Sacrifice, Part 3

(Horror)

            Colin fussed with the keys before finding one that worked, commenting on how they were all using skeleton keys when he left.  The door opened to a fairly modest entrance, strangely small for the size of the house.  It smelled old and a bit damp.

            “Seems a bit small for such a big place,” she commented.

            “This is part of the original house, before they expanded it,” he said, trying to ignore a familiar, awkward presence.  “Some of the old house was changed around, just not the entrance or halls.  When I was growing up, the decor was very much a rustic, old style.  Most of the furniture and wood is original.”

            “It looks in decent shape,” Macy commented, looking over the walls and windows as they passed through the halls.  “Are these paintings all originals?”

            “Yeah,” he said leading the way down the hall, “and only a few have needed restoration work.”

            “And these are family portraits, then?” she asked, slightly awed by the stern folk, depicted in rigid, firm stances.  They were like something out of an early Victorian museum.

            “Pretty much,” he said, hardly looking at them.  “The odd one is some family friend or something.  They were a tight knit clan from all the history I was ever told.  And here is the staircase.”

            The oak stairs were in perfect shape, other than a bit of dust, and curved up to meet a landing that branched off into the upper floors.  The wood was not ornate or decorative.  It was a simple, sturdy construction meant to last; similar to the rest of the house.

            “So far, it doesn’t look like Cyril took anything from the place,” Colin said, finding it better to talk than address the growing presence stirring around him.

            “I can’t wait for a proper tour,” Macy said, starting to forget her earlier concerns and enjoy the moment.

            “Cyril probably lived in the master suite while he was here, so that is where we are headed,” Colin explained as they moved through another dusty hall.  “It should be set up for modern living, or close.”

            The master suite was large without being expansive.  It had a full bathroom, sitting room and study.  It was all right out of a history book.  Of all the things in the room, only the bed struck Macy as being over the top.  It was high and deep, with immense oak posts supporting a velvet canopy.

            Colin pulled gently on a cord that hung down from the high ceiling and the lights came on.  Macy gave him a looked of awe and surprise.  “That is so weird,” she said, “and cool at the same time.  What the heck?”

             Colin laughed at that.  He had taken the strange light switches for granted as a kid; in fact, normal wall switches took him a while to get used to.  “They used to have these connected to a bell downstairs for the servants.  They never got rid of them, so now they turn the lights on and off.”

            Macy gave the cord a short tug and the lights went off.  She laughed, too.  It was all so strange and wonderful; and it helped her connect with Colin’s unusual past.  She felt closer to him than ever.

            The room had fresh bedding and was otherwise set to live in.  Colin took Macy on a tour of the building, checking the state of things as they went.  The house had changed very little since he left so many years ago.  The odds and ends repairs that Cyril had made really took care of the worst issues; the rest was all a matter of details.  The rooms were in order, drop cloths protected anything worth protecting, and the worst cleaning needed was some dusting.  The returning memories helped Colin manage the increasing pressure from the presence in the building.  It took them nearly two hours to see everything except the cellars, by which time he had a headache from focussing on the tour and denying the presence.

            “We don’t have to see the cellar,” Macy said, noticing his changed temperament, assuming fatigue or emotional strain.  “We can just rest a bit, if you want.”

            “Actually,” Colin said, “how about I show you the old stable house?”  They had seen the building from the windows facing the back of the property.  Macy agreed, thinking the fresh air would be a good change.

            The presence in the house had less strength when Colin was out.  He found a bit of clarity and release as they crossed the yard to the stables.  He found the key for that lock and opened it up.  There wasn’t much to see.  The family only kept a couple of horses when he was kid, and they were older animals kept mostly for the nostalgia of it.  Faint traces of manure and damp wood lingered.  The wall was littered with traps, chains, tackle and harness, tools and supplies.  Most hung on nails or hooks.  Not much to see, but the distance from the house was a relaxing change for Colin.

            “How about a walk around the grounds?” he asked her.  The weather was pleasant enough and they toured the remnants of the garden.  It had completely grown over and gone wild.  Some failing fruit trees had suffered greatly from strangling ivy.  They walked through the path into the forest beyond the garden.  The stones were covered in moss and forest litter, but the path remained clear enough to pass comfortably.  The pair of stone bridges over the creek stood strong as ever, adding a pinch of civilization to the forest.  They walked in silence; Macy trying to give Colin some space to deal with whatever was ailing him.

            For Colin, the ground past the last foot bridge was safe ground from the nagging pressure within the house.  His mind was completely clear after they crossed it.  He recalled, as a youth, that it was so.  He was not sure if the presence had become stronger, somehow, or he was simply not used to it after the long absence.  The respite would be short lived, he knew, though it was welcome.

            He looked at Macy like he had not seen her before.  She was not an ugly girl, to be sure, though modelling would never be an option.  She was slim and kept good care of herself.  Her personality was generally pleasant, though she was a bit needy and tended to nag.  She was from a working class family with no major red flags for him.  In all, not a bad girl; but not one he really cared to marry.  He regretted her part in the events to come.

Sacrifice, Part 2

(The horror story continues.)

“Yeah,” Colin said, “it is.  That’s all part of the charm, of course.”

     “Are there any neighbours close by?”

     Colin pressed his memory.  The family did not really mix much with friends or neighbours in the area.  That sort of thing only started after the move to New York.  The closest thing he could recall was an older, farming couple that were a short drive away; and, even then, he was under the impression that their property had since been added to the Hardwick estate.

     “Not close by, for sure,” he said.  “The house itself is huge, and the property extends a few miles or so around it.  It is an old estate.  Not many like it, anymore.”

     “You figure it was built about two hundred years ago?” Macy asked, enjoying the start of their chat.

     “The original part of the house was built right before the Revolution,” he said, remembering what his grandparents had explained to him a million times as a boy.  “The exact date is not known because they added the rest of the house about ten years later, when the British were gone and things had calmed down.  So, technically, the building is about two hundred years old.”

     “The Hardwick’s must have made good money,” she said, suddenly into new territory with the history of the mansion.  “What did they do?”

     “Well, the official, family line is has it as a combination of old money from Europe and a mix of local business interests.  We know they owned sawmills, forges and several general stores, but it gets murky beyond that.”

     “Ah,” she laughed, “finally some juicy stuff.  Do tell.”

     Colin smiled.  The conversation was actually enjoyable to him, as well.  “There is a ton of rumour that they smuggled just about anything and everything you can imagine.  It is said this brought the Hardwick’s to the colonies, in the first place.  During the revolution, their smuggling operations went into overdrive.  The expansion to Hardwick House was a result.”

     “So they smuggled goods past the British,” Macy laughed, her knowledge of history quite limited.  Her understanding of the American Revolution was that the British had high taxes, the Americans revolted and won.  George Washington and Thomas Edison were mixed into it, somehow, too.  “You come from patriotic roots,” Macy added.

     “Not likely,” Colin said, half smiling.  “Rumour has it that the Hardwicks smuggled for both sides, until it was clear the British were finished.  Then, they sided exclusively with the American cause.  Business probably trumped politics.”

