The last six months had been spent mostly awake, in a zombie-like state that left him spacing out for much of the day. At work, in between filling out forms and interviewing loan applicants, he would stare out the window. His bank was located off I-95 and his office faced the traffic. Each day he had the most perfect view of rush hour, the impending clusterfuck he’d face on his ride home. And when he finally got home, usually an hour and a half later, he’d have just enough time to eat dinner with Alexis and Lisa before heading back out the door to the gas station for his night shift.
He did it all with a smile, pretended it was no big deal. Made like nothing was wrong and he wasn’t giving himself an ulcer from the stress and the bad thoughts that reminded him just because Lisa was responding to the treatment didn’t mean she was out of the woods yet.
These latter thoughts spun through his mind now, amplified by Hotel Marlowe. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d see his daughter’s beautiful face, drained of color. Drained of life. Lying in a casket, her green eyes closed forever. The princess had finally lost the battle against the dragon.
Ethan opened his eyes and wiped away moisture. Something told him it wasn’t his allergies.
As silly as it seemed, he’d unfolded Lisa’s drawing and laid it out on the bed next to him. He would not admit to himself how scared he was to be back home. Nor would he acknowledge the nagging suspicion things were about to get much worse. But with the picture inches away, he was able to breathe a bit easier.
Except when he reached across the bed and felt for the wrinkled piece of paper, he felt nothing but the sheet. His pulse sped. He searched under the pillows, under his body, then tore off the covers and fitted sheet. There was only a stained mattress. In the dim light of the room, the stain looked very dark. He had the feeling if he reached out, it would feel warm, like something had crawled into the inner workings and died recently.
But he was less concerned about the stain than he was the drawing. It may have been just a slip of paper but to him it was more than that. To him it was his amulet, the only weapon he had in this hell he’d traveled to.
“Looking for this?”
The voice came from behind. It was calm and collected and it brought with it a cool draft that sent every inch of Ethan’s skin into a frenzy. His joints froze.
“She’s talented, isn’t she?” the voice said. “When I was her age, I couldn’t draw a stick figure worth a shit. But this—it’s not half bad. The castle’s a bit off but she’s just a kid, I suppose. And that dragon—man, that dragon. It’s creepy, you know? Gives me the heebie-jeebies. And that’s saying something, all things considered.”
Ethan forced his mouth open. “You’re not here.”
“Come again?”
“You’re not here, in this room with me, because you’re dead.”
“From where I’m sitting, I can promise you that’s a lie. I would know if I was dead. Do I look dead to you?”
Though his sanity begged him to stay frozen, Ethan broke his paralysis and spun around. A figure sat in the chair, the one he’d seen earlier for the briefest of moments. The one he’d thought was Andrew’s liaison.
The room was black save for the small nightlight in the corner. It cast enough light so that the figure’s features were partially visible: yellowed teeth and thin lips, a witch-like chin and pronounced Adam’s apple. But the eyes—they remained hidden and for that Ethan was thankful.
Tucker Ashton smiled. “It’s been a long time.”
Ethan shook his head, swallowed back bile. “You can’t be here. You’d have to be crazy to come back to this place after what you did.”
“You know I never really liked that word. Crazy. It sounds so harsh. I don’t think most people understand its meaning. They use it too freely, apply it to anything they don’t quite understand. You see a homeless guy with shit-stained pants, mumbling to himself about the end of days, you call him crazy. You see a guy holding a sign that says something about lizard people, about every politician secretly being an alien—crazy. You hear some kid in a tiny town killed a bunch of people and uploaded it all onto the Internet and what do you say?”
“Crazy,” Ethan answered.
“See, there it is again. None of this is crazy. It’s all very real and I’m not dead. You must have known all along, deep down inside of that little noggin of yours, that I was out there. I may have gone somewhere, someplace that’s as far from reality as possible, but I came back. And that’s another word that always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Reality. It sounds so contrived.” He held up Lisa’s drawing, the top of it pinched between his thumbs and index fingers.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Ethan said through gritted teeth.
