift closed, and I think maybe, if I stay very still, he’ll actually go to sleep.
Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a dark room and the credits are playing and my mouth feels like the inside of a wool sweater that’s been in the back of a closet for years.
And Gabriel isn’t here.
I panic and start searching the room even though it’s obvious there’s nowhere he could hide; I check inside the bathtub, yank away the drapes. Then I come to my senses and dash out into the hall, calling his name.
I power-walk my way up the corridor and around the corner, hoping I can find him before anyone else does.
The hallway smells of must and mildew. The dark floral carpet is patterned with odd blotches and mysterious stains, and feels weirdly spongy underfoot. The signage is inadequate; brass room numbers are affixed to the dark-painted doors, but several of the numerals are missing. The corridors, routed and rerouted several times in the
past century and a half, suddenly feel like a maze.
Maybe it’s the counterintuitive geography. Or maybe it’s my sleep-bleary fear. But a minute into my mad scramble, I’m completely lost, standing in a corridor I don’t recognize.
Up ahead, on the left, I notice another hallway, jutting diagonally to the left. This makes no sense; I must have circled two or three times by now. But I run toward it.
It turns into a dead end, with two doors on the right-hand side and three on the left. Gabriel is standing there, staring intently at the twisted paisley patterns on an empty stretch of wall.
“Gabriel?”
He doesn’t respond. I approach slowly, wondering if he’s sleepwalking, suddenly even more afraid. Do I try to wake him? This whole thing is giving me the creeps. The skin on the back of my neck is prickling and I feel as if I’m being watched.
I rest my hand on his shoulder, dreading the moment he recoils, or screams, or goes catatonic. Instead, he turns and looks at me. His eyes are droopy, but he’s definitely awake.
“Hello, Aunt Hillary,” he says politely, which is the weirdest part of all.
“Um. Whatcha doing there, partner?”
“I had to let the little boy out.”
“You mean yourself? You let yourself out of the room after I fell asleep?”
“No. Not me. The other little boy. He’s been locked in that room a really, really long time. That’s why he was crying. So I had to let him out.”
“Um, okay,” I say, ready to not be having this conversation. “That’s . . . freaky. Why don’t we go back to the room now?”
He ignores me and keeps on staring at the wall. “I thought we were going to play, but then he ran inside. And now he won’t come out.”
“Um . . . ,” I say again. “Inside where?”
He shrugs, then gestures at the wallpaper. “That door there.”
“There isn’t a door there,” I say, but I can’t help but glance up and down the hallway as I do, because I’m noticing three doors behind us, and two doors to the right, and we’re standing exactly where the third door would be, if there was one. And I have this awful feeling. It isn’t rational, but it’s powerful all the same.
“He said people always think that,” Gabriel informs me. “It’s not the kind of door you can see with your eyes, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s still a door. And I can see it just fine.”
“Okay,” I say, really sharply this time. “That’s enough. This isn’t funny anymore. We’re going back to the room.”
“No,” he says, but I don’t care; I’ve had enough. I grab his arm and pull him toward the end of the corridor. Then he melts down into full-on tantrum, so I’m forced to hoist him into my arms and carry him.
To my surprise, I wasn’t lost at all; the hotel room is right around the corner.
Of course, I’ve locked us out of the room, and my key, my phone, and my wallet are all inside. So I carry him to the elevator and down to the lobby.
As soon as we step off the elevator, we run into the bride and groom and both sets of parents, returning from dinner. Kristina runs over and scoops up her kid, whose tantrum has disintegrated into sniffles. He tells her the whole story, garbled and teary so none of it makes any sense, not that it made much sense to begin with. I play it off like he had a nightmare. Kristina’s mother, Lydia, who’s obviously drunk more gin and tonics than strictly necessary, offers to take over for the night. Gratefully, I hand off Gabriel, and since I’m several drinks behind, head back to the bar.
“To the future!” my brother toasts with a flourish.
Best drink up.
* * * *
At 2 a.m., I’m woken by a woman screaming. I leap out of bed, yank on a hoodie, and dash out into the hallway; this time, I remember my key.
My mom and dad are out there, plus Aaron and Kristina. “That was my mom, screaming,” Kristina is insisting, anxious and confused. “She has Gabriel. I can’t remember the room number. Thirty-six? Thirty-nine? Oh my God, I hope they’re okay. . . .”
It’s room thirty-nine. We pile in; Lydia is sitting up in bed, disheveled and pasty in her pink satin dressing gown. She appears to be hyperventilating. Gabriel is lying in the other bed, flat on his back; his eyes are open but he’s looking away. Kristina’s dad hangs off to one side, awkward and frumpy in his old-man pajamas.
“What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Aaron and Kristina crowd around Lydia.
It takes her a while to get the words out; she’s gulping and gasping and sobbing a little. “Something woke me up. Like I felt something. I opened my eyes and Gabriel was standing right above me, except it wasn’t him, really.” She pauses to collect herself. “He was all changed; his eyes were big, and he was holding a knife. Just looking down at me, laughing, holding that knife.”