     “Scandalous,” Macy said, looking at their surroundings.  She noticed, rather suddenly, that there were no power lines flanking the road side.  She glanced at her phone, noticing the reception was at zero bars.  A glance at the GPS showed it was searching for satellites.  She waited a few minutes before bringing her growing angst to her fiancé, who seemed oblivious to it all.

     “You do know where you are going, right?” she asked.

     “Absolutely,” Colin said, suddenly noting the state of the GPS.  “Don’t worry about that, I looked the map over before we left.  The area has always lagged behind with technology.  Your phone probably doesn’t have much reception out here, either.”

     “Are you from a Quaker family or something?” Macy asked, suddenly unsure of what was coming.  “This place does have electricity, right?”

     Colin laughed, almost choking from it.  “Not Quakers, no,” he said, trying to calm down, “but suspicious of new things, yes.  The land is in a bit of a valley and there are no cell towers on or near it.  I am not even sure if Uncle Cyril owned a cell phone; and if he did, he was the first in the family to live at the house with one.”

     “And the electricity?” she asked with growing suspicion of her own.

     “They have a private line running off the grid,” Colin explained.  “My grandparents were very suspicious of outsider access to the property, so they cut some deals to make sure the lines were off limits to government people.  It was only installed after I was born, in fact.”

     “And it is working now?”

     “I am told so,” Colin said, “but the power was never reliable, even after it was installed.  A rural reality.”

     “The charm of the weekend is sure rubbing off quickly,” she muttered.

     “It will all be over before you know it, dear,” he said, lacing in his best charm.

     They did not drive much further when they reached the turn to the property.  It was a private road, complete with a gate and no trespassing sign.  Colin pulled up to the gate, got out and unlocked the padlock with one of the keys that had been mailed to him.  After driving through, he locked the gate behind them.

     “Why bother?” Macy asked when he returned to the car.

     “A minor precaution against trespassers,” Colin said, “and it helps with any insurance issues that might come up.  Stupid, I know.”

     The private road to the house was not much different than the last few miles of dirt road.  It was rutted and worn, probably one of the first things needing repair.  The trees were a little closer and the light seemed a bit dimmer, especially for noon.  Macy’s sense of distance was worse than her history, but it was quite a distance from the gate before they reached Hardwick House.

     The building was vaguely Victorian, though it had almost gothic elements on the exterior.  Built on a small rise, just clear of the forest line, the house stood three stories and seemed to sprawl out like a monster on a rock.  The final approach was covered with paving stones, lined with cherry trees.  It was almost beautiful.

     “Wow,” Macy said, taking in the building and grounds.  There were statues and a small fountain in front of the building, now a touch mossy and entangled with vines.  The building exterior showed signs of both weathering and recent repair.  Colin was growing distracted as they came to a stop in front of the main door.  When they stepped out of the car, the world was silent; no sound, wild or otherwise, was to be heard.  The sudden change was almost palpable, and Colin filled the gap awkwardly, despite being awash in his own thoughts.

     “Welcome to Hardwick House!” he exclaimed in a mock showy tone.

     If it had not been for the newest concerns of electricity, cell service, and complete isolation, Macy might have found the place quaint.  The charm was there, yet her mood was off; and she was not confident she would shake it.

Sacrifice, Part 1

(I return from holidays a little refreshed and ready to kick off 2020. I hope everyone had a happy and restful time. Thought I would switch gears from the long, sci-fi and jump back to some shorter, spooky stuff. This is a horror/ghost story with just a hint of mystery thrown in. Hope you enjoy.)

“You have been putting this off for forever, Colin,” Macy nagged playfully.  “Like so many other things.”

            Colin was getting used to the nagging; it was growing more frequent as the wedding day approached.  He put up with it, on account of the bigger picture.  “The old house isn’t going anywhere, so a few more minutes will be okay.”

            “I guess so,” she agreed, keeping things playful.

            The car was already packed and ready for the short drive to the Hardwick House.  Even though he had only brought up the family house recently, the trip to see it was high on both their priority lists.  Macy already knew she liked Colin; he fit her check list so well that it sometimes scared her.  His family had dwindled from several accidents and tremendous ill luck, true, but that also meant fewer in-laws to interfere or quarrel with.  Colin was a junior partner in a mediocre law firm, clean cut and God-fearing.  He was a little older than she had hoped for; that being the worst thing about him.  He had not immediately told her about the family estate in the heart of New England he had recently inherited, perhaps concerned that she was a gold digger, yet this seemed a reasonable precaution to her.  She had not accepted his proposal for his money, but the additional security it provided was welcome.

            For Colin, the house had some value beyond childhood memories.  He had been raised there until he was nine, when his father whisked Colin and his mother away to New York City.  Life had been good at the Hardwick House, a remote, Victorian mansion in a magnificent state of upkeep; especially compared to a busy, loud and crowded New York City.  Twenty five years later, Colin was in a tight spot.  Despite relative success as a business lawyer, his lifestyle and some questionable investments had set his finances back.  Debts were crippling, nearly to the point of breaking.  The family estate came to him as an early surprise; the recent passing of an estranged uncle being the last in a string of unusual deaths.  The place was worth a fair chunk of change; at least, enough to pay his mounting debts and give him a fresh start.  Still, there was always a price, even for an unexpected gift.

            The plan was to spend Saturday night at the house in order to check it out.  Colin’s Uncle Cyril had been keeping the place as a summer residence.  Uncle Cyril had been carrying out some upkeep toward selling the place, so the property would keep them dry enough for a weekend.  They brought camping gear, just in case.

            “How long since your uncle stayed there?” Macy asked as they got underway.

            “Almost a year,” Colin said, sure he had told her before.

            “I still can’t believe it took so long for the will to go through,” she said, mostly to make conversation.  Colin had only told her about it a month ago.  She had been dying to see Colin’s childhood home ever since.

            “It was a pretty screwy will,” Colin said, playing along with the idle conversation.  “I think he probably didn’t want the place going to me.  He did everything except exclude me from the will.  If he had, there would be an auction right now.”  Cyril had willed his entire estate to a series of friends who turned out to have passed away or disappeared.  The will was clearly old; the old man had not expected to kick off so soon.  When it was clear that no one in the will was available to take it, Hardwick House passed to the next available family member.

            “You were kind of vague about his break with the family,” Macy went on.  “He didn’t get along with your dad, somehow?”

            “The reason I was vague is because I never had it explained to me, either,” Colin explained.  “No one talked about it, really.  What I know came in bits and pieces.  Mom and dad were already dead before I left law school, so there wasn’t a lot of adult discussion of family politics.  Who knows, they might never have told me, anyway.”

            “Your uncle was mad that your dad left the estate,” Macy probed.  “Seems like a weird thing to fight over.”

            Colin smiled.  He had wondered about the full connection to his own understanding of the house and Uncle Cyril’s rift with his father.  “It could be anything, I guess.  For all I know, dad left because of the fight.  The bits and pieces suggest Cyril felt dad owed it to my grandparents to stay.  I just don’t have enough information to say, really.”

            Macy smiled and put her hand Colin’s shoulder.  “You’re funny,” she said, almost giggling, “with your legal need to have it all evidenced out.  You don’t even want to try a few theories?”

