by Katie Berry
Nevertheless, he called out, “Is there anybody there?” He leaned forward on his haunches and knocked gently three times. He sat back and waited, not willing to put his face near the lid again.
“Who’s on the other side of this lid? Are you trapped?” Harder moved a hair closer, but not by much. He waited for several moments. There was no further response from the other side of the lid, and he stood, legs feeling rather weak. A slight wave of dizziness washed over him, and he leaned for a moment near the doorway, one hand against the cold, damp concrete wall.
With a puff, Harder moved slowly back along the corridor on slightly rubbery legs. Arriving back in the pump room, the temperature felt like it had dropped further — the dampness on the floor was suddenly taking on an icy sheen. He reached out and ran his hands along the damp wall, feeling its frozen slickness. He’d have to be careful how he moved, or he might slip.
The main control room lay just ahead. Another few twists and turns and the hatchway to hell back there would be far behind him. And yet, part of him was still on duty, keeping an eye out for the suspect he’d been chasing earlier. He had a feeling he’d never know who or what it was that had led him down here on this chase. And what of Jansen and Eggelson? Were they still wandering the halls of this hotel? Was it one of them that he’d followed down here? Had they both suffered a mental slip from the stress of this situation and started stalking the halls of the Sinclair themselves in addition to whatever else dwelt here? His mind was on overload with these thoughts and more.
The overhead lights flared to supernova for a moment, causing John to shield his eyes from the glare – and then they went out completely.
He clicked on his flashlight, grasping it close to the head, its shaft resting along his shoulder. Holding it as he did allowed him to point it freely, and also enabled him to pivot his wrist if need be and use the heavy battery-filled shaft as a club to defend himself.
As he cast the light’s beam rapidly about, it felt like a weapon in more ways than one. If the suspect came at him from out of the darkness, he was prepared to use it to subdue them with a flick of his wrist. But a part of him also hoped it could be used as a weapon against whatever insanity stalked the darkness down here.
With a sigh of relief, he saw the gauges and dials of the control room up ahead now — almost there.
At his back came a cracking sound as if old metallic bones were being broken.
What in the world was that? Was the building collapsing? And then he realised what it was, it was the welds cracking around the domed well cap — the ones that kept the ponderous piece of steel firmly shut.
John swept his light’s beam back down the corridor but saw nothing. He spun back around and continued toward the control room and the exit.
As he moved, a new sound came from the well room. It was one he didn’t want to hear or believed he would ever hear, the slow squeal of rusty metal on metal as the heavy lid over the well creaked open.
This isn’t happening, John thought. I can’t be hearing this — it’s impossible! He continued sweeping his light, moving quickly but cautiously toward the exit.
With a crash, it sounded as if the lid had reached its tipping point and then smashed backwards onto the concrete floor — whatever had wanted to get out of the well was now free to join John inside the hotel.
Halfway across the control room, his flashlight began to flicker and fade. But the batteries were new! He’d replaced them just a couple of days prior. The light had seen minimal use since, so they should be almost full. John’s knuckles whitened around the flashlight’s head. He rattled the light to try and get it to brighten, hoping for a loose bulb or something. The flashlight briefly brightened, and he felt hopeful for a moment, but then it went out as well. There were no windows anywhere down here, and he was now completely blind in the darkness and had to stop.
“Shit!” He smacked the light against the open palm of his hand now to try and get it working, but to no avail.
From down the corridor leading to the pumps and well room, a new sound came to John — the wet slap of cold waterlogged flesh smacking onto the concrete floor as the thing from the other side of the well cap slowly approached his current position.
Harder moved as fast as he could through the control room, feeling along the wall with his left hand as he moved, his useless flashlight held out defensively in his right. He received some small comfort when his fingers finally traced over several banks of knobs and switches. He was nearing the exit, and moved rapidly now, hands probing out in front, searching for where he thought the door was located.
“Yes!” John whispered as his hand found the round, cold steel of the doorknob. He started turning it desperately back and forth, but it was locked. The tendons in his wrist felt like they were threatening to tear loose from the force he applied to the handle as he tried to turn the lock’s tumblers past their breaking point, but it wouldn’t budge.
Sweat beaded his brow, and he paused, listening intently into the silent blackness that surrounded him.
There was nothing now. No more wet flopping noises or the sound of anything waterlogged dripping slowly toward him. That was a good thing, John thought, maybe this horror show was finally over.
The musty, damp smell in his nostrils was suddenly replaced by something he liked even less: the smell of rotten meat. A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder, and a thick, wet voice whispered in his ear, “Father.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
December 24th, 1963, 2345 hours
Vincent DaCosta awoke with a snort. He felt disoriented. The last thing he remembered seeing was George Bailey’s crestfallen face upon discovering he couldn’t leave for college, because he needed to stay in Bedford Falls and run the family business after his father died of a heart attack. DaCosta shared George’s pain, feeling unfulfilled in his own grand aspirations of fame and fortune. He knew it to be true, since here he was, manning the front desk of an isolated Canadian mountaintop resort in the middle of winter, on the graveyard shift, on Christmas Eve. There was no justice in the world, he thought sourly.
