I didn’t understand how the car could still be where we left it yet not outside. As I approached the doors, however, a part of me began to understand. The primal part, I’d say, because the reasonable part of my consciousness couldn’t grasp what I was seeing: Although the parking lot was gloomy upon our arrival, it was now a pitch-black maelstrom of shadows.
“It is rare that someone should walk through the front doors as if this were an ordinary hotel,” CindyLou said from behind the counter. Turning, I found she hadn’t moved from her spot, and regarded us with a look of both concern and understanding. “Many of our guests arrive by other means, through doors unseen, from locations far and wide. Your arrival here must mean you are uniquely suited to address an issue here at the Inn. There may be one I either do not entirely understand or which has already manifested I am currently unaware of.” CindyLou’s eyes shifted to the right then: a telltale sign she was evading the truth.
I exchanged a glance with Jessica. The look in her eyes worried me, for her confusion and concern was evident. My concern, however, wasn’t for the threat of danger, but for my role in whatever events may be developing. After our experiences in Scarborough Hill, my self-confidence had tanked. I no longer understood my place in the universe because my comprehension of the world around me had been irrevocably changed. Whereas before I plunged into danger blindly, determined to thwart the machinations of evil, I now questioned if my presence in such situations merely exacerbated them.
“I don’t know who you think I am,” I said, my tone measured yet shaky to my own ear, “but I assure you I am in no position to help you.”
“But you are,” CindyLou said. “You may question your resolve, but I see it in your eyes, both of you. If there is anything you need ask of me, please don’t hesitate. However, for now, I highly suggest you retire to your room.” She waved her arm to indicate the nearby staircase. “Something tells me you’ll need your rest for whatever is to come.”
three
I led the way upstairs, noting as we went that the staircase and the halls beyond reminded me of the Overlook in The Shining, casting a surreal quality to our environs. I felt like I was dreaming, but I knew I was awake.
CindyLou had insisted we leave our belongings at the desk. “Don’t you worry about them,” she said. “Our bellhop will have them right up.”
As we entered the wing in which our room awaited us, we found the bellhop already waiting for us, our small amount of luggage on the cart at his side. From a distance, he looked like a mummy with the wraps removed from his face. His aged façade was decrepit, almost as if it might disintegrate at the slightest provocation, and his tattered uniform, grimy and looking as if it had spent many years in the company of mothballs, looked like it belonged in a bygone era and had been stored long-term in a dusty closet. As we came closer, however, his countenance changed, as did his uniform, his overall appearance shifting from ghostly to lively. His face changed most of all, from that of a cadaver to a teenager with pimples and dimples. His hair was a shade south of copper, whereas before its color had been indiscernible. His name tag revealed his name was Ron.
He smiled, his head full of pearly teeth so white I was certain they were painted, and I was momentarily convinced the kid must be a ventriloquist dummy. Once I was within arm’s length, he extended his own and, without waiting for me to actively participate, vigorously shook my hand with an exceedingly firm grip, jostling my arm so much I was afraid he might dislocate my shoulder. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dormer!” He let go of me, turning to Jessica, and immediately engaged in an equally violent handshake with Jessica. “You as well, Ms. Snow. Welcome to the Inn!”
“Thank you,” Jessica said, retracting her hand. She was not one to openly invite physical contact with others in most circumstances, and I noted Ron’s invasion of her personal bubble made her intensely uncomfortable. Her trust of others was shattered at a young age, and many individuals over the years had strengthened that sense of isolation she holds dear. I am an exception to the rule, for she trusts me implicitly, a fact of which I am both cautiously aware and eternally grateful. In the weeks prior to this night, I had been a ship lost at sea, but she was my rudder, my guide and constant companion.
“If you don’t mind, Ron,” she said, making a point to pause and read his name tag as she spoke, “we’d both like to retire for the evening. It’s been an exhausting day, and our arrival here has only served to make us wearier. We’re not used to slipping into pocket universes or whatever this place might be.”