            “Not really,” Colin said, really not caring about the details of an event that no longer mattered.

            “Okay,” she said, trying to find a new angle to keep the conversation going.  “What did your uncle do for a living?”

            “He was a building contractor,” Colin said.  “As far as I know, that was all he ever did.”

            Macy nodded.  “And did he have much money of his own?  He was keeping up a pretty expensive property for a few years.”

            “He was planning on selling it in a few years, according to the paperwork.  His contracting business didn’t make a ton of money, but he seemed to manage.  For all I know, he was selling family heirlooms to make the difference.  As it stands, I already sold his business to one of his senior employees to cover the legal costs related to the stupid will.  He was worth that much, at least.”

            “Hopefully he kept the plumbing up,” Macy said, looking to lighten things.  “I don’t really want to do my business in a pot all weekend.”

            “I think the place is livable, including plumbing,” Colin said, checking his blind spot as he pulled onto the interstate.  “A local caretaker was keeping the place up until a couple of weeks ago.  Another provision of the will.”

            “Why did he stop?” Macy asked.  A caretaker was news to her.

            “A short term contract provided for in the will,” Colin said.  “It’s part of why I wanted to see the place now.  If the place is good enough to sell, as is, I may hire him on again until a deal closes.”  He had already explained his intention to fix the house up, if needed, to maximize the price.

            “Would you ever consider keeping it?” she asked.  She had brought it up before, briefly, but never really discussed it beyond that.

            Colin smirked.  “Part of me wouldn’t mind.  The truth is that my life is based in the city.  The commute is almost manageable, except for the winters.  I couldn’t justify the place as a summer residence, considering what year round taxes and insurance would cost.  Besides, just keeping the place up would be a job.  There must be a dozen bedrooms alone.”

            Macy smiled again, suddenly feeling close to him.  “Maybe, when we finally stop waiting to do the deed,” she said, half serious, “we could work on filling those rooms.”  She had casually referenced their state of celibacy.  Macy was not altogether the most religious girl, however she had a strong desire to remain celibate until her wedding night; which was, for Colin, the only thing that mattered.

            Colin looked away to hide the look crossing his face, obvious sadness and regret.  When he turned back, smiling, she seemed not to have noticed.  “That’s a lot of rooms,” was all he said.

            The expressway gave way to a short run on a secondary highway before leading to a genuine side road.  The road was hilly and winding at stops, seeming to hug the landscape.  Irregular intervals of houses and farms quickly gave way to trees and brush.  For Macy, a true city girl, they were suddenly in a wilderness; and she was uncomfortable with it.  They had been fairly quiet for a while, and she needed the comfort of conversation.

            “You weren’t kidding about the place being in the middle of nowhere,” she said, hoping he would converse.

Even More Casserole

(The holiday season looms. My posting frequency may be erratic through the end of the year. It is so good to be my own boss on this. I will try for something different on the next post. There is such a thing as too much casserole)

The drive took us off the main highway and onto a secondary road until noon.  We were in the heart of farm country and the world suddenly seemed far away.  Mal took a side road for several minutes, coming to a place called Bhrycal Corners, with all of an independent gas station, family restaurant and antique shop to differentiate it from any other country crossroad.  Mal slowed and pulled into the gas station.

“This doesn’t look much like a meeting place,” I observed.

“No,” Mal said, getting out of the car.  “We could use some gas and more food, though.”

The meeting was clearly some time into the future.  I didn’t object.  After gassing the car, Mal parked and insisted we try the local cuisine.  The Quiet Corners Family Restaurant was true to its name, we were the only guests and it was not yet one o’clock.  The menu was limited but Mal found a way to order a feast.  An appetiser of cheesy garlic bread was followed with a hot turkey sandwich and an order of apple pie for desert.  I was hungry enough to order a similar quantity of food.

“It always makes me sad to see places like this,” she said while stirring the sugar into her coffee.  “The people work hard to build a business, even out in the boondocks, and it too often sits empty.  The owners don’t want to make a million dollars, they only want to make a decent living.  Sad.”

Her attempt at chit chat felt forced, awkward.  I didn’t care much for talking when I only wanted to find out more about why I was being called in, and what was wrong with Corbin.  Mal did not take the hint, or chose to ignore it.

“I hope places like this last forever,” Mal went on.  “It’s not fair that they go out of business and fail.  There must be a way to fix that, you know?”

“Places like this tend to fail because they are not properly planned or managed,” I said, anxious for the silence of our car trip.  “I could care less if they make it or not.  Not my problem.”

“Charming,” Mal said, flashing her smile for the first time in a while.  “You should write a motivational column or something.”

“I’m not feeling very chatty,” I grumbled.  “This was not how my day was supposed to go.”

“Ah, yes.  You were supposed to go back to your boss and make a delivery; a worthy use of your skills and responsible contribution to society.  Somehow, I am not bothered about disturbing your day.”

“You can spare me the crap about doing the world a favour,” I said, feeling resentful again.  “I did enough.  All I wanted was a full extraction, and they couldn’t do it, so I left.  It’s a free country, the last time I checked.”

“Then why didn’t you take a labour job?  Or anything other than crime?” Mal rose to the challenge.

“Because labour jobs that pay well don’t exist, and the pension the program offers doesn’t exist,” I shot back.  “And I lost too much time playing secret agent to jump back into a normal life”

“Let me get this straight,” she said, getting more agitated, “you want a pension for ten years of work?  Fuck!  How about a gold watch and a retirement party?  You can’t be that selfish.”

“Oh, but I can.”

“You would be dead if it weren’t for Corbin,” she said, crossing into sensitive territory.  “The only reason you can handle this insane life of yours is because of him, too.  You know how he is, how do you think he feels about your career choice after what he gave you?”

I was pissed off by this point.  “I got over that a while back.  Corbin saved my life, and I can only thank him for it, but I didn’t sign up to be a slave.  I’m not only one to leave the program, either.”  The truth went deeper than this, really, but I just wanted to stop talking about it.  Mal had opposed my leaving from the moment I first mentioned it, before I chose a criminal life.

“Don’t give me that bull shit!” she kept on going.  “Paul became a police officer and Nancy got an office job.”

“Listen, Mal,” I said, working very hard to keep my voice down, “I just don’t give a shit.  I haven’t given a shit for while.  So how about not talking about it?”

Our server saved me from more distress with the prompt arrival of our garlic bread.  I engaged in a brief, and awkward, conversation with the woman.  She was a chubby lady in her early fifties with pleasant features and work-worn hands.  Mal’s earlier point about the plight of little businesses like this hit me, just a little, when I looked at the woman.  She was polite, and friendly, but clearly wanted to leave our table.  Mal was bubbling over, searing anger obvious in her eyes; stoked hotter as I obviously extended a meaningless conversation with our server.

Mal leaned in after the server was out of earshot, looking like pure venom.  “You don’t want to fucking talk?” she hissed.  “Fine.  Then you can save it for the meeting because I’m done talking, too.”

“That’s the best thing you’ve said since you showed up,” I said, not contented to let her off too easily.