“What if I told you your little girl is going to die either way, that it doesn’t matter how much money you thought you’d bring home? That all the medicine in the world couldn’t save her? Not that you’d see her shrivel anyway. You won’t be going home. This is your home now—again. Except this isn’t the Marlowe you remember. It’s my Marlowe. And in this place, you can’t stop the dragon, Ethan. Because I am the fucking dragon.”
Tucker tore a small section of the paper. Ethan winced, could actually feel it, like the drawing was part of him. In a way, he thought, it was.
Tucker laughed and dropped the picture. It floated to the floor near his feet. “I’m just getting started. I’ve got such plans for you and your friends.” He opened his mouth and his voice changed. He let forth a shrill, high-pitched scream that did not match his timbre.
From the hall came slamming fists on the door. “Ethan, open up. It’s Ivy. Amy’s in trouble. It’s that bastard boyfriend of hers.”
When Ethan looked back toward the chair, it was empty. No indentations on the fabric, no proof it had been occupied in the first place.
Aside from the tiny tear in the top of Lisa’s drawing.
Ethan placed it back into his wallet, opened the door, and followed Ivy down the hall. In a way, the distraction was a blessing.
Because if he’d stopped to consider what he’d just witnessed, even for a moment, he’d lose what little sanity he had left.
Zeke followed the note’s instructions to a tee. He rounded the hallway and, sure enough, at the end was a door marked utility room. At first glance it was nothing special but as the letter had explained, you couldn’t always believe your eyes. Sometimes it was what rested beneath the surface that mattered.
He walked as if in a dream, though he was certain he was awake. He felt cool air on his skin, drying away his sleep sweat. The door called to him, a soothing voice begging him onward. He felt his sweat pants pockets, realized he hadn’t brought his laptop or camera, no pen or paper. But none of that mattered. Whatever was behind that door, it was more than just an interview. It was a dream come true.
From behind, he heard Amy’s voice calling. She’d never get to him in time. She was a good girl, someone he truly cared for. His attraction had been purely physical at first. Her tits were geometrically perfect, filled his hands in just the right way. And she could fuck for hours on end, never growing tired until they both passed out with their hearts racing. But it had evolved past that. At one point, he’d seen a future with her: kids, a house—all of it.
Now, though, he realized it was just a fantasy. He could hold those miraculous tits all he wanted, watch her pretty little face as she slept for hours on end, but she ultimately came second. He couldn’t let her get in the way of this moment to end all moments.
He reached for the door, touched the knob. It was warm, inviting. It turned without effort, opened with ease. Inside, the light was blinding. Studio lights, he realized. When his eyes adjusted he saw video cameras and the cue cards, the audience and microphones, but more importantly he saw two chairs positioned in the middle of it all. The farthest was empty, facing Zeke, but the closest, the one that faced away—it was quite full.
Even from behind, Zeke could spot Tucker easily. His red hair and freckled neck, so thin it r
esembled a snake. He turned his head so one eye faced Zeke. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show up.”
Zeke swallowed. His throat was swollen. His skin was on fire.
“Don’t be bashful.” Tucker raised a hand and waved him on.
This is it, Zeke thought. You’re about to meet your hero, the most infamous killer of them all. And here, in this utility-closet-turned-television-studio, in the heart of Hotel Marlowe, no one is here to judge. No one will call you sick or disturbed. No one will berate you and your “hobby.” Because here it’s more than a hobby. More than a job.
It’s your life.
He nodded. It sounded wonderful. No one had ever understood his fascination with serial killers. It started in high school, when one of his teachers mentioned Ed Gein in passing. He’d done research that night instead of writing a paper on the industrial revolution. A lifelong obsession was born.
His parents hadn’t gotten it either. Reading about such morbid things, his mother insisted, was not healthy. But he’d never hurt anyone with his studies or, later, his career. He simply presented the facts, no matter how morbid those facts may have been.
