Hotel

A Greeting

Upon further reflection, I see it necessary to include, or rather form, a greeting: a revealing of qualification: a personal revelation. A beginning that answers three questions that this work might beg. Who am I? What is this? What are we together? And doing so, to the best of my strength, in a heartful tone.

To start, well, I am Welcome. The name that is printed on my certificate; birth and education. The name that was hollered by my peers while I grew in stature. The name that, for better or worse, I will carry till my last moments on this earth.

My last name will go undocumented, as it also belongs to my wife and daughter.

Truthfully, my skills—grown into and taught—pertain very little to this vocation, this work. I was never trained to write, spin, tell, investigate, hide, convince, lie, steal, or run.

But to help, we all have that ability.

Astounding amounts of unseen disasters, lonely hearts, unforgivable deeds, and remarkable mysteries slip past our collective consciousness; our society. By the prodding of God, I have set out to document and, to my curious dismay, behold these events.

This is why my pen hits paper, my finger hits keys, ink hits my printer, and my paper hits your shelves.

I am an amateur, seeking obscurities hidden by monstrosities.

What this is, specifically, is a work of writing in my own hand, powered by my own mind, never to be spoken by my own tongue. A compilation of evidence documented and undocumented pertaining to a crime that took place seven years ago on the West Coastthat was quickly solved despite the glaring anomalies and the freakish occurrences which should’ve led to an extension of the formal investigation.

Luckily, the gift of being untrained is informalities.

Eight months were spent by me in research of the case. What is shown here is all that is known, and all that can really be known.

Why should you care about my work? About this case? You shouldn’t. That is the normal response. The typical state in which people reside. There is no harm in looking away. To pretend you never looked at these lines. No shame in being ignorant of a subject where there is no knowledge.

However, if you, like me, choose to care: to discover the unknown: then please take your room key from the front desk, and enjoy your stay.

The First Shift

The clock strikes with a sharp echo. A metallic swing, bronze and heavy, thuds against a plastic shim, added by a lazy manager, who refused to repair the crooked clock. The swing, smacking hard against the sides of the inner clock, started to shake and quiver the inner parts, cogs and gears, resulting in faulty timing. It took a few missed meetings before the manager, Luis Mesh, finally heard the splintering smack four times in a row on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Swears amounted as cups and pillows were thrown around the break room. A volcano of rage erupting within the man.

Shelby, a night shift lobby clerk, screamed as Luis kicked over a chair.

The intent was in no regard to hurt, harm, scare, or intimidate his employee. Those harsh verbs are saved purely for his ex-wife when she tries to collect child support. No, the intent was not there, but the indirect actions of an angry man, built like a bear with the fortitude of an ox, is enough to frighten anyone. Maybe not in a running sort of way, but certainly in a wincing, side-eyed coffee sipping, and slowly sliding out the door sort of way. Those are the typical reactions his employees have when he loses his composure.

But Shelby—according to the report her therapist made, which was handed to Luis last Monday—suffered a severe PTSD attack; the trauma originating from serving four years overseas. Voices of her superiors sounded off compliments like her gun fired off bullets, praising her for her mental soundness, physical aptness, and loyalty unmatched even by a Golden Retriever on a farm in a small rural town.

The conditions of the event that shattered her physique and her military career, ending with an honorable discharge, are to remain secret, out of respect to a broken hero, and for the simple reason that it adds nothing to the story. I attempted, out of unrelenting curiosity, to garner facts on the accident, but could yield nothing. Whatever it was, resurfaced when Luis spilled a cup of coffee doing his fit.

Now, as HR is investigating the situation, and Luis is confined at home by his worried brother and Shelby taps her thigh in anxious restlessness on her bed, John Marc works the front desk, handing the key to room forty-five to a nervous couple, too busy giggling to pay for the room; Marc too busy frowning to notice the fake hundred dollar bill.

Why, as any reader may ask, is he frowning? Oh, now that’s simple. He never works nights. Not once in his long career. Since he was sixteen, he never once worked a night. Sleep was too precious to him. His holy artifact. An eternal blessing. The honey on his tongue. In his sixteen-year career as a working male, he avoided nights no matter what. At the cost of jobs, friends, family, and even once a fish; left to go without a new filter as his stubborn owner refused the overtime pay.

What made the mountain move? The high cost of engagement rings and wedding DJs. His fiancé was more than happy to pitch in for the wedding, and he was more than happy to agree, yet he couldn’t lay down enough pride to have her and or her wealthy dad pitch in on the ring. That was another line he drew. And, in his one-dimensional world, he only had room for so many of them. So, he erased the line, picked up two weeks’ worth of night shifts, and kept good relations with Shelby, whose brother would be willing to take a pay cut when performing at their wedding if his sister could have the sound mind of her shifts being covered.

The things we do for love.