“Fuck you,” she responded.

Our meal was very ordinary, other than being too salty.  True to her word, Mal not only stayed quiet but she never once looked at me.  She even told the server that I would be paying.  I had clearly struck a nerve.

The rest of the drive took us into a remote area of southern Ontario; even the farming seemed to peter out.  At one point, it was clear that Mal was doubling back and circling a certain area to check if we were being followed.  Some of the roads we took were hard on the car, not being much better than pairs of ruts in the bush.  The car was a right-off, anyway, as Mal had put out several cigarettes on the dash since lunch.  It was nearly dusk when she finally turned down a particularly rough track.  The overgrown track jostled us in the car, the undercarriage taking a beating as branches scratched the exterior.  Mal drove on with a satisfied look on her face as the car took a beating.  When the bush around us cleared, we were at the edge of cliff.  Mal stopped the car and got out.  I had a bad feeling about her intentions toward the car and got out quickly.  As expected, Mal gave the car a shove over the edge, ending about fifty feet below and into watery grave.

She didn’t even look back as she headed into the surrounding woods.  I had one final temptation to run for it before I followed her in.  She kept a quick pace, not quite jogging, through the woods until we broke into a field dotted with patches of bush.  It felt like an abandoned farm area, dotted with stones, thistles and trees.  In the early twilight, it felt very remote, as if the world outside didn’t exist.

Our path kept us in the direction of a distant barn.  The closer we got, the clearer it was that the place was nearly a ruin.  It was deathly quiet, other than the crickets and occasional bird chirping.  When we were about fifty feet from the barn, Mal slowed her pace and changed her course to circle around.  I followed carefully, it being obvious that we had reached the meeting place.  A complete circle later, we went toward the barn.  The door hung open enough to slip through; the outside twilight just barely illuminating the interior through the damaged roof and walls.  I immediately noted the smells of gun oil, perspiration and fabric.  Years of living a dangerous life made me want to reach for my weapon, which might have been fatal in the company I was meeting with.

A tiny light, the same colour made by fireflies, flashed before us in some unknown, coded pattern.  I was familiar with this type of coded communication, only the code had probably changed many times since I had last used it.  Mal signaled back with a penlight of her own, the firefly colour matching.  We moved forward to what looked like a tent, turning out to be an ancient tractor under a tarp.  Beneath the tractor was a trap door to a cramped basement below.  The basement was only just high enough to stand straight in.  The lights were dim, but I recognised everyone there.  Palmer, Smith, Jarredsson and several others I knew too well.  Good, upstanding members of the program.  In all, there were a dozen of them; I estimated another two or three in the barn above us.  I was acknowledged with a combination of silent nods and a variety of mumbled greetings; none of it felt terribly friendly.

More Casserole

(Just adding a bit more to the last post here. Enjoy)

     I had parked in an alley between a hardware store and a junk shop.  When I reached the car, Mallory was already behind the wheel, smiling mischievously and certainly pleased with herself.

     “Hop in,” she said through the open window, before I could speak, “I’m driving.”

     “Like hell you are,” I snapped.  “Get out.”

     “Listen, Peters,” she said, smirking.  “If you really want to make a scene on a quiet, northern morning, after seriously fucking up a pair of local gangsters, go for it.  Otherwise, I’m driving.”

     She had me, and knew it.  The last thing I could afford was unwanted attention.  Besides, a physical fight between the two of us would be more than noticeable.

     I got in and buckled up, instructing Mal to do the same.  “You already look like a freak,” I told her, “so we won’t be giving the police any more reasons to stop us today.”

     “Fine,” she said, and laughed.  She started the car out of town, driving by Foundation Street.  Two cruisers had already arrived, cherries blazing and sirens silent.

     “They sure took their time,” she commented.

     “For a town like this, they did alright,” I said.  “No gunshots or screaming reported.  They were like lightning.”

     We drove in silence for a while.  Mal kept us heading to the main roads out of town while I nervously tried to appreciate the rural scenery.  I was content to stay quiet; I didn’t want to know why she was here.  Before we reached the last turnoff to the major highway, she pulled into a coffee shop drive thru.

     “We’re barely twenty minutes out of town,” I spoke up.  “This is a bad idea.”

     “I’m hungry now,” Mal said, as if I had not spoken.  “And we were already seen by several people.  You must be peckish, too, unless you stuffed yourself this morning.”

     A dozen doughnuts and two coffees with three sugars were ordered.  Mal smiled at the disinterested clerk like we were out for a Sunday drive.  She hit the highway and set the cruise at one twenty.  She started packing down the doughnuts.

     “Sure you don’t want one?” she asked after the sixth one disappeared.  “They aren’t the best, but I’ve had a lot worse.”

     “I’m fine.  Just keep your eyes on the road.”  The coffee just tasted like sugar.  The calorie value was the only thing that mattered.

     Mallory left two in the box for me.  I would be hungry soon and she knew it.

     “You know,” she continued, sipping her coffee, “if I ever revert to normal I think I’m going to let myself go.  I couldn’t manage a diet if I tried.  Food is just too good, you know, especially the crap stuff.  How could I live on healthy food?”  She paused to light a cigarette.

     “This is a rental,” I spoke harshly.

     She looked at me with a smile, cigarette hanging from her lips.  She took a few insolent puffs before stubbing it out on the dash.  “There,” she challenged.  “Happy now?”

     I rubbed my temples.  I had forgotten how difficult Mal could be when she wanted to.  I settled myself enough to accept two important facts: Mal was here to tell me something and I probably didn’t want to know it.  The rest were details.  The sooner I got this out of the way, the more likely she was to go away.

     “Okay,” I spoke calmly, rubbing the frustration from my temples, “what is it?  Why did you come here?”

     “Long story,” she said, a hint of seriousness creeping in.  “It’s a good thing we have time.  There is a crisis, but not the usual kind.  This one affects us directly.  The timing of it sucks, too, so all the rogues are being called in.”

     “This sounds awfully familiar, Mal.  Am I going to get the usual lines about saving the world and living up to my potential?”  These were the type of lines they fed you, making it feel like a superhero moment when they needed your skills in action.  It was rarely a minor intervention or casual job; high pressure was the intended motivator, as though it were enticing.

     “Except this is the real deal,” Mal answered, a distant look on her face spooking me at the same time.  “I’m not shitting you in any way.”

     “You went through all this trouble,” I said, ready to call her bluff, “so I’ll nibble at the bait.  Let’s hear it.”

     Mal pursed her lips slightly before speaking.  “The Program, our cooperative arrangement with the federal security agencies, and even our own necks are in deep trouble.  Technically, it affects us all, which is why they are calling everyone in.”

     “What kind of threat are we talking about?”

     “I’m not supposed to give you any more than I already have,” Mal sighed.  “Unfortunately, you are as predictable as hell and I know you’ll fight me the whole way if I don’t do better.  So here is the teaser: the government is making moves to eliminate the program and us with it.”

     “That talk was in the wind even before I left,” I countered.  “Corbin has always handled that end, anyway.  You have to do better than that.”

