Endurance

by Jack Kilborn

  Point. Match. Game.

  So why did it still feel like losing?

  Letti walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She went down the hall to the Grover Cleveland room and let herself in. For a moment, she felt like giving in to the tears, crying her eyes out. But she pushed the feeling down. The last time she cried was at Peter’s funeral. She’d lost two people that day. Her husband, and her mother.

  Letti wouldn’t allow herself to cry over her mother again.

  She took a deep breath through her nose, let it out slow through her mouth. Like she’d been taught. All during her youth, Florence had subjected Letti to countless instructors, coaches, and senseis, in countless sports, martial arts, and disciplines. Florence thought dropping Letti off at a dojo or a yoga class was a substitute for parenting. But none of her many teachers could fill the void Letti felt, and none could teach her how to deal with her resentment.

  Letti took another slower, deeper breath, letting her heart rate slow down. The room smelled strange, and the decorations were even more so.

  Damn, this is one creepy place.

  If Letti hadn’t known what Grover Cleveland looked like before coming to this room, she certainly did now. Everywhere she looked, there were pictures and drawings and photos of the chubby, moustached President. He was on the curtains, the walls, the bedspread, the doors, and even the lampshades.

  That Eleanor Roosevelt has some issues. Hell, she has a whole subscription.

  Letti undressed down to her panties, letting her clothes stay where they fell. She was exhausted, bone weary, but her mind refused to shut off. Sleep would be elusive.

  She considered taking a shower, but standing up for those few extra minutes seemed like a tremendous chore. And, for some strange reason, she didn’t feel comfortable being naked.

  Letti crossed her arms across her breasts, considering the feeling. It wasn’t shame. Letti had toned her body to be all it could be, and was proud of her efforts.

  No, what Letti felt was something closer to fear.

  What am I afraid of? I’m alone.

  Still, she opened her suitcase next to the bed, and quickly tugged on a tee shirt. After a quick look around the room, checking for leering boogeymen, she took her toiletry bag into the bathroom and began to brush her teeth.

  The bathroom was also funky, both in odor and in decor. The large poster of Grover Cleveland facing the toilet seemed to stare right at her. Letti had an irrational urge to hang a towel over its eyes.

  The water from the sink was off-color, and tasted funny, so Letti brushed without swallowing any. She finished quickly and crawled into bed, wrapping herself up in Grover Cleveland sheets. Letti automatically reached for the remote control on the night stand next to the bed, but didn’t see it. And there was an obvious reason why; the room had no TV.

  Annoyed, Letti wondered how she’d ever be able to fall asleep. Her normal ritual involved talk shows and infomercials until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. The silence in this room was much too loud.

  She thought about getting up, going to Kelly’s room. Maybe her daughter had a TV. Or maybe she’d let Letti borrow her iPod. YouTube was a sorry substitute for Leno, but it would have to do.

  Letti was peeling back the covers when her eyes caught on something setting on the dresser.

  A book.

  Been a while since I read a book.

  She padded over to it, and realized it wasn’t a regular book at all. It was a hardbound journal. On its cover, in detailed script, were the words The Rushmore Inn.

  Letti immediately knew what it was. She’d stayed in bed and breakfasts before. The proprietors often left journals in the rooms, so people could document their stay. Curious as to what guests would say about this odd little Inn, Letti picked up the journal and climbed back into bed.

  The first page was written in deliberate, ornate cursive.

  10/23/1975

  The Inn is practically hidden out here in the woods, but Henry and I find the accommodations and the proprietor quite charming. Henry hasn’t returned from hunting yet. While I hope he had fun, I also hope he doesn’t bring any of those ghastly birds home. They’re such a mess to prepare. Our vows said nothing about “plucking.”

  I hear someone downstairs. Maybe it’s him. Maybe I’ll surprise him by being naked when he comes to bed.

  He’s walking up the hall now. I’m going take off my

  The last sentence just ended there, without punctuation. Letti turned to the next page, and found it was ripped out. She began reading the next entry, done in a different hand.

  May 19, 1979

  My second night here. I don’t like it. There are strange smells, and right now I hear something moving in the walls. It’s another two days before Blake and the other men come back from their mountain climbing, and I almost wish I went with them. Marcus’s wife has come down with something. She’s slurring her speech like she’s drunk, but she swears she hasn’t touched any liquor, and her breath doesn’t smell. I hope Blake comes back soon.

  Again, more missing pages.

  This is pretty creepy stuff.

  Letti listened, to see if she heard anything in the walls. There was nothing but silence. Though she knew the journal was getting to her, Letti moved on to the next entry.

  July 24, 1984

  I can’t believe we found this place. It’s so deep in the woods I don’t know how it stays in business. Especially since our room was free, and we seem to be the only ones here. My wife thinks it’s all incredibly kitschy. I think it’s just weird. If this new job pans out, I’ll make some real money and take her on a proper honeymoon. But I love her, so it doesn’t matter where we are, as long as there’s a bed. Though last night, I could have sworn I heard something UNDER the bed.