Hotel working is easy when the lights are off, and the blinds are open. A constant flood of personalities clambering for their chance to speak; their place in line. Cards are swiped, plastic keys handed out, and Have A Nice Days delivered like a package on a gloomy Tuesday; a hope-filled retreat.

Yet, the glamour of tireless service soon dissolves into subordinate servitude, then into absent-minded distractions, then finally into out-of-body mechanical autopilot. Smiles reactionary. The bones in the wrist and fingers melded around typing and swiping and handing and waving. Breathing adapts to be more polite. Eyes never wondering. The seconds within the minutes within the hours within the shifts become amplified tremendously. A ticking clock lodged in the brain. Swirling around the skull.

Every day is spent wishing for home, and every day at home is spent in anxiety; the work always comes; the blessed nine-to-five.

The subject matter of this last paragraph laid siege on John Marc’s mind. Usually; and to sub; always; his shift ends at three, leaving much daylight left, and little contact with the dark hotel. Winter brings about dark mornings, but light conquering dark is altogether different than dark conquering light. Pleasantly, he would wave goodbye and head home. Bright rays guiding his path. Glare off windows stunning him, light reflecting off guest glasses distracting him. The prominent symbols of their expensive suitcases and bags glowing from the sun; makeup mirrors blinding curious children.

This is what he is used to. And what he is used to, he never changes. But now, he makes the Dark a companion.

Upon investigation there have been no findings that convey or present —I am talking about John Marc’s mental stability and quirks —that show any signs of paranoia or extreme anxiety pertaining to the entity, as he states it, the Dark. He presents no fear of it, to say in short. Only reverence. A deeper observation of it than any of us would.

The basis of this knowledge comes from a few sources. His own journal, acquired from his apartment, text he has sent to friends, family, and coworkers, the myriad of sticky notes and notepad scribbles found at his desk, conversations held with detectives, with witnesses and family and friends and coworkers, and over the phone interviews with past schoolteachers, administrators, and coaches. Nothing, as said before, leads me to believe he had any sort of fear of the dark. He saw it as a sort of a being; a creature that exalts itself above what we commonly know as living things. Not just the absence of light or the home of the moon. He saw it as, frankly, a source of pure hate; his own hate. Whenever the Dark is mentioned, all letters are capitalized, his voice raises, and it is written over the lines. A dark ink growing as big as a whole sheet of paper, as seen in some of his journal pages.

Unable to show the power of the Dark with words, he shows it with scribbles and exclamation.

So why is the Dark so prominent in the investigated portion of his life? The two weeks in which he worked the night shift? There is, currently, no conclusion; simply speculation. Is the Dark a representative of change? Unfamiliarity? Discomfort or displacement? Death?

What is known is that, well, working a nightshift is boring.

…

A blackhole consumes all travelers past eleven pm. The am creeps, slowly, on John Marc’s first shift. One, then unto thirteen more. After, he can finally slip a pretty diamond, embedded in ebony, on his fiancé’s delicate finger. A token of undying affection; a warning to witless adulterers.

The light, small bulbs of glowing energy are sprinkled into the ceiling. A shimmering dull glow of light to counterbalance the subtle ambience of the yellow lamps. A few of them rest all around the hotel; Infront of meeting room doors, bathrooms, the fireplace, the reception area, by the lobby door, and one even on the desk where, now, headlights pierce through windows, illuminating John Marc, and Dexter Fern.

“Hey Dex, pass me a water. Under the cabinet-yeah where the soaps are. Come on champ, toss it over here. Damn! Little hard. Thank you.” John Marc shakes the pain from his hand. A small cut appears on his left thumb, towards the bottom, which goes unnoticed by them both, despite the forming red.

“Sorry man, put a little more into that then I meant too. I wanted to squeeze it around the door, and my arm got the best of me. You see those high beams? Bet you five it’s an old couple that got lost on their vacation. Booked under Cathy Smith, or something like that.”

“Cathey? No way, too old. I’d say, matching your five, it’s a late-night rendezvous. Late thirties, hiding from the wife. Dan or Adam Johnson. Badly trimmed aftershave. Blue line-graph button up.”

Assuming the honorable position, they both take a swig of water, hide it under the desk—their respected cabinets—and pretend to be typing on their keyboards. A man and a women walk in; practically skipping, and prophetically thirty-seven and thirty-three.

“It’s not too late to book a room, right?” says a patchy-faced man. Deep eyes, shallow nose, rosy neck, and crunched ears, like he’s been sleeping face first on a pillow the better half of fifteen years. His coconspirator, short, brunette, blue-eyed, pulled back shoulders, crinkled blue dress, holds tightly to the man’s arm, shying behind him like a small dog.

“Not at all, sir” says John Marc. “One bed? King? Floor preference? Yes, we’re busy, but not that busy. Alright then, one-seventy-eight is your total. Breakfast is from seven-thirty to nine. Pools are open at ten. Bar is open till four.”