     “Corbin is…”  The word caught in her throat, her tone somber.  “…is not well.”  She popped another cigarette into her mouth and lit it.  This time I said nothing.  She took a long drag and continued.

     “I won’t go into much more detail, Peters.  The information about our elimination came to us accidentally.  There is more to it, of course.  All I can say is that the intelligence we have right now is extremely legit.”

     “What is wrong with Corbin?” I asked abruptly.

“You already know more than you should,” she snapped back.  “Just go with this for once, will you?”

I wasn’t feeling like going back.  It was a part of my life that I remembered too well and despised too much.  Still, Corbin was Corbin.  He was something of a father figure to the members of the program.  In most cases, he had either saved our lives or made them worth living.  It was unlikely that Mal would use his health as a ploy to bring me in, not like this.  I was stuck, and however much I hated it, I knew it.

“Fine,” I said, angrier than intended, “I will go.”

“Good.”

“Where exactly is this meeting?” I asked, more gently.

“Not far, actually,” she said.  “Just enjoy the drive.”

This was not likely to happen.  I had too much to think about to just enjoy a drive to an unknown place, to meet people I would rather avoid and see a man I cared about in a state of illness.  My plans for an easy fortune and a quiet retirement seemed gone already.  What the hell could I do?  Even if I could ditch Mal, with violence or not, neither of which were foregone conclusions, where would I go?  Where could I hide that they wouldn’t find me, eventually?  And then, how would I feel about abandoning Corbin when he might need me?  It was not worth thinking about.  I reclined the seat slightly and reached for the remaining doughnuts.  I had a feeling I would need the calories.

To Be Named Later, or The Casserole

(This is the beginning of a much longer story. Call it very near future. Loosely speaking, it is a spy/underworld/perhaps-alternate-timeline story with all sorts of science fiction bits and pieces thrown in. A casserole of fun stuff. It is definitely gritty, not lacking in violence, and involves characters with questionable ethics. It is also unfinished, unedited and untitled, but I work on it between other things.)

               The downtown had the usual, dingy, rundown look of every small, northern town I had ever seen.  Patchy attempts to improve the visual rot only made it worse.  The waterfront was probably the only decent place in the downtown core, though the rot was seeping into it, as well.  The place was dead and just hadn’t noticed; a zombie town.

               I strolled to the docks, discovering the harbour area was smaller than it looked from a distance.   Really, it was a parking lot set next to a walkway along the water, with a restaurant on one side and a very industrial looking complex on the other.  Charming.

               If autumn had an upside, it was in being cold enough to keep riff-raff from sleeping outside during the night.  I had seen two distant joggers earlier but the place was otherwise deserted.  I continued along the larger of two main docks, figuring it was as good a place as any to do some thinking while I waited.  A car sped past in the distance, an ancient hatchback, rotting away like the town, and disappeared into a side street.  As quickly as that, I was alone.

               The waterfront was on a bay off the great lake.  The water was icy still and dark; the predawn light seemed to cast shadows on everything, and those shadows seemed to collect in the water.  It had a peaceful quality, all the same.  I kept my back to the town, enjoying the view across the bay, a mostly undeveloped area that gave an illusion of purity.

               Time passed and I fell into a deep, thoughtful state, almost a trance, aware of my surroundings yet deep within my own mind.  There was no ritualistic or spiritual element to it.  I had learned to do it as a boy and got into the habit.  The opportunity was sometimes scarce, though I never lost the knack.  It was like being awake and dreaming at the same time.  Thoughts, emotions, memories, and sensations swirled in a gentle maelstrom; they crossed, merged and sometimes settled with each other, creating a kaleidoscope vision of my mind.  I had found that the longer I was able to hold myself in this state, the more likely it was for the elements to generate the semblance of a message, or concept, or something meaningful.  It had a dreamlike quality, without the random, shifting and confusing nonsense.  The maelstrom had inertia, yet I could guide it along with gentle pressure; I always envisioned it as the same sort of pressure a tugboat exerted on a large ship.  The trick to holding the state and manipulating the storm was in not putting too much or too little pressure; too much pressure caused the elements of the maelstrom to weaken and fade, eventually breaking it; too little pressure made the intensity strong, but made it more difficult to find guidance from the mess.

               Minor distractions were another weak spot.  The solitude and tranquility made it easy to form the whirlwind; the increasing wakefulness of the town, rotted and sluggish as it was, wore down my focus.  It was difficult to estimate the passage of time, just like in a dream, so I was unsure of it when the final straw fell.  The light suggested that the sun had been up for a little while.

               “Fine morning,” a voice offered, sounding old, attempting to engage me in conversation.  My maelstrom collapsed into itself and disappeared, a fading memory in an instant.  I turned to the old voice, extending my hand to it.  Energy surged through me, nearly unbidden.  An elderly man, looking shocked at my quick, aggressive motion, stood a few feet away.  He had been right behind me.  The flicker of rage I felt at his interruption spiraled away in time for me to collect myself.  I had wanted to harm him for his lack of manners and inconvenient presence but it would do no good; I had my own business to attend to, and it would not serve to draw attention to myself.

               The man was a little scared, judging by his reaction.  I guessed his age at sixty.  He wore tan slacks, a plaid shirt and a windbreaker.  Just an old man with a big mouth, taking a morning walk because he had nothing better to do.  “Whoa,” he said, holding up his hands defensively.  “I didn’t mean to –“

               “Shut up,” I snapped, venting my ebbing anger at him without attempting to soften my words.  “You shouldn’t sneak around and surprise people like that.  It could go badly for you.”  I lowered my arm and walked away.  The old man simply stood there, too frightened to speak.

               Downtown closed around me before I was a block in.  It was a new town but a familiar place.  I had worked the central northern beat for Porter long enough to recognise the same old thing in a different place.  I had studied the map enough to know where I was going in this new piss hole.  My dawdling was wasted, anyway.  The maelstrom had yielded nothing, even before I lost it.  Something was not right in this place, only I could not place it.  Normally, I would have come away with something.

               I was in a pissy mood when I arrived, three blocks later, at 119 Foundation Street.  The Pawn Prince was a dismal sight; it was another relic, only brightened the slightest with a cheery, white banner proclaiming Cash for Gold in red letters.  The building had a second floor of apartments that merged with the adjacent buildings.  The entrance to the 119 apartments was a heavily abused wooden door to the right of the pawn shop.  The door handle had broken off, probably years earlier, and been replaced with a small length of rope.  It was already open a crack, which made it a bit more convenient for me.  The stairs were solid but filthy.  I turned left at the top of the stairs and made my way down the hall.  The lighting was dim, likely a by-product of cheap, low wattage bulbs and never-cleaned light fixtures.  The smell of stale cigarette, pot and beer almost masked the undercurrent of stale mop water, garbage and urine.  If it had been unexpected, I might have been thrown off.

               As it was, I felt my energy flow through me, accumulating like a charge.  It was doubtful I would need a lot, but apartment 2C had to know a visit was coming; and it was tough to say what countermeasures there would be.  The door to 2C was open, just slightly.