Currently on the TV across from his stocking feet, a spiritually energised Ebenezer Scrooge sat next to Mrs. Dilbert on the stairs, trying to convince her that he wasn’t crazy. He suddenly ruffled his fingers through his thinning white hair at her, doing little to advance his case, and she screamed, ready to flee.
Checking the glowing radium dial of his wristwatch, Vincent was shocked to see the time was 11:47 P.M. He would need to take the midnight snack cart up to the freak show in the royal suite in just a few minutes. After floating ten bucks to the dish monkey in the kitchen, the kid had agreed to send the food up to the lobby for him at the appropriate time so he could then deliver it to the suite.
Slipping on his loafers, Vincent took a quick gulp of the remaining cold coffee in his thermos-top cup and shuddered. He began to stand, then sat back down again. The room felt a little bit rubbery, and he decided to wait for it to settle down a moment before attempting his journey to the lobby. Maybe he shouldn’t have put so much Ballentine’s in his ‘deluxe’ coffee this year. Well, hopefully, Schreck wouldn’t notice.
DaCosta took a deep breath, then stood and aimed himself through the office archway and moved toward the imposing front desk. Feeling wobbly again, he leaned heavily on the thick oak when he arrived. Across the way, Tommy Dorfman was locking the double entry doors to the Snowdrop Lounge. Though he was supposed to close at midnight, it seemed he was pulling up stakes a little early tonight. Vincent still had six hours to go on the other hand. With a sigh, he nodded across the lobby toward the bartender.
Unfortunately for Vincent, the front desk staff, which usually worked eight-hour shifts, switched over to twelve-hour shifts for the Christmas season. This allowed an extra person to take some time off over the holidays, something especially important for staff with families. The resort was relatively quiet at this time of year, except for the upcoming party on New Year’s Eve in the grand ba
llroom. With no skiing or other winter activities apart from snowshoeing in the nearby forest, it was mostly indoor activities only at this mountaintop retreat in the wintertime — and a snoozefest, just like tonight.
Pocketing his keyring after locking the doors, Dorfman nodded back, saying, “Not much of a night, eh, Vinnie?”
The wind rattled the office windows at his back as if in agreement with Dorfman. DaCosta shook his head slightly, not about the night, but about the name the barman had used. He hated it when the bartender called him that. His full name was more formal and apropos of his job as front desk night manager, much more so than Vinnie. The name Vinnie evoked images of an underworld gangster. However, as Vincent, he shared the same first name with one of his favourite horror actors, the inimitable Vincent Price. If only he got the same respect as that master thespian did, he reflected sadly. He shook his head at Dorfman, saying, “It’s as boring as hell, just like last year.” With growing concern, he noted how difficult it had been to say the words ‘just’ and ‘like’ without slurring his speech — not a good thing when he still had six hours left on his shift.
Dorfman responded, “I can’t believe the drink order that these guys put in. I told you how they sat in the lounge all afternoon and evening drinking vodka straight up, right?”
“Yeah, you said they drink like Frank and his pack when they visit.”
“Yeah, well, unlike Peter, Sammy, and Dean, none of Schreck’s pack ever seemed to get drunk. And they never ate any of the bowls of chips or peanuts from the bar, nothing at all. I know they didn’t smuggle any food inside, and the kitchen never sent any orders up for them. When they all followed your buddy in the bowler hat like good little dogs over to the elevator, did they seem drunk from what you saw?”
“Nope. Not at all. Just weird and creepy.”
“I know, go figure. And guess what? They ordered some more booze for midnight as well. I’m just going to run it up to them before heading out!”
“Really? How much?”
Tommy stepped over to a potted pine bedecked with twinkling Christmas lights. He wheeled out an ornate bar cart from behind it. “Here you go, look for yourself.” He pushed the cart toward Vincent, and it shot smoothly across the lobby on well-oiled casters, the bottles inside jingling musically. DaCosta intercepted the cart before it could go rolling its merry way down the staircase to the kitchen. He opened the door to the wheeled cabinet. Inside, almost every imaginable brand of vodka or grain alcohol that the hotel carried was on display. Curiously, there was no rum, rye, or gin, just dozens of vodka bottles along with several bottles of Everclear thrown in for good measure. “What in God’s name are they going to do, preserve scientific specimens?” Vincent asked, slurring the last couple of words.
Dorfman added helpfully, “Or scrubbing down the suite for an operation? I don’t know, but I wondered about that too. I mean, how much booze can seven guys drink in the course of one night? There are three dozen bottles inside that cart. The buggers cleaned out my whole stock. That’s over five bottles of booze per guy, and some of these are forty pounders! I don’t know how they’re going to function in their ‘business meeting’ if they drink all this. And speaking of which, how are you functioning at the moment, Vinnie? You don’t look so hot.” He crossed the lobby toward Vincent.