“Oh, the bar is still open! We can get some drinks sent upto the room!” says the woman, playfully tugging at the man’s arm, “We can,can’t we?”

“Whatever you want, sweetie. Um, is there any way we can reduce the price of the room? We don’t have any plans for breakfast, or the pool, and it seems I’m about to spend” he says smiling, flicking the woman’s hair “plenty of cash at the bar, so I was wondering if the unused-um ’amenities’ could just be taking off? If that’s possible, ya know?”

“Well... I could reduce a small amount; but nothing substantial. Our manager isn’t in tonight, so everything must be by-the-book. How does one-fifty-one sound?”

“If that’s the best you can do; then perfect.”

“Well, I can throw in two free drink vouchers, an extra blanket and pillow, and a wish for you two to have a pleasant stay!”

Giggling, the couple sway to the bar; little paper cards in hand. Top floor, cozy bed, and low lighting await the dealmakers.

“... a pleasant stay! How awful, man. Extra blanket? Oh Romeo!”

“Just mad that I found my Juliet; waiting for me back at home.”

“Let me know how that goes when you drink from the poison cup of marriage.”

“Says the loneliest man I know.”

“It’s a personality trait! Anyways, keep watch; I need to take a call real quick. Won’t be more than a few minutes; I’ll be in the break room if you need anything. Have fun Romeo!”

…

The Dark envelops the outside. Capturing the emotional distress of thousands of years of life. When the sun sets, we hide. A unifying thought; a reality. How much water can I splash into my eyes? How bored can I get before I start to...dog?

A large dog: chestnut brown, piercing green eyes, struts through the first set of lobby doors, and, before going through the second, sits there. Sitting on the rug between the two doors. Cold air lifting his fur as the outside door refuses to close. The inside door, it seems, is completely stuck in place. Frozen. A broken sensor? Ice in its seal?

The dog sits. Its mangle called fur protrudes like a wild bush; tangles of hair like sharp thorns. His mouth is closed, save the back of the jaw where the skin disappears as if it was peeled back. His molars are like a wall.

The dog, in a way, grins at John Marc. The most inviting grin. A grin that shows no harm; that says come along and see. Prove what you behold.

John Marc swears he hears—like a whistle in the wind or a low buzz from a light—How Long Must I Wait?

The light outside goes out. A blackened lot. Slowly, all the lights, save the lamps, dim lower and lower as John Marc’s heart beats faster and faster. His breath escapes him. He grips the desk to exhaustion with his right hand; his left idly taps his keyboard.

Dim to dim to dim to...oh, well, dim less. Gone. Evaporated rays. Unfurled dark. The dog’s grin illuminated by two lonely lamps on the opposing sides of the closed door. He hears, but never watches as slight clicks and snaps resound in the empty still air; lamps turning off, one by one. Bathroom. Hallway. Elevator. Meeting room. Supply closet. Gone gone gone. Why? He keeps tapping; face burning head from the vice once called right hand. With cold lips, he mouths “Dex,” but nothing escapes his throat. Too scared, shocked, or weak to finish such an easy task. A lifeless call.

The dog sits. Grins. And stands up on his hind legs. Slowly building to a heightabove the top of the door. Feet above John Marc.

The lamps by the door go out.

One light remains. A small, antique lamp with a beige shade with green tassels, a dirty brown base, a light red middle, and a decaying yellow glow. A pull switch of beaded silver, hanging low enough where it dangles and clicks when it hits its own base. Purchased, brought, and placed by Shelby a sum of seventy-three days back.

This, despite all reason, scares John Marc. A compulsion hits him to pull the chain; to plunge into the Dark.

He hears the whistle again. How Long Must I Wait?

The dog starts to shake. Not violently, or fast like a bee, but a slow methodical shake. A cold swing outside at night. Leaves moving in the summer breeze. He shakes, and stares at John Marc. A watchful stare. The two deep green orbs and the pearl white grin let John Marc know the dog is still there; still watching. A booming wind rattles the door. He can hear the doormat flying up and down. He watches as the dog now shakes and shakes and shakes to the point where his eyes and teeth blur. His eyes fail to adjust to the movement, making him terrified he might lose the dog; that he might blink. He goes to open his mouth, to sound off words at the Dark that challenges him.

How Long Must I Wait?

…

An abrupt flash; an awakening. The light is restored. Darkness retreats. The dog no longer sits just outside the lobby. Its grin no longer burns into John Marc’s eyes. All is restored to its earlier, normal state. The plain smell of vanilla and the slight hums from the furnace return. John Marc lies dormant. Still shrouded in a fog of deep confusion. That is until the scene is once again set with two as Dex bops back to his desk.