               I let my energy level build a bit more before I made my move.  A hard kick flung the door wide open, exposing a smoky room within.  Two men jumped up from a moldy couch, knocking over a coffee table in front of them; they both looked high as kites, one of them made a clumsy move for something inside his belt.  I unleashed a blast of energy that hit him square in the chest, knocking him through the wall; heavy bruises, broken ribs and a mild concussion were guaranteed, unless he was unlucky and I had collapsed his lungs and damaged his spine.  It didn’t matter.  The second man was the subject of my visit, and he was already on his knees and in shock.

               I kept a solid reserve of energy at the ready.  Something still felt wrong.  A quick check revealed no other guests in 2C.  Bobby O’Mara was on his knees begging me not to kill him.  Someone in a neighbouring apartment was hollering about keeping the noise down.

               “For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up,” I said, closing the apartment door.  “I don’t have much time for this, so pay fucking attention.  You should know better than to disrespect Porter the way you have.  You are way behind this year and you don’t even bother to call last month when you pay nothing.  That’s not cool, Bobby.  So this…”  My attention trailed off as I felt something familiar, something dangerously familiar, from behind me.  Someone was building up their energy and they were damn close.  Instinct took over and I formed my energy into a shield, encasing me in a protective cocoon.  A blast zipped past me and struck Bobby O’Mara squarely in the head, pulping it in one strike.

               I wheeled around, stirring up energy as fast as I could for a fight.  Standing at the back of the room was Mallory Stelton, an old associate who I thought I was finished with years ago.  She had changed her look, but was recognisable despite the Goth-ish wardrobe and makeup.  “What the hell, Mal?” was all I could think to say.

               “Nice to see you, Peters,” she said with a grin.  I had not dropped the shield.  Mallory was releasing her energy passively as she strolled forward.

               “Why are you here?” I asked bluntly.  “This bullshit is going to make things awkward for me back in the city.”

               “When did you get so sloppy?” she asked back.  “I couldn’t have got this close to you before without getting noticed.”

               “Fuck,” I growled, partly at Mal, partly at the mess in front of me.  It would take some explaining to keep Porter off my ass.

               “So,” Mal said, getting up and lighting a cigarette, “you are some sort of hit man, or something like that?”

               “Collections, actually,” I said, realising there would be no easy out.  I began a quick search of the place in the hopes I could find enough cash or dope to mitigate the screw up.

               “What a waste,” Mal said.  She was clearly amused by my frantic search.  Her nonchalant attitude had not changed in the years since I last saw her.

               “Is there something you want from me?” I asked, distracted by my search.  “This is a long way from Montreal, isn’t it?”

               “You always were a suspicious one,” she said with a smirk, watching me rifle through a putrid bathroom.  “Can’t a girl just stop by and say hello?”

               “Probably better you don’t tell me,” I responded, pushing by her and into the kitchen.  All I really wanted was to find a giant stash of dope, get out before the authorities arrived and ditch Mallory.  The last part would be the trickiest; she wasn’t here by chance.

               “Listen, tough guy,” she said, still toying with me, “why don’t we have a little chat?  There has got to be a place that serves coffee around here.”

               “Not interested,” I said without a blink.  I had left the world she belonged to, and that had taken some doing.  I had been left alone for some time, yet Mallory was a sign that world wanted me back.

               “Come on.  What is the rush?  One cup of coffee.”

               “The rush is,” I growled as I headed from the fruitless kitchen to the bedroom, “that I am supposed to have supper with my boss today.  If not, I owe him an advance phone call.”

               “Right,” she chuckled, “the collections thing.  You will be delivering from this run.”  She paused and finished her cigarette.  “Well, the city isn’t more than a couple of hours and it is morning.  That leaves time for a coffee, or do I have that wrong?”

               The fellow I had knocked through the wall was breathing.  He had a badly broken arm and numerous lesser injuries.  He didn’t look much like hired muscle.  A quick search of him produced a knife, about five thousand in cash and fifty dollars in weed.  It was chump change, in the big picture, but covered most of what O’Mara owed.  It also suggested he was here to buy, which meant there was another five grand in product in the apartment.  I was willing to press my luck by extending the search.  An even ten Gs would cover the debt, plus a little for the hassle.  Porter wouldn’t be happy; but he would understand a situation gone wrong.  It happened, from time to time, and life would go on.

               “Time is money, Mal,” I said, tearing the room apart.  “So if you have something to say, say it.  I am out of here soon.”

               She was uncharacteristically quiet.  I found a very sturdy little end table; heavy oak, bolted together like it was made to survive a bomb blast and locked tight.  I drew up a bit of energy, which got Mallory’s attention.  Fine work like this was not my forte, and I was distracted, so my attempt to blow the lock resulted in smashing up the entire thing.  The contents spilled out, mostly unharmed: bags of pills, powder and a bit of cash.  I grabbed it up and stuffed it into my jacket; big, inside pockets were gold in the collections business.

               “Time’s up,” I said, taking my turn to be funny.  “I got what I…”

               Mallory was gone.  It was hard to sense if she was still nearby or not.  Something was definitely going on and I didn’t like it in the least.  Keeping myself in the moment, I went for the window.  The same neighbour who hollered about the noise was hollering again, and this was the type of place that attracted police attention.  The window had a rusting fire escape to a partly overgrown parking area below.  I made my way down and got moving.  Once I was sure my trail was clear, I only needed to get back to the car; then I was home free.

A Long Way Down

(This is a dark fiction I wrote a while back. It sits around two thousand words, after a painful edit.)

“I don’t know about this, Mitch,” Bobby said, scratching his head.  “It’s a long way down.”

Mitch held the fishing line where they had marked the depth of the hole.  It was twenty feet deeper than they had estimated.

“No biggee,” Mitch said, his usual confidence shining through, “we still have enough rope.”  Bobby kept his doubts to himself.  Mitch was fourteen, two years older; he was practically an adult.  If he was sure they could do it, then it could be done.

The two boys had scavenged sixty feet of rope and miscellaneous items for their fortune hunting.  Their fishing line and sinker measurement had the hole almost fifty feet deep.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Bobby asked.  “Your Gramps said it was only thirty.”

“He said it was about thirty,” Mitch corrected.  “It was a long time ago, but this is the place.  There aren’t any other holes like this near Camby Road.  We checked, remember?”

Mitch’s grandfather had spent a great deal of time in jail over the years.  It was only in the last couple of years that he got to know his grandson.  A week earlier, he died in hospital from a chronic lung infection.  His legacy was a poor one, rife with years of robbery, assault, and prison.  The only thing of value he left behind was stowed in an abandoned mine, the unmarked entrance to which was located on INCO property.

“We can’t chicken out,” Mitch went on as he double checked the rope.  “This might be the only chance we have to make it out of Bear Valley.  I don’t want to spend my life here with some shitty job or welfare.  This is it.”

“We could die down there,” Bobby said, as though they had not covered that possibility before.

“Listen,” Mitch said.  “You are the only guy I can trust, that’s why I brought you in on this.  I might need your help down there, too.  Remember, if I go down there alone, I keep it all.”

“I know,” Bobby said, feeling a little ashamed of his last minute fear.  “I’m not chickening out.  I just want to make sure we do this right.  Y’know, be safe.”