And all of it had been leading up to this.
He made his way toward the empty chair, studied the studio to delay the moment when he finally set eyes on his hero. The audience seats were full but he couldn’t see any of the audience members. They were shrouded in shadows, the bright lights not shining in their direction. Still, he could sense them watching. Waiting.
“Well? Are we still on for our interview?”
Zeke locked eyes with Tucker Ashton. The Tucker Ashton. He took a deep breath, steadied his shaking hands. There was nothing to be nervous about. They’d spoken through letters, after all. This was no different. Yeah, right.
Tucker wore white pants, white blazer and shirt, white shoes and tie—everything white. He caught Zeke staring at his outfit and shrugged. “Oh, this?” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Blood looks so … vibrant on white, wouldn’t you agree?”
Zeke nodded, his eyes just as wide as that first night of research.
“And between you and me, I plan on seeing a lot of blood tonight. That’s why I need your help. But I’m sure you must have some questions first.”
“Too many. I could ask hundreds, maybe thousands. I’ve been waiting for this—”
“All your life,” Tucker finished. “I know. Ask away. I’ve got to warn you, though. We don’t have all that much time. There’ll be plenty of opportunities for questions later. For now, how about one?”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
Zeke searched thoughts and memories. He’d fantasized of this moment countless times, had a mock questionnaire in his desk at home, among his collection. But now, put on the spot, his mind drew a blank. He asked the first thing that rolled onto his tongue. “Why did you come back?”
“To Marlowe, you mean?”
“Yes. Why come back to the place where you were caught? Doesn’t it seem a bit risky?”
Tucker smiled. He looked much paler in real life. His skin was nearly translucent, the blue veins beneath bulging like tumors. “I guess it would be risky if I wasn’t in control. You’d have to be crazy to come back here after killing so many people. This is the scene of the crime, man. Where the shit went down. But, see, I didn’t come back to Marlowe. At least not the one you’ve seen on television or read about in books. Speaking of which, have you read the newest one? Reads like a love letter. Poor Charles. He wanted to write something that condemned me. But that kind of stuff doesn’t sell. People want the same thing I do. They want blood. If they didn’t, if people truly were good and decent, then why did I have so many views on my videos? People ate them up like it was porn, just a few images to add to the spank bank for later. But I digress. The reason I came back to Marlowe was to make it my own. It’s like I said before. This isn’t the same town I grew up in. It’s a new place. A place to start over, to build a kingdom. And you, Zeke, are one of the last pieces of the puzzle.”
Zeke said nothing. Mostly because he hadn’t understood a word of Tucker’s diatribe. At least not on a conscious level. Some part of him, though, some deep and dark chamber of his mind, got the message loud and clear.
There was something special happening in Marlowe.
And Zeke had a VIP ticket to the show.
“Now,” Tucker said. “You can ask me the rest later. We’ve got to get moving.”
“Where are we going?” Zeke’s eyes veered toward the audience. Now that he’d adjusted to the lights, he could make out some of the faces in the front row. They were just as pale as Tucker but that’s where the comparison ended. Many were missing limbs and eyes, with open wounds bleeding freely onto the seats. The last sane part of his mind sounded a warning. Something was terribly wrong about all this. Just as soon as the warning sounded, it was gone, replaced by Tucker’s voice.
“We need to take care of that girlfriend of yours. She’s easy on the eyes but she’s trouble. She’ll only get in our way. I’m sure you understand.”
Zeke nodded, a reflex.
“Good. Let’s get on with it then. She should be showing up in …” He lifted a sleeve of his suit and stared at his bony wrist, at the spot where a watch would’ve been, had there been one. “Three, two, one.”
The door crashed open.
Amy ran into the studio but froze halfway to the seats. She held a hand up, blocking out the harsh lights, and stared into the audience.
And screamed.
