The Eleventh Floor

by Shani Struthers

  After leaving upstate New York, where most of her family on her mother’s side had moved to in recent years she’d returned to Pennsylvania, intending to stop and have a look at The Egress en route – hoping in some way that Dee was looking down on her and nodding approvingly. A stay at the hotel really wasn’t necessary. Besides, recent reviews on TripAdvisor hadn’t been that favourable. Her mother had said it was grand, her father had said it was faded. That was in the eighties. In 2016 it appeared to have deteriorated further, not many people recommending it as a place to stay. No, her mind was made up; she’d stay in Williamsfield proper, the city centre, that’s where her mother’s family was originally from and where Dee had lived her early life, surrounded by the green hills and the deep valleys of this spectacular state. She was sure to feel a degree of connection there too. After that, she’d push on to Mount Pocono – continue the pilgrimage.

  She tuned into the deejay’s voice again.

  “Seriously, folks, the snow’s settling in now, and it’s only going to get worse. All the usual weather warnings are in force. If you don’t have to travel, please don’t. It’s not worth the risk. I repeat, if you don’t have to travel, stay inside, and wrap up warm. If you’ve got elderly neighbours or neighbours that live alone, keep an eye on them, make sure they’re warm enough too. Look out for each other, and stay safe. Above all stay safe.”

  After delivering such sage advice a track was played – Simon and Garfunkel’s Homeward Bound – clearly an attempt to drum his advice into the psyche. Once again Caroline looked at the Sat Nav; ten miles eaten up, which left forty more to Williamsfield, but only thirty-four to The Egress. Not that far, not really.

  She pressed harder on the accelerator.

  Live. Love

  Such a special place.

  Her mother’s words the trigger that spurred her on.

  Chapter Two

  By the time Caroline reached The Egress her heart was pounding.

  The snow – the blizzard; the storm; call it what you will – couldn’t be outrun. If anything, she’d met it head on, watching with grim fascination as it turned the countryside around her oh-so-pretty, and the highways and byways treacherous. She had no choice but to press on though, despite the deejay’s dire warning. Between the first flakes of snow falling and the hotel her parents had honeymooned at, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. A few roadside trailers perhaps, and some rather decrepit-looking bungalows tucked down roads that led off the main highway, but she could hardly go banging on a stranger’s door seeking shelter for God knows how long the storm was going to last. She was determined to make it to The Egress, ticking off the miles as avidly as the Sat Nav.

  Luckily there was hardly any traffic, with everyone clearly more aware of the impending storm than she was. But when she’d left upstate New York this morning – in bright sunshine, she might add – there’d not been even a hint of snow in the air. She supposed if she’d gone to breakfast at the hotel she’d been staying in, instead of choosing to sleep in, she might have seen something about it on the news. But even the previous night, Violet, an elderly aunt of her mother’s, whom she’d had dinner with, hadn’t mentioned anything. It really was as if it had swooped out of nowhere, picking on her, just her, toying with her, letting her believe she could make it out of harm’s way before lashing out. Losing control of the steering had been terrifying, as she went zigzagging across the road at a speed of over forty miles per hour – a crazy speed under the circumstances, a desperate speed.

  Caroline was not particularly religious, but she found herself thanking Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints that ever existed that no one else was on the road at that exact moment. She’d careered into a bank of snow, hitting the side of her head against the windscreen pillar and causing all the stars of the American flag to dance before her eyes.

  You need to see a doctor, had been her immediate thought. Get checked out. But then more basic needs kicked in. You have to get out of this storm, find yourself some shelter.

  The Sat Nav told her she had another five miles. She was so close and yet… what if she lost control again? You have to drive; you can’t stay here all night, on an empty highway. No, she couldn’t. She’d freeze to death, buried alive in her Kia Rio – a glorified tin can – to be found as stiff as a board in the morning. If The Egress was indeed the first hotel she stumbled upon, she’d be staying, and to hell with TripAdvisor.

  Tentatively she’d turned the engine over. Despite her fears, it had started immediately, causing her to release the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Good car, you’re such a good little car, she praised, urging it to remain that way. Turning the radio off so that she could concentrate, the heating to max and the wipers on full, she attempted to back up. The wheels span uselessly at first, again igniting a spark of fear, as cold as any weather front, but then the tires managed to get a grip. Pointing the car in the right direction, she’d proceeded to drive. Nice and slowly does it, nice and slowly. This mantra accompanied her all the way to The Egress, daylight fading by this time, night taking hold.

  The hotel was down a road that led off the highway, sitting in its own parcel of land, the parking lot more empty than full, unsurprisingly. Keeping her goal firmly in her vision, she left the road and headed up a slight incline towards it, all but stalling the car at the entrance, and deciding to hell with it, it could stay there. She’d move it another time. This hotel, so beloved of her mother, this sanctuary of her parents that was about to become a sanctuary for her too, really did occupy a lonely position as her father had said; only a few farm-type buildings in the run up to it, all of which looked deserted, but none immediately beyond. Downtown Williamsfield seemed like a world away. Would she be able to make it there tomorrow? How long was she going to be trapped for?

  Trapped?