“There’s not much more we can do about that,” Mitch said, looking through his pack sack.  “Everybody is talking about INCO opening up this mine again, because of the price of gold and all that.  If we wait too long we might not get a chance to do this.  I would rather die in this hole than live poor my whole life.”  This had been something of a mantra since Mitch’s grandfather revealed the hidden inheritance.

Their decent was slow and careful.  Mitch went first, holding the rope with white-knuckled effort as he lowered himself down.  The walls of the hole were close enough to reach, and had plenty of ledges, but the rope was the only secure thing to hold.  The edges had grown mossy and crumbled, making them dangerous handholds.  Bobby watched as Mitch descended into the gloom; the sight did nothing to alleviate his concerns.  Bobby watched a faint light grow stronger down the hole, Mitch barely visible in the greenish glow.

“How’s the rope holding?” he called up to Bobby.  He sounded a thousand miles away.

“It looks fine,” Bobby yelled back.  “The knot is solid and the log hasn’t budged.”

“Good, I’m almost there,” Mitch replied.  “Start down after me in a minute.”

Bobby waited for about a minute, as near as he could reckon.  The trip down was not as bad as he had expected.  The tightness of the walls around him made a fall seem less likely; the illusion of safety being a comfort against the dangerous reality.  When Mitch spoke, Bobby almost fell from the sudden shock of broken silence.

“It took you long enough,” Mitch grumbled.  Bobby looked down for the first time since entering the hole.  Mitch stood not more than ten feet below.  The green light of a glow stick made him look sinister.

“Sorry, Mitch,” Bobby said sarcastically as he lowered himself to the floor.  “Where did you get the glow stick?”

Mitch smiled in the eerie green light.  “Lifted a couple from Garner’s store,” Mitch answered.  “He won’t miss them.  Besides, I can pay him back once we get this gold out of here.”

“Right,” Bobby said, trying to sound like he was cool with it.  His parents were not much better off than Mitch’s father, a widower since Mitch was three, though they frowned on things like stealing.  Mitch’s father, on the other hand, was an alcoholic from a family well acquainted with the judicial system.  As much as Mitch’s behaviour bothered him, Bobby couldn’t shake his loyalty to his best, lifelong friend.  Mitch may have been rough around the edges, but he was always there to scare off bullies or share a stolen chocolate bar.

“The tunnel ahead is where the old mine starts,” Mitch said, pointing with his glow stick.  “It’s exactly how Gramps said it was.”

“It’s not too far, though, right?” Bobby asked.  “Like, maybe a hundred feet or something?”

“That’s what he said,” Mitch replied, “but it was a long time ago, so it might be more or less than that.  What’s for sure is that this is the right place.  We’re going to be rich, Bobby.”

Bobby smiled at that.  He knew it would be harder than just showing up at a bank or pawn shop with a bar of gold, yet the promise of long term wealth was hypnotic.  Ever since Mitch had approached him, Bobby imagined a life of comic books, pizza and video games.  He would live with Mitch in a mansion and never need to work.

They had agreed Bobby would go first in the tunnel since Mitch went first down the rope.  Bobby had taken a small flashlight from the shed.  It definitely threw less light than when he tested it in his room the night before.  Still, it was enough with Mitch’s glow stick providing light from behind.  They made better time once they reached the old mine level, where the floor was mostly level and ceiling high enough to stand straight.  Considering how narrow the way had been before, the mine passage was spacious.

Bobby was certain the walk felt longer than it was.  His sense of distance was clouded by the dark, unbending and featureless ruin of a mine.  The only sounds came from their nervous breathing and crunch of loose stone underfoot.  It felt like the world above was a million miles away.

Suddenly, the floor was clogged with loose rock that blocked their way.  A quick look with the flashlight made it clear the ceiling had collapsed at this point.

“The dead end,” Bobby whispered.  “Just like your Gramps said.  This has to be it.”

He looked to the right, where the box was supposed to be.  Mitch was looking, too.  Bobby moved into the corner until his flashlight was only a few feet from the wall.  A rotten box, hinges and lock heavily rusted, appeared in the beam.

“The box!” Bobby exclaimed, almost jumping at the sight of it.  “I can’t believe it.  It’s right there.”

“Holy crap, you’re right,” Mitch said.  “Gramps wasn’t crazy.  This is the real deal.  Go ahead and open it, Bobby.  You saw it first.  I’ll get the pack sack ready.”

Bobby was too excited to argue the point.  Three bars of gold, stolen from the mine by Mitch’s grandfather, lay before them; money enough to live rich for three lifetimes.  The lid broke apart before Bobby could get it all the way open.  Three dirty bricks lay at the bottom of the ancient, ruined box.  Somehow, they still gave off the slightest shine of yellow.  Bobby rubbed one of them with his sleeve and the golden colour was undeniable.  The deal was two for Mitch and one for him, but that was more than enough for a life of comic books, pizza and video games.

“Aaahh!” Bobby cried as the beam from his flashlight crossed a bony hand next to the box.  “What the hell is that?!”  He stumbled back and looked again.  The hand was connected to the remains of a skeleton, with only scant remains of clothing clinging to it.

“That’s Scott McMurphy,” Mitch said, looking far too calm for the circumstances.  “He was my Gramps’ partner.”

Bobby took a moment to process this.  It was the only thing between him and pure panic.  “What happened?  Why is he here?  Did he come back to take it and fall or something?  Did your Gramps know about this?”

“Yeah, he knew,” Mitch said calmly.  “I just didn’t want to tell you.  You might not have come if you knew there was a body down here.”

“But what happened?  How did he die?”  Bobby was in shock.  He wanted to look away, shine the light somewhere else, except for the horrible, mad fear that dead Scott McMurphy would stand up and kill them.

“Gramps killed him,” Mitch said.  “He needed to be sure the hiding place would stay secret.”

“He was his partner…” Bobby trailed off in thought for a moment.  “Why?”

“Nice guys finish last,” Mitch said in the same, steady voice.  Bobby looked at his best friend, bathed in the sick, green light of a stolen glow stick, suddenly noticing he held a knife.

“Mitch?” Bobby squeaked out.  “What are you doing?”

“What Gramps told me to,” Mitch said, slowly approaching.  “You’re a loose end, man.  I hate to do it, but I can’t risk this getting out.”

“You can have it all, Mitch,” Bobby whined, backing away.  “I won’t say anything, honest.  Just don’t kill me down here, okay?”

There would be no fighting Mitch.  Even without the knife, he was a head taller with a deceivingly strong frame.  Bobby was wiry, yes, but knew he could never win.  Bobby scrambled over the loose, fallen rocks until he was cornered.  He lashed out with a wild kick, hoping to get lucky.  Mitch countered with a punch that came short.  In a last, desperate attempt to survive, Bobby tried to lunge past him and run for the hole.  If he could only get clear he might make it.

Bobby flashed his light into Mitch’s eyes and jumped over the rocks awkwardly.  The flash of pain in his left leg took a moment to register; the adrenaline nearly muted it out.  Bobby kept moving forward, half crawling and half running as Mitch pawed at him.  When they cleared the rocks, Mitch struck again, cutting Bobby’s left Achilles through to the bone.