Having closed the liquor cabinet doors, DaCosta stood, leaning on the wheeled cart for support. The lobby had just started getting rubbery again. “Just tired,” he lied.
“Yeah, I can see that.” Dorfman said, grabbing the cart’s handle and removing Vincent’s crutch, forcing him to stand unsteadily upright. Sniffing the air, the barkeep added, “And I can smell that, too.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small white canister the size of a roll of nickels and tossed it to DaCosta. Vincent caught it after a couple of bouncing tries and peered at the label as Tommy said, “Better have a blast of Binaca, buddy.”
Dorfman wheeled the cart across the lobby to the elevator, pressing the call button when he arrived. The elevator pinged almost immediately, its elaborate iron gate rattling aside as the inner doors opened. He pushed the cart into the cramped elevator and turned, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. Holding it up between his index fingers, he gave the bill a quick snap, saying “They’re creepy, but they tip well!” He pressed a button on a panel inside, and the doors slid shut on Tommy’s grinning face.
“That they do,” DaCosta said to the empty lobby. He looked at his watch. It was now ten minutes before midnight. He retreated to the office and began spritzing his mouth with the bottle of minty-smelling Binaca from Dorfman. The alcohol base in the breath freshener caused him to look longingly at his thermos for a moment, but he knew it was empty. Despite his previous reservations regarding his drinking, he wished he were going to deliver the drink cart rather than the food cart — he sure could use another drink before seeing Schreck in the royal suite.
Vincent charted an unsteady course across the lobby to the elevator. Halfway across, a ‘ping’ rang out. The lift had arrived right on time. Its doors opened, revealing a serving cart piled high with food and nobody in attendance to keep an eye on it. It looked like the kid he’d paid had taken him at his word and just rolled the car into the elevator, pressed ‘L’ and sent it up. Vincent had expected the boy to at least accompany it up to the lobby. He shook his head, kids these days.
The ride up to the third floor seemed to take longer than usual. With a smirk, DaCosta thought that perhaps it was because he was drunker than usual tonight. Vincent hadn’t bothered looking at the menu that Schreck had passed to him and had simply handed it off to the kitchen staff. He figured now would be a great time to peek under some of the chromed serving domes and see what Schreck and his band of merry men were having for a midnight snack. He lifted the first lid, thinking it would probably be either cheese, crackers, fruit, or luncheon meat — the usual stuff.
What was revealed to his disbelieving eyes was entirely different than his expectations. Each new thing was more disgusting than the last. Raw salmon with the head still attached, bloody roasts of meat, uncooked sausage, bowls of fish roe, and glasses filled with dozens of egg yolks hid beneath the gleaming domes. He knew that there were cultures that ate a lot of protein, like the people of Northern Canada, the Inuit. But, from what he knew of his cousins to the north, Schreck and Boys definitely didn’t look Inuit. He doubted if any of them could make an igloo if their life depended on it, but then again, neither could he. And although he knew that the Inuit ate raw whale blubber, this took things to a whole new level of disgusting. His feelings of queasiness and unease returned now, or maybe they’d just never left in the first place. He checked his watch. It was 11:57 P.M.
The elevator arrived on the third floor with a ding, and the doors whisked open.
Vincent looked up from his watch and flinched backward in surprise.
Standing immediately next to the elevator door was Tommy Dorfman, with one hand grasping the ornate brass railing next to it, as if for support. He said nothing and merely stared at DaCosta, a blank expression on his face — or blanker than usual, at least.
“Sweet Jesus! You scared the crap out of me, Dorfman!” His heart was hammering in his chest. With a wheeze, he added, “You can’t do that stuff to me, I have a weak heart, you know!” What was this idiot up to now? He shook his head in disgust. The bartender was always going for a laugh no matter what the cost to anybody around him. Playing along, Vincent said, “Okay, what’s the gag this time? Are you in some sort of holiday trance now after too many shots of eggnog from Schreck?”
Dorfman didn’t respond, remaining mute and expressionless. Vincent shook his head and wheeled the cart off the elevator. He half-expected the barman to try and scare him as he passed, but Tommy continued to stand next to the railing, unmoving and only watched him as he passed, saying nothing.
Vincent kept pushing the cart, choosing now to ignore the ignoramus instead. He heard the elevator door close at his back an
d begin to descend and hoped it was also taking the bartender and his stupidity to where it belonged, the ground floor. He sighed and continued to push the cart down the hall, saying quietly, “Have a Merry Ho-Ho, Tommy, and a Feliz Navidad, too.”
The wheels of the cart squeaked slightly as DaCosta moved down the corridor. Apparently, they weren’t as well oiled as the bar cart that Dorfman had brought up. In fact, now that Vincent looked more closely at what he was pushing, the cart didn’t look like any he’d seen anyone using in room service at any time in recent memory. The kitschy design of the cart screamed of Art Deco’s last gasp from the early 1940’s. Vincent had been at the hotel for longer than he’d cared to remember, and nothing like this had been used to transport food since he’d been here.