Ron smiled at that. “Yes, yes, I understand! But miss, this isn’t a pocket universe. It’s a nexus point in the space between worlds.”
Her smile was strained, an attempt at kindness and civility, when she added, “That only solidifies my point.”
Ron’s smile faltered. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it does. My apologies, miss.” I noticed his eyes flick past us, registering the arrival of another guest in the hall.
I turned and, with a shock of sudden but unsure familiarity, observed an older gentleman. He wore a custom-tailored tuxedo which gave him a paradoxical look, although he seemed aloof and stepped with the grace of a slow-motion ballerina; the tux itself was rigid on his body, its cut so sharp it might cut anyone with whom he dared come in physical contact. He shot us a glance from above his ridiculously bushy mustache, the tips of which were curled upward with an effect that made him look quite dastardly. His eyes were an alarming shade of scarlet, as if his irises were pools of blood, and his hair, short beneath his top hat, was a sleek black and as rigid as the rest of his suit, rendering his mustache far more ridiculous. Sticking out of the white band encircling his top hat was a Tarot card, which appeared to be a dancing skeleton.
Death.
As I alluded moments ago, the gentleman struck a chord of recognition, but from where I could not recall. I racked my brain for the answer, but it would not come willingly; it eluded me, dancing just beyond my powers of recollection, a memory monkey taunting me as it danced from foot to foot, arms flailing as it hooted at me.
He produced his own key, inserted it into the lock, and with a flourish of his coattails vanished into his room.
“He says his name is Bartholomew Barthandelus,” Ron said, the former excitement in his voice now gone. He sounded cautious, afraid. “He’s been with us a couple days now. His presence has perverted the Inn. There’s even a brothel in the east wing that wasn’t there before!”
The suggestion inherent in his statement intrigued me. “Wait. Are you telling me this place can change at will based on whoever is here at the time?”
Ron looked at me then, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, I’m not used to visitors who do not understand the power of this place. Yes, the Inn changes. Sometimes the changes are small. At others, the manifestations are quite thorough. I’m still noticing differences since Mr. Barthandelus’s arrival. Since your arrival, there have been a few, but not as widespread as his effects. To be frank, the man gives me the heebie jeebies.” He shuddered, closed his eyes, and composed himself. “Here, let’s get you into your room.”
Ron didn’t produce a key, opting instead to simply wave his hand over the doorknob, and the door opened with a click, swinging wide to afford us a view of the room beyond. The space was identical to a room I occupied at the Comet Tail Inn. It was burned into my memory due to a dream I experienced in which I encountered the Man of Shadows, an entity that tore through the walls, creating cracks from which lava had issued forth.
A chill tiptoed my spine.
“It’s always interesting to see how the rooms manifest,” Ron noted. “This room looks rather… bland.”
He pushed the cart in, set our bags against the wall, and turned to leave. As he did, his attention was drawn to the far side of the room, beyond my field of vision at the threshold. “That certainly seems out of place here.”
Frowning, I stepped into the room, Jessica following close behind. Above the bed was a painting, its frame an
intricate array of golden curlicues. Set within it was a lavish painting set in a bleak, snowy landscape. The moon was full in one corner, and massive. A figure in a crimson cloak stood at the edge of a cliff, head turned, face hidden in the shadows beneath his hood. One arm was raised and brandished an absurdly large sword above his head, its blade gleaming brilliantly in the moonlight.
The painting had not been in my room at the Comet Tail.
“I’ll leave you be,” Ron said, slipping past us. “If you require anything of us, please don’t hesitate to contact CindyLou at the front desk.”
He pushed the cart out of the room, and the door closed seemingly of its own accord. Once he was gone, I sat on the bed and regarding Jessica with a look of urgency.