  The weather had trapped her for certain but at least she’d made it to a hotel and not just any hotel either, one that was a part of her family history. She should stop whining and count her blessings; there were worse places to spend a night or two. And it was only likely to be a couple of nights, which wasn’t such a catastrophe. There were such things as snowplows in existence. Unlike the storm of the 1950s, governing bodies would ensure the wheels of industry turned as usual, or as usual as was damned near possible.

  As much as she might want to, there wasn’t time to stand and admire the exterior of the hotel. No real point either as the snow and the darkness effectively masked it. Instead, she grabbed her case from the boot and raced from one shelter to the other, yanking open the doors to the lobby, having to struggle with them they were so heavy, but finally managing to gain entrance, and climb several stairs to reach reception. At the top she came to a standstill, panting as though she’d just completed a marathon, her light brown hair, still wet from the brief time she’d spent outside, plastered to the sides of her face.

  “You made it then.”

  The words drifted towards her, no urgency to them at all.

  Caroline lifted her head. A few feet in front of her, a sea of red patterned carpet separating them, was the lobby desk, a young girl standing behind it, and behind her there was a closed door, presumably leading to an administration office. About average height, pale skinned, and with black hair tied in a ponytail, the girl looked thoroughly bored.

  “Erm… yes, I made it… Just.”

  “Good. Not many do. Not in this weather.”

  “I’m not surprised!” Caroline responded.

  The girl shrugged and began flicking through a register as Caroline drew nearer, dragging her case behind her.

  “You haven’t booked,” the girl – a name badge identifying her as Raquel – stated.

  “I wasn’t intending to stay.”

  “Would you like a room?”

  Caroline was incredulous. “I don’t think I’ve got any choice. I can’t go back out there.”

  Raquel’s eyes latched onto hers. “You’re a long way from home.”

&n
bsp; Caroline nodded. “If you’re referring to my accent, yes I am. I’m English, although my mother,” she paused, letting the words unsaid – my dead mother, hang in the air for a second, “is American, from around here in fact, Williamsfield.”

  “On vacation?”

  “Yes, visiting relatives.”

  Her eyes were so dark, such a contrast to the green of Caroline’s own.

  “I’m just figuring out where to put you,” Raquel announced.

  “Are you busy?” Caroline asked, looking from left to right. They didn’t look busy. In fact, she couldn’t spot anyone at all; the lobby was empty of people, only a suggestion of movement in a large room leading off it, which looked to be a dining area.

  “Busy enough,” Raquel replied, again scrutinising her before reaching a decision. “I’m going to have to put you on high, I’m afraid, the eleventh floor – room 1106. There’s renovation going on elsewhere in the hotel right now, quite a few rooms are in the process of being updated. It’s quiet on the eleventh floor. I’m directing most people there.”

  “No problem.” Relief flooded through Caroline. Whilst Raquel had been pondering, she actually thought she might be turned away. That there was no room at the inn, so to speak; that she would indeed have to venture outside to battle with the elements once more. That last stretch into Williamsfield, it seemed so daunting. She decided to chance her luck further. “I don’t suppose the corner suite on the eleventh floor’s available, is it?”

  “The corner suite? No! That belongs to Althea.”

  “Althea… I… Who’s she?”

  “She’s as much a part of this hotel as the fixtures and fittings.”

  “She lives here?” Caroline enquired further.

  “That’s right,” answered Raquel, “she does.”

  “Fine… I… I was only asking.”

  “Room 1106 is yours. Do you have any more bags?”

  Caroline shook her head, feeling weary all of a sudden – having to concentrate so hard whilst driving and the near crash were beginning to take their toll.

  “I’ll call the bellhop,” Raquel said, stepping out from behind the desk to reveal a slender frame as she went in search of the aforementioned employee.

  “There’s no need—”

  “It’s what he’s here for,” she insisted.

  Raquel’s absence gave Caroline a bit of breathing space to look around. Her mother had described the hotel as quaint. To her that translated as outdated, perhaps even a little bit shabby? Was it so? Perhaps shabby was too cruel a word. Definitely there was a sense that it had once been more than it was, with the Art Deco features that remained holding a certain charm. A good-sized space, the lobby doubled as a lounge, a place to meet and mingle with other guests. It was long and narrow, with various pieces of artwork on the walls and framed pictures, which she would inspect at leisure later, as well as a couple of ornately framed mirrors that looked as if they’d come straight from the Chrysler Building in New York. Above two seating areas hung two very grand crystal chandeliers, in alignment. Below one of the chandeliers were three elegant sofas and two chairs, again Art Deco in style, and a little careworn. Underneath the second chandelier was a grand piano and more chairs and low tables – an ideal spot to sit and have coffee whilst perusing the morning paper. Leading off from the lobby, to her left, was the dining room she’d spotted earlier, although the doors to it were partially shut, obscuring her view.

  It wasn’t a big hotel, by any stretch of the imagination; very unlike the Holiday Inns and Best Westerns she’d made use of so far on her trip. A boutique hotel it’d be described as nowadays, she supposed, owing to its diminutive size. That was fine with her. Her parents had been content with it and so would she. Oh, but she was looking forward to heading to the second floor; to the corner suite they’d shared. She’d stand outside it and imagine them as happy as they ever were, as excited, still so many years ahead of them.