  Feeling foolish, but also a bit freaked out, Letti peeked over the side of the bed. She grabbed the dust ruffle with her hand, set her jaw, and lifted it up.

  Nothing.

  Florence would find my paranoia amusing. I need to get a grip.

  Letti considered putting the journal down, but that would have proved it was scaring her. Instead, she skipped ahead, skimming bits and pieces. It stayed true to the theme. Brief, spooky paragraphs, followed by missing pages.

  August 14, 1991

  Paula is still upset about the “monster” she said she saw in the woods. Something with two heads. I think she’s seeing things. We both seem to have the flu, though neither of us has a fever. Can’t wait to get out of this place.

  Two pages missing.

  June 1998

  Barry hasn’t returned yet. I’m getting worried. I hear noises. I hope we get the car fixed soon so we can leave.

  Page missing.

  9/19/02

  It’s the middle of nowhere. There’s no place to run. What am I supposed to do?

  Another page torn out.

  6/2005

  This place is really fucked up. I think we’re gonna die here.

  More missing pages. Letti turned to the most recent entry.

  June 12, 2007

  Exhausted. Iron Woman training is both the hardest and the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I wish I was at the event hotel, but this isn’t a bad substitute. And you can’t beat the price, even though this place is sort of scary. I___

  The “I” trailed off, making a pen mark that went all the way down to the bottom of the page. Like someone bumped the writer. And on the bottom of the page...

  Brown stains. Like blood drops.

  Letti looked around the room, feeling goosebumps raise up on her arms. This had to be some sort of prank. A gag journal, to amuse the guests.

  But Letti wasn’t amused. She was seriously weirded out.

  I need to check on Kelly.

  She was getting ready to toss the journal aside and hop out of bed when a mark on the page caught her eye. A black mark.

  Letti turned the page past the final entry, and saw a child’s handwriting, written in black crayon.


  Letti scratched at the printing with her fingernail, getting black wax underneath. The familiar smell of crayon wafted up at her, reminding Letti of when Kelly was younger. But Kelly’s childhood printing never looked so... creepy.

  Letti turned to the next page.

  Letti’s head shot up. She scanned the room, listening for strange sounds, feeling like someone was indeed watching her, and at the same time knowing it was crazy to be thinking that.

  It’s a joke. A dumb, sick joke. When I see Eleanor again, I’m going to tell that crazy old hag what I think of her stupid little Inn.

  Letti stared down at the journal again. She touched the top corner of the page, ready to turn it.

  Do I really want to keep reading this BS?

  No. I should go check on my daughter.

  Letti began to close the book, and stopped.

  They’re only words on paper. I don’t need to be afraid of them.

  So why am I?

  Letti chewed her lower lip, undecided what to do next.

  Florence would think I’m a real chicken. She was in a war zone for four years, and I can’t even read a silly journal.

  Letti turned the page, feeling her breath catch.

  Letti sprang out of bed, backpedalling to the opposite side of the room, her eyes glued to the closet.

  There’s no one in there.

  But how do they know my name?

  Letti wondered if Kelly somehow had fabricated this, had put the journal in her room. She loved scary movies.

  But Kelly hasn’t been in this room.

  Could she have snuck in while I was talking to Florence?

  That seemed a lot more plausible than someone named Grover hiding in the closet.

  And if Grover really is in the closet, why would he tell me?

  Letti set her jaw.

  It’s a joke. Stop being a baby.

  She marched over to the closet, grabbed the knob, and with no hesitation pulled the door open, staring up at the tall, deformed man with the bloodshot eyes and the crazy smile on his face.

  “You’re pretty,” Grover said in a high voice. “Like Kelly.”

  Letti froze in shock. As the scream welled up in her throat, Grover grabbed Letti around the back of the head with one huge hand and pressed a wet towel to her face with another.

  Letti got over her surprise quickly, and her body went on autopilot, executing the self-defense moves Florence drilled into her head years ago. First came a fist to the throat, followed by a heel grind to the instep.

  She hit fast and hard, holding her breath, waiting for him to stagger back.

  Grover didn’t stagger. The punch to his neck missed his Adam’s apple, because it wasn’t where it should have been. Her hand sunk into doughy neck fat, and bounced off harmlessly. Letti’s kick was similarly ineffective. Her bare heel bounced off what seemed like steel-toed boots.

  She quickly followed up with a knee to the groin, putting her weight behind it.

  Her knee connected with... nothing.

  Along with his other defects, Grover didn’t seem to have genitals.

  Letti didn’t give up yet. Still refusing to breathe in, she cupped her hands and slapped them against Grover’s ears, trying to burst his eardrums.

  This time Grover did react. He stuck his lower lip out and started to cry, the tears running down his misshapen face. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled Letti tight to his body. She continued to punch and kick, but she didn’t have any room to swing, and her blows did little damage.

  Finally, no longer having a choice, Letti inhaled.

  The liquid soaking the towel burned her nose and throat when she sucked it in, and for a moment Letti felt like everything was okay, that she was completely safe, and it was perfectly reasonable to fall asleep right now.