Jessica doesn’t question me in situations such as this; in fact, she’s usually on the page upon which I find myself just before I am, and while she may not know everything I’ve endured, she knows to trust my instincts. The only question she posed now was simple and direct: “What do we do?”
“I need you to put me under,” I said.
“That much I assumed,” she replied. “But why?”
“Barthandelus,” I stated, tasting the name on my tongue. It felt inherently false. Not evil, perhaps, but merely window-dressing. I doubted the gentleman’s true name was Bartholomew Barthandelus; it sounded not only pretentious but absurd as well. How he might have fooled the front desk ledger, however, was beyond me. “I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I don’t know where.”
Jessica stepped to a spot roughly three feet in front of me. As she knelt, she said, “You think he’s why the Inn brought us here.”
I nodded.
“How sure are you?”
I smirked. Rather than saying it simply, a phrase crossed my mind, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to say it. “My conviction is strong.”
“You dolt.”
“You love me.”
“And you love me.” She folded her legs underneath her and sighed. “Are you ready for this?”
I shook my head. The events in Scarborough – and since – had rattled me. Now that we were here, however, there wasn’t much that could be done to avoid our circumstances. I would rather do as I always had done and face trouble head-on rather than dally and wait for it to not only come for me but catch me unprepared. “Absolutely not,” I told her. I closed my eyes and exhaled. “Let’s do this.”
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
four
The weeks after Scarborough Hill burned were an endless nightmare for me. I was dealing with the side effects of a concussion, which for someone like me proved to be nothing short of disastrous. It deprived me of true sleep and submerged me in a sea of waking dreams. My memory of those two weeks is sporadic at best and more often than not a discombobulated mess. Freddy Krueger himself, if the dream master were in fact real rather than a movie creation, could not have devised a dreamscape such as the one in which I was lost.
I have asked Jessica about what she witnessed during that time. She refuses to tell me. Because of this, as she knelt before me to begin the process, I failed to mention I was convinced I had seen Bartholomew Barthandelus in the madness I experienced following our escape from Scarborough Hill. This willful excursion into my subconscious would be a horrific one, but if I was to extract any knowledge regarding what I had seen about the gentleman down the hall, this was it.
I didn’t know if we had already crossed paths with Barthandelus before arriving at the Inn. In the time since my insomniac mania, I have discovered my former nighttime habits have changed. Those around me no longer experience insomnia, nor am I subjected to dreams randomly. I may be drawn to the dreams of those around me, but I have a new level of control not only in selecting the dreams I may experience but also how I may interact with them. During the time when I was concussed, however, everything was chaotic, and to make sense of my experiences then was impossible.
Once the mania subsided, I found the first few days filled with a natural, restful sleep I had never known. As the days passed, however, I was cursed with an inability to fall asleep willfully and would often toss and turn. It was for this reason Jessica devised a method of leading me into the realm of the Sandman.
I closed my eyes and listened as she softly hummed a lullaby, occasionally clicking her tongue to disrupt the melody. The disruption prevented me from succumbing entirely to rest and kept my mind engaged even as I was lured into a restful state.
I imagined the room in which we performed the ritual. The walls, the painting, the bed, the television on the furniture stand. One by one, they faded from existence until all that remained was me, suspended in the void of my subconscious. Distantly, I could still hear Jessica, but she too was fading. Soon, I would be left alone with nothing but my thoughts.
I focused on my breathing: in, out, in, out, every exhalation a purpose, every inhalation a gift.
I recalled the room in which I had been treated after leaving Scarborough Hill. We rendezvoused with Will, and through one of his contacts I received medical attention for my many injuries. I had been fading from reality then, caught in a loop of nightmarish visions. Will brought me water at one point, and when I looked at his face, it was an abomination: eyes gone, a grotesquely large centipede extending out of his mouth and curling into one open eye socket and out the other, its mandibles twitching ferociously.