“It was only a dream,” Aaron tells her. “A bad nightmare. It’s fine.”
“So, can we all go back to bed now?” my dad says, so patiently that he’s obviously annoyed.
“But then I sat up,” Lydia says, gesturing wildly, “and he was laying in his own bed the whole time, like he never even moved.”
“You just imagined it, Mama,” Kristina says, sagging into a visible exhaustion. Aaron massages her shoulders.
“But I didn’t,” Lydia insists. “I know what I saw. It was so real.” She starts to cry.
“There, there,” my mom says, and sits beside Lydia; for her, this is not an insignificant show of affection.
“But let’s be reasonable,” my dad says, in that tone I detest. “If there was an awful little boy holding a knife, he’d still be here. He wouldn’t just disappear into thin air.”
That tone, that logic—I think maybe it’s part of the reason I never let myself get all emotional, not like Kristina or her mother.
“But there’s not an awful little boy,” my dad continues. “There’s just Gabriel, in his own bed, falling back to sleep. . . .” but his voice trails off because we all instinctively look over at Gabriel and he’s not actually falling back to sleep. Instead, he’s sitting up and staring intently at the television, which isn’t on. His mouth is moving, and he’s mumbling something too faint to understand.
There’s a long moment. “He’s just overtired,” Kristina says uncertainly.
“The wedding,” my mother agrees. “For a little boy. It’s a lot of stress.”
“It was so real,” Lydia repeats again, faltering and sad.
“We’ll take the little trooper back to our room,” Aaron says. “You all get some sleep.” He scoops Gabriel up into his arms, and I think maybe I’m the only one who notices that Gabriel seems to be lost in another world.
* * * *
I wake early to dim light filtering through the gap between the blackout curtains and someone pounding at the door. It’s Aaron, telling me that Gabriel is missing again, and they don’t know where he is.
Kristina is standing in the hallway, wrapped in Aaron’s flannel shirt, crying and fidgeting. Aaron is trying and failing to be Mr. Fix-It. Everyone is texting and calling and knocking on random doors. Gran emerges, demanding to know what the goddamn never-ending racket is about, and what the damn hell was happening last night, anyway? Kyle shuffles—hung over and shirtless—into the fray, awake only because Aaron dragged him out of bed. Lydia is recounting her nightmare, or hallucination, to anyone who will listen. My parents are clearly thinking that this is Aaron’s future in a nutshell: a nonstop parade of petty disasters and emotional displays.
Finally, someone thinks to alert the manager, who promises to alert the staff. Five minutes later, Aaron gets a phone call. “Sssh, it’s him,” he says, pointing at his phone. (Meanwhile, everyone argues over where we should look next, and if a kidnapping is a likely scenario, and how far could a sleepy six-year-old get, really?) “Hello? Oh! Great. We’ll be right down.”
Gabriel is outside. A groundskeeper found him.
We crowd our way onto the elevator, through the lobby, and onto the hotel grounds: a co
mplex maze of shaped hedges, moss-covered benches, and unkempt flowerbeds gone to seed. The Hidden Springs Inn sits high on a ridge; dense fog saturates the autumn leaves below. Up here, it’s misty and cool.
We catch a glimpse of the manager standing by a haphazard arrangement of cracked statuary, where he seems to be locked in an intense conversation with the groundskeeper. Gabriel fidgets on a nearby bench.
Kristina takes off running and soon enfolds Gabriel in a flurry of hugging and scolding. The rest of us edge closer to the manager and the groundskeeper, who are having a fight.
The manager is late forties or so but seems younger; dapper in his suit, which is perfect for a wedding, not so appropriate for a muddy hillside at sunrise. The groundskeeper is burly and gruff, and his standard-issue coveralls are stained with mud . . . and . . . is that blood?
“I’m telling you,” he says, with an aggressively pointed finger. “Not my job description. Not even close.”
“Now, let’s all just calm down here. . . .”
“I’ll do you one better,” retorts the groundskeeper. “I quit.” He rips off his gardening gloves and tosses them onto the ground. Next, he’s going for the back brace.
“What on God’s green Earth is that smell?” my mother wants to know.
Kyle catches sight of it first. The look on his face as he points: it’s naked as a scared animal. I’ve never seen him like that, far below the swagger and front. This scares me the most . . . until I see what he’s pointing at. A little ways down the slope, arranged on the damp grass in a sloppy approximation of a circle, are half a dozen freshly eviscerated carcasses, the stinking meat and hot blood and unraveled organs of a chipmunk, two bunny rabbits, a handful of squirrels.
I walk over, as if in a dream; I don’t want to, but somehow I’m compelled. And the feeling is exactly the feeling I had yesterday, standing in that weird half-a-hallway. There’s something very near me, so close it could tap me on the shoulder, except there’s nothing at all but the damp morning air, and the stench of death, and Kristina’s mother, screaming again.
What the #@&% Is That? Page 8