  A bit of panic-fueled realization got through—I’m being drugged—and she lashed out one more time, reaching for Grover’s eyes, smearing the tears on his cheeks.

  But before she could gouge them out, the darkness took her.

  # # #

  Mal Deiter stared into the garbage can at the severed head. He debated picking it up, showing it to Deb, but rightfully decided that wasn’t in good taste.

  “What did I just eat, Mal?” Deb asked, an edge to her voice.

  “It wasn’t pheasant,” Mal replied, eyeing the small beak. “It was partridge.”

  “You mean like in a pear tree?”

  “His pear tree days are over.”

  Mal discarded the remnants of their snack, then closed the lid. He faced Deb and saw she wasn’t amused.

  Too bad. Deb was an attractive woman, but when she smiled, she was dazzling. So far, Mal hadn’t been able to make her smile more than a few times, even though he was trying his damnedest. Deb was too guarded which was a shame. If she relaxed a bit, Mal knew he could really fall for her. But he doubted Deb would let him get close enough for that to happen.

  For the time being, he tried to reign in his feelings and keep things professional. Even guarded, Deb was an interesting person, and he liked being around her. He was already trying to think up some good excuse to call her after the interview ended.

  “So what’s your impression of our hostess?” Mal said, taking his seat. “I’m thinking about calling The Addams Family, seeing if one of them is missing.”

  Deb’s mouth curled in the faintest smirk, and the lines on her forehead smoothed out.

  “You might want to call the White House instead. These decorations are mind-blowing.”

  “They’re unpresidented.”

  This time Deb actually did smile, full wattage, and it lit up the room.

  “Thanks for splitting a partridge sandwich with me, Mal. I think I’m going to turn in. Long day.”

  Mal wracked his brain to come up with some reason to keep talking. Another interview question? Something more personal? A joke?

  Then he saw Deb stifle a yawn with the back of her hand, and realized the proper thing to do was let her get some sleep. She was, after all, competing in a triathlon.

  “I’ll walk you up.”

  They took the stairs slowly, silently, but the silence wasn’t awkward. When they arrived at Deb’s room, Mal felt a tinge of uncertainty, like he’d just been on a date and was unsure if he should try for the kiss.

  Deb unlocked her door, then turned and looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, Mal saw in her eyes the same desire he felt.

  Should I try it?

  Then Deb stuck out her hand.

  The goodnight handshake. Ugh. That’s even worse than the goodnight peck on the cheek.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Deiter.”

  He folded her hand into his. “The pleasure has been all mine, Ms. Novachek. See you in the morning.”

  Mal let the touch linger. So did Deb. Her eyes were big and her chin was titled up and all the signals were there, so Mal went for it. He leaned down, parting his lips, and got a faceful of hair when she abruptly turned around.

  Deb slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, leaving Mal standing there like a dork. He recalled what Deb told him earlier.

  “How old are we, twelve?”

  He sure felt like it.

  Mal let himself into his room. Several dozen Harry S. Trumans stared at him, and they all seemed to be thinking what Mal was thinking.

  Smooth move, Casanova.

  Mal padded into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and pants, and took a leak. Then he turned his attention to the shower. Unlike the rest of the room, which was decorated in late 60s Norman Bates, the shower stood apart by appearing modern. It was a walk-in, with a floor-to-ceiling glass door, and the shower head was big and chrome and new.

  Mal turned the knob to scald and stepped inside. The water was rust-colored, and smelled medicinal, but the stream was strong and felt good on his body. He opened the little box of soap in the soap dish and worked up a lather. Also in the soap dish was a mini bottle of shampoo. Mal unscr
ewed the top, dumped the brown contents into his hand, and raised it to his head.

  That’s when the smell hit him.

  A foul, rotten smell, like meat gone bad. He brought his hand to his face, sniffed the shampoo, and almost puked.

  It’s not shampoo. It’s blood. Old, decaying blood.

  Revolted, he pawed at his head, trying to get the gunk off. He could feel little pieces—clots—become tangled in his hair. Mal felt his stomach twist again, the partridge sandwich struggling to get out like it still had fluttering wings. Doubling over, Mal took deep breaths, watching gunky, brown blood swirl down the drain. He put a hand on the glass door to steady himself, wiping off a streak of steam—

  —and saw someone standing in the bathroom.

  Startled, Mal backed into the corner of the shower, watching the figure approach. Once he got over the initial shock, his mind tried to make sense of what was happening.

  Deb? Coming back for that good night kiss?

  Another guest, who walked into the wrong room?

  Eleanor Roosevelt’s son, the one with the truck who was supposed to take them back into town?

  Someone trying to do me harm?

  Mal hollered above the water spray, “Who’s there?”

  The person didn’t answer. He came up to the door and stood there.

  Christ, he’s huge.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The giant didn’t reply.

  Mal’s heart went into overdrive. This whole situation felt like it was happening to someone else, and it was so far removed from reality that he wasn’t sure how to react. That he was naked made the vulnerability even more intense.

  “What do you want?”

  The man stayed silent, continuing to stare.