ELEVEN
UP AHEAD, IVY saw Amy’s blond hair and bare legs. She wore a tank top and gym shorts. After screaming for what seemed like forever, she fell unconscious onto the floor. With what lay within the utility room in plain view, Ivy saw why.
It wasn’t that asshole boyfriend of hers, watching Ivy like she was a piece of meat. It wasn’t the television studio mere feet away instead of mops and brooms and rubber gloves. It wasn’t even the bloodied audience members, most of them looking very much like walking corpses.
No, Amy had fainted because of the skeleton in the white suit.
Tucker Ashton stood from his seat, turned around, and smiled. “Ivy, I’m so glad you could make it. I was worried you were having second thoughts. Or your sister would convince you to stay behind. But we both know what she really wants. You read about it, after all. Tell me, did you like the book? I had it sent to your room, compliments of the chef.” He winked. She shivered. “Deep down, we both know your sister is praying you don’t come back. You’re more burden than family.”
The hotel swayed. Her feet turned to gelatin, the floor to quicksand. She would sink forever, pulled down into some dark place miles beneath Hotel Marlowe.
She nearly followed Amy’s example before the arms stopped her from falling. She tensed, spun around, certain it was Tucker. He was everywhere at once.
She saw it was just Ethan, the man with the bag. What’s in the bag, anyway? she almost asked. She laughed instead, feeling lightheaded.
She closed her eyes, got her second wind. Scott was there, burned into the back of her lids. His corpse, his shredded clothes, his torn skin. And the blood, how it had soaked into her, even though she hadn’t come in contact with it. It had followed her, haunted her worse than any ghost or spirit.
In the span of a moment, Ivy went from a dizzy widow to feral lion. She gritted her teeth, faced the impossible room, and made to sprint inside.
Ethan held her back. “We have to go. We have to grab Amy and go.”
She shook her head. “That bastard took everything from me. I’m taking it back.”
“It’s suicide.”
“So is this place. This entire town. We should’ve never come here.”
“You can say that again.” He held tighter as she fought harder. “If you run into that room, you’re dead. What good does that do?”
“What’s it matter?”
“It matters because that fucker already killed too many
innocent people. He doesn’t deserve more.”
From the studio came a giggle. “What are we chatting about? What’s so important?” Tucker had moved closer to the door. “Do I seem real enough now that I’m not in the shadows, Ethan? Do you believe I’ve come back? I regret not tearing up that picture of yours. There’s still time, though.”
“What’s he talking about?” Ivy said, struggling to break Ethan’s grip.
“Nothing. Don’t listen to a word he says. He gets into your head.”
“I may be a killer,” Tucker said, “but I’m no brainwasher. I didn’t make anyone watch those videos. I bet you watched a few yourself. Just to see what all the hubbub was about. You wanted to believe the blood was just corn syrup and food coloring but you knew the moment you started watching it was real. And the best part? You knew the killer. Grew up on the same street. Would you like my autograph?”
Ethan whispered into Ivy’s ear. “When I let go, turn around and head for the stairs. I’m grabbing Amy and we’re getting the hell out of here. Got it?”
Ivy almost argued but thought better of it. He was right. Tucker did have a way of getting into your head. She could almost feel him there, crawling through her memories, using them against her.
Ethan tightened his grip. “Got it?”
She nodded, watched the way Tucker stood above Amy. Observing her unconscious form. She did not want to imagine his train of thought but the way he stared—it was as if he was framing a shot for his next video.
And Amy was the star.
“Go,” Ethan yelled into her ear. She spun around and headed for the stairs, telling herself she’d nodded off in bed. This was all just a bad dream. The nightmare to end all nightmares. Her shrink would have a field day.
In the corner of her eye, she saw movement. It could’ve been Ethan, Amy dangling over his shoulder, or it could’ve been Tucker himself chasing after her.
Listen to yourself. This all sounds so crazy. So unbelievably, fucking insane.
But it was real. That was the worst part. It wasn’t like the everyday blood, wasn’t some delusion tied into her grieving process.
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