“Did someone leave or something? It’s freezing. Like a breeze or something came-man, are you alright? You’re all red!”

Shallow hesitant breaths escape John Marc. His eyes twitch, brow pulled tight. His right-hand takes time to unlock from its cramping grip on the desk. Knuckles white, fingers raw from digging into the wood.

“Hey man, you okay? You’re bleeding!”

Who? Where? Yes, yeah, I am. Cap from earlier. A pool now. All over my keyboard. All over the...

His eyes relax to a sag. Teeth and tongue showing, licking his cheeks to wet his dry mouth. Brow drawn in; eyes fixated on the screen in front of him. Two hundred and two times the ‘Y’ key was pressed. Filling a sticky note on the computer. Pressed in rhythm. Pressed in beat. One a second. A second? Over three minutes spent in the Dark. Spent with the dog.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just really bored is all. Thought I saw someone outside, so I peeked out. What, um, was your call about?”

“Nothing, just personal stuff. Here, the five I owe you from our bet. Go get some candy from the vending machine. My first few weeks with the graveyard shift killed me too.”

Thank you. What a good friend. Lots of lights on... what? Why am I thinking like this? I sound like a machine. Stunned. Just lost my grip for a second. Two hundred seconds. A daydream. Used to have night terrors as a kid, so it makes sense. Unfamiliar scenery is what Doctor Hefting said causes it. Just moved to a new house. New state and everything. Dad wanted mountains; mom wanted beaches; Cali here we came. Me and Ian hated the drive. Twenty-seven hours in a backseat; moms’ music. Damn those terrors. A whole month of screaming. All it has to be. New hours, little sleep. Worked the same schedule for three years, then the abrupt crash of change. All it is. Vivid, but they always were. Probably fueled by the imagery from those horror movies Kacey loves. Damn, all out of chocolate with nuts. Pree cheers for dyed sugar!

The rest of the events of the night were undocumented by John Marc. Nothing to decipher. To place like a puzzle. Only an account, taken from the public records. An account by Dexter Fern himself.

“Well, Mr. Dexter, thank you for coming in today. Considering everything that happened, we really do appreciate you coming in.”

“I mean, I just couldn’t not say anything. After Shelby and, um- Daniel came and did an interview with you guys-uh detectives, it felt wrong not to come in myself.”

“Once again, we really appreciate it. Anything you tell us will be invaluable to the investigation.”

“I hope whatever Isay helps. I really do, man.”

“Let’s start with—if you’re ready—what happened after you came back from your phone call? Day one; first night shift with John Marc.”

“Yeah man, I-um well... I freaked. He was sweating so much his white undershirt was see through. His whole body—his skin, I mean—was bright red. Like stoplight red. Must’ve run a marathon, you know? And his hands... he was gripping the desk so tightly, me and him put some wood puddy on it to flatten it back out. Left a menu on it so no one could tell. It was a shit job, but we thought we could fix it better next Monday, when I worked again. I had the weekend off. Well, we both did till he started picking up extra shifts.”

“Coffee anyone?”

“I’ll take one. Jennings? Parsons? Mr. Dexter? Alright, coffee all around then. Now, back to you, Mr. Dexter. I promise you, already this information is indescribably important to the investigation. Continue, please.”’

“Awesome! Oh um, well his, damn man, his other hand was bloody. Soaked blood into the keyboard. It took him thirty minutes to clean it up. Such a small cut on his finger too. Made no sense.”

“After you found him like this, you sent him to the vending machine, correct?”

“Yeah, I gave him the five I owed him, and he left. Honestly, I just wanted a break. To think, ya know? Like, did he take a hit or jab of something when I was gone? I don’t get it.”

“Anything else happen that night, Mr. Dexter? After he came back from the vending machine?”

“No, everything else was normal. We talked and hung out like always. A few guest out late came back in, but we just said hi to them. Nothing weird. I did, well, he went to the bathroom-”

“What time? If you remember, Mr Dexter.”

“Uh one second, um, kinda around four? He was gone for a couple, like six minutes. I checked his computer to see if he was searching anything weird, or just anything really that would help me get what was going on. I’m not a nosey guy; really. But that... him, freaked me out so bad I had to make some sense of it. Every time I asked him—or hinted at it—he ignored me and diverted the convo.”

“So, Mr. Dexter, did you find anything on his computer?”

“Um no-well wait! Actually, yeah kinda. He had looked up the booking on room two-zero-two. Which was weird, because, well, why would he? No one just looks someone up. He pulled whatever information he could, which, like, well, I should’ve said something to Louis...”

“It’s okay, Mr. Dexter; we don’t plan on pressing charges. Well... thank you, Mr. Dexter, you have been a great help to us. You are more than welcome to wait for your coffee, but besides that,you are good to go.”

“Thanks. I’ll wait for the coffee if it’s really no bother. Not used to being up around noon.”