The image was burned into my mind, and although Will did not appear before me, dark spots bore through the walls, eradicating them and allowing countless centipedes to emerge, bodies twitching and arching madly as they emerged from the void. One by one, they dropped from the holes in the dreamscape, each one a minimum of six inches long, many well over a foot in length.
The centipedes were not my fear, but Will’s. I knew they could not harm me. Therefore, I moved through the writhing masses on the floor, nonplussed.
We met Will at a hotel initially, but my treatment occurred at his house once we had taken steps to ensure we would not be pursued. I navigated his house of centipedes, unsure if I was recalling it in its entirety despite my mind’s ability to fill in the blanks as I did so. The imagination is a powerful engine, creating and understanding almost simultaneously. This, like the endless dreamscapes into which I intruded throughout my life, was a marvel despite its creepy crawly proclivities.
This was not truly Will’s house. It was merely a surrogate for the mysteries awaiting me within my own memory. It was here I had begun the true descent into madness. It seemed only fitting as far as I was concerned to begin my exploration here.
I followed a long hallway, passing through an increasingly labyrinthine structure of rooms. I witnessed a plethora of horrors I both recognized and unfamiliar to me, serving as echoes of psyches I had encountered throughout the years but hadn’t fully explored. The countless individuals my mind had touched throughout my life left an imprint in its deepest recesses, creating a nightmarish cabinet of curiosities. These echoes could arise despite my lack of memory regarding them.
Some of these horrors were typical - psychotic clowns, rabid dogs, faceless men and women, a legion of cockroaches – but some proved to be far more personal and unsettling, like the reanimated corpses of beloved, mangled children. I passed each of these rooms without hesitation or fear, for I have been exposed to horrors regularly and have been desensitized to mere nightmares.
In one room, the Man of Shadows lingered. The dark figure stood in a brightened room, his eyes ablaze with hellfire, his mouth a grinning rictus of flame. “You seek the unexplained,” he said, his voice the rasp of a thousand discordant demons. Somewhere in the dissonance of his voice, I could hear the distinct cadence of Noah Parkman’s voice masked by the distortions of others. “Barthandelus usurps the unknown.”
“Enough with your unintelligible babble,” I told him, waving a flippant hand at him. The cynosure of shades erupted into a paroxysm of flame and smoky darkness only to dissipate into the ether.
Had the Ma
n of Shadows truly been an entity separate from my own subconscious, I would have taken his words as a validation of my suspicions regarding Barthandelus. However, I surmised he was merely acting as a conduit for my own thoughts.
I rounded a corner only to find myself face to face with an abrupt end to the corridor, and in that cessation stood a solitary hotel door. A do not disturb sign featuring a dancing skeleton in a top hat hung from the knob. I ignored the sign and disturbed the sanctity of the room beyond, although I didn’t dare knock; instead, I turned the door knob, which wasn’t locked, as I doubted it would be. After all, I’d been here before, weeks earlier.
I strode into the dark room within to find a young boy. His flesh emanated an unsettling crimson glow, but his scarlet eyes called my attention. I didn’t know if it was the aura about him, but I realized I could not determine his age or the size of his body; his physical stature seemed to be in a constant state of flux. At one moment, he seemed smaller, as if he were no more than five or six years old, and at others as large and mature as a teenager on the cusp of adulthood. Another glimpse, and he seemed ancient before a blink reset his apparent youth. His ears, I noticed, were elongated like an elf’s… if elves existed, that is.
“Help me,” he said, his voice another amalgamation similar yet purer than that emanating from the Man of Shadows. Here, I was certain the voice remained the same despite the changes and that I was hearing it at every age rather than from a single time period. “Help Opopanax.”
I frowned. “Opopanax?” I asked.
The shifting face nodded. “Opopanax,” he confirmed. “Barthandelus is feeding.”
five
I rose through the foggy layers of consciousness, and when I opened my eyes and regarded Jessica, she knew I’d found something. “What?” she asked.
Inn Between Worlds Page 14