Bobby tried to stand, only his foot could not hold him.  Terror subsided into angry resignation in a flash.

“Why, Mitch?” Bobby shouted.  “Why did you bring me here?  Why did you even tell me about it?  Are you just a psycho or something?”

Mitch hesitated, breathing hard.  “Sorry,” he said.  “Gramps couldn’t remember if he booby trapped the box or not.  I needed you to open it, just in case.”

Bobby suddenly felt light-headed.  “But why me?  You could have brought someone else.  I’m your friend.”

“You were the only one I could trust not to blab,” Mitch replied, the first hint of remorse entering his voice.  “It had to be you.”

“Mitch,” Bobby pleaded, his strength fading, “you can still trust me.  I can say it was an accident or something.  You can keep the gold.  I’ll never tell…”

“That treasure is all I’ll ever get from my family,” Mitch said, sounding tired.  “Mom is dead and Dad is just a drunk bum.  Gramps wasn’t much better, really, but at least he left me something.  I have nothing else.  I can’t risk it.  Sorry.”

Mitch struck again.  Bobby, weakened and shocked, put up a poor defense.  As his friend finished him off, Bobby couldn’t escape the thought of how far down he was.

The Night Star Hotel, Excerpt

(A ghost story. Nothing scary. It was intended as short piece, originally. I am currently bogged down with how to wrap it up, but can’t quite give up on it.)

I couldn’t believe the hotel was open, let alone operating.  When I had driven by, earlier, it looked dark and abandoned.  In fact, I could have sworn some of the windows were boarded up.

The Night Star Hotel was like something out of a fifties movie.  It sat in the middle of nowhere, looking vaguely like a Victorian estate with some incomplete modernisation over the years.  If it weren’t so run down it would have been a classy place.

I felt like hell and probably looked like hell as I dragged myself through the door.  Really, I was glad to be alive, more than anything.  It had been a long night well before I arrived.

“Good evening,” a plain, average sized desk clerk greeted me without much emotion or interest, apparently ignoring my bedraggled state.  He wore an old fashioned outfit, the kind you sometimes see at really posh hotels; except this one lacked the over-starched, pristine look.  In fact, everything about the place reeked of high class past its expiration date.

“Yeah,” I said, brushing the melting snow from my coat, “if you say so.”  I hoped this would prompt some conversation from him, perhaps an offer of a room.  My hope didn’t materialise.  The man had barely glanced my way, as though a visitor at two in the morning was commonplace.

“I wrecked my car a little way down the road,” I continued after the awkward pause.  “A shitty turn at the bottom of a hill was iced up pretty solid.  Went right over into the trees.  Kinda surprised I made it out in one piece.”

The man finally gave me a proper look and sighed.  “Very sorry to hear that.  Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Yeah, my car is totalled.  I just walked three or four miles to get here.  Are you okay?  This is a hotel, right?  It’s not some kind of golf club or something?”

“This is a hotel, sir,” the man said, pushing his wire frame glasses further up his nose.  “We have available rooms, if you wish to check in.”  He sounded depressed about offering me a room, and his look suggested regret.

“That would be great,” I said, trying to consider the motivation level of a night clerk at an old hotel in the middle of nowhere.  “Do you have a smoking room?”

He gave me a strange look, like I had asked him a difficult question.  “If I understand you, sir, then yes, you may smoke in the room.  Please sign in here.”  He opened a large, worn guest book and slid an ink pot and fountain pen beside it.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, suddenly wondering if I had suffered a head injury in the crash.  The return look plainly told me there was no kidding involved.  I signed in as best I could with the ancient pen, trying not to smile too much.

“Do you require any particular kind of room, sir?” the clerk asked in his flat, monotonous voice.

“Nothing special,” I replied.  “I have just wrecked my car and marched a long way to this place.  I am overtired, need a shower and a sleep.”  I pulled out my cell phone, and checked for reception.  I had checked it after the crash, and came up with zero bars.  The reception was the same in the hotel lobby.  How far away from civilisation was I?

“A room with a comfortable bed and a shower,” the clerk muttered cheerlessly.  “Two-oh-four is available, and quite nice.  I believe it is what you are after.”  He placed a skeleton key with the number 204 engraved on the bow.  I was tired and asked a foolish question.

“Is there a chip in this, then?  For the lock, I mean?”

“It is just a key, sir,” the clerk said, still not smiling.  “It is not damaged.”

Things were registering slowly, but registering.  “I probably took a knock on the head, so I might be a bit foggy.  I am guessing there is no wi-fi here, right?”

“I am not sure what you are referring to, however I do not believe we have any such thing.  Was there anything else, sir?”

“I think that covers it,” I replied.  “Thanks.”

He directed me to the stairwell, giving directions to the room.  The decor along the way did not register with me.  The reassurance of a room, bed and general safety was already making me tired.  The door and skeleton key lock were as ancient as they seemed, clicking open heavily as it unlocked.  I must have hit my head pretty hard in the crash.

The room was not huge, but large by any modern standard.  The high ceiling is what stood out most.  The decor was like something out of a movie, only from the thirties.  Still, it looked clean and comfortable.  Anything would have worked for me after a car crash and a long walk through the snow.  I threw my bag on the chair and checked out the bathroom; a lot of brass, tile and porcelain.  The shower was a great iron tub with a bowed pipe ending in a shower head that looked like it belonged in a museum.  I got undressed and fired up the shower.  The water, no matter how I tried to adjust it, was never hot; a touch more than lukewarm, at best.

I hit the bed like a ton of bricks, tremendously overtired and forgetting to call the insurance company or my boss.  The bed was incredibly comfortable.  I was out in moments.

When I woke, the room was dark.  I had no idea how long I had slept, though it felt like a long time.  Somehow, I felt tired.

After a few minutes of just relaxing I got up.  Reality began to sink in.  The room was no different than I remembered it.  I had fallen asleep with the lights on; the clock on the night stand showed it was three o’clock, with no indication of a.m. or p.m. to clarify.  That I might have slept less than an hour seemed unlikely, though I did feel tired.  The other possibility, that I had slept through to the afternoon, felt even more unlikely.  Whatever the case, I got up and pulled the blind aside to see what the outside had to say.  It was a cloudy, grey afternoon, much like yesterday.  I had seriously overslept.

A Random Moment of Inspiration

The goal of this blog is not to get into the nitty-gritty of my creative process, inspiration or the like. Most of my story ideas come out of nowhere; and the rest from a potpourri of experiences.  That said, I do have more traditional moments of inspiration that get my creative wheels turning.  This morning I was walking the dog in a familiar place, like I have done many times before, and a particular look at my surroundings got me started.  Completely formative ideas, mind you.  What’s funny is how this same (same-ish?) look at the scenery never struck me this way before.  Another random moment, perhaps?  I do not have an answer to that.  I thought, for no good reason, I would share that moment.  It is a blog thing to do.

Sorry about the picture quality.  I was not thinking about posting this at the time; and it was roughly 1 degree Celsius (34-ish Fahrenheit) and beginning to snow.

Random Moment of Inspiration?