  “Here we are.” Raquel was back. “Tom will show you to your room.”

  Tom stepped forward, his somewhat old-fashioned uniform making Caroline smile: a red jacket with gold buttons and brocade and dark blue trousers. All he needed was a pillbox hat to complete the look. She appreciated it. His clothes were a nice touch and she’d seen porters, or bellhops as he’d been called, dressed the same in other – albeit larger – hotels. In contrast to her sidekick, Raquel looked like she’d come straight out of the fifties, clad as she was in a black cigarette pants, black pumps, and a white blouse. Slick on a bit of red lipstick and she’d be a ringer for Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. They were two characters in a hotel full of character. Charming, Caroline thought again, unique.

  Taking her bag, Tom led the way to an elegant, old-fashioned elevator, Caroline smiling her goodbye at Raquel, and Raquel turning from her, that bored look evident yet again. Pressing the button to call the elevator car, they both stood and waited, Caroline admiring a gold painted metal mailbox attached to the wall to the left of it. Tom caught her staring.

  “That’s original, that is,” he informed her. A young man, probably in his early twenties, there was pride in his voice, in his entire manner in fact.

  “What constitutes original exactly?” Caroline asked as the elevator opened to allow them access. Below their feet was an E for Egress encircled in a band of gold.

  Before answering Tom leant forward, his hand hovering before a set of black buttons. “You’re on the eleventh floor?” he checked.

  “Yes, room 1106.”

  “Dead centre.”

  “Is it? That’s good. I gather the corner suite is already occupied.”

  Tom laughed, a bit of a goofball sound, as her mother would have put it. “Sure is. That’s where Althea lives. I always give a quick bow whenever she’s near.”

  “Does she manage the hotel?”

  “She takes care of it, yes.”

  Hence the bow, Caroline thought, amused at the prospect. “So, the hotel, how old is it?”

  “It was built in 1922.”

  “The nineteen twenties? That explains your uniform.”

  “My uniform?” For a brief moment his blue eyes clouded. “I suppose it does.”

  “It’s in such a quiet spot.”

  “There were other buildings here once.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They got demolished. To make way for new buildings.”

  She was genuinely perplexed. “What new buildings?”

  Tom shrugged. “I guess some things don’t go according to plan.”

  Evidently.

  “It’s a bit of a hike from the city of Williamsfield, isn’t it?” she continued, looking for an explanation. “People like to be closer to where there’s more life.”

  Tom huffed slightly. “There are some who happen to think it’s very peaceful here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t suggesting otherwise, not really. And I agree, it is peaceful.”

  He nodded, hopefully appeased.

  The elevator – a relic from the 1920s too, she’d bet – chugged its way upward.

  “Weather’s awful, isn’t it,” she remarked, to pass what was taking an extraordinarily long time. “I wonder how long it’s going to last.”

  “Who knows? It could be over in a flash, it could go on for days.”

  “What do the forecasters say?”

  “Don’t know. I never listen to ’em.”

  Nor had she, which is why she’d been caught out.

  The elevator ground to a halt. Finally.

  “Oh good, we’re here,” Caroline stated, getting ready to move forwards but Tom reached out a hand to stop her.

  “This is the sixth floor, we don’t want this one.”

  “The sixth floor? Really?” She could barely believe it.

  “The elevator is old too,” explained Tom.

  “I’d guessed,” Caroline replied.

  “And it does have a tendency to get… stuck sometimes.”

  “Stuck? You’re
serious? Is there an alarm or something, in case it does?”

  Not according to Tom. “But don’t worry, it never gets stuck for long, it always gets going again. You just have to be patient, that’s all.”

  “Patient? Right, okay.” Easier said than done when you were the one confined. She found herself lamenting the fact that she was on the eleventh floor, if she’d been lower, she’d stick to the stairs. She might do that anyway if it proved too much of a problem.

  “Is there another elevator?” she checked.

  “Just this one.”

  At last they reached the correct floor. The steel doors cranked open and in front was a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, as endless as any American highway.

  “Follow me,” Tom instructed.

  Beneath her feet was a variation of the same red carpet that had been used in the lobby, a pattern that was not quite the same but as near as dammit. Either side, the skirting board was clad in an unusual tile trim, which might have been fancy once but now many of them were chipped. Despite the walls lined with pale, slightly yellowing paper, they felt narrow, closed in, like a tunnel almost. Chrome uplighters, all in a row, lit the way yet still Caroline struggled to see properly – the light they emitted yellowish too. A glimmer of unease made itself known deep inside her. She longed for her room, where she could step over to the window, fling back the curtain, and remind herself there was a big wide – albeit wild – world out there. Here in the corridor it was just too claustrophobic.

  Tom stopped at 1106 and inserted the key – not of an electronic nature, but traditional, made of brass to match the ornate Deco brass lock. Stepping aside, he let Caroline enter and she was pleasantly surprised to see how large it was, comprising not just one room but two: a living area with a comfortable sofa and a set of closed panelled doors behind which was obviously the bedroom and the en suite bathroom.