Speed Dating with the Dead

by Nicholson, Scott

  “Maybe if you draw me purty, I’ll let you live,” Gruff said. “Just long enough.”

  Her sketch pad was on the landing, forgotten in the chaos. She thought of the fantastic creatures she’d drawn on those pages, the imagined ghosts and disembodied spirits. Her morbid art now seemed like a survival instinct, because she had already dreamed the worst and could so easily accept the unreal.

  “What do you want with me?” she said. “You could have anybody.”

  “Don’t you get it?”

  Her arm was almost numb under his grip. She wondered if Cody had noticed her absence, or if he was so intent on playing hero that he only had room for his ego. A few stair balusters fell from the landing above, clattering against wood.

  “I just want out of here,” she said.

  “You came back.”

  “I’ve never been here before.” She tried to tug free as the hotel groaned around them, timbers snapping overhead.

  “You think Digger brought you here for no reason?” Gruff’s face morphed and shifted in Rochester’s, looking almost silly because it still had the moustache, but then the face grew hairy, pointed, and rodent-like, two yellow incisors gleaming in the moonlight. “You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  In her panic, she couldn’t remember what Cody had said about demons. Something about power. The only power they had was the power you gave them.

  “You can’t have me,” she said.

  The rodent face twisted and became softer, rounded, clear as a photograph. It was the woman she’d seen on the stairs, the woman who’d spoken to her the night before.

  Her mother.

  Kendra quit struggling. The smoke grew thicker and flames crackled below like rumpled cellophane.

  “I only had you for a while,” her mother said, and though the voice was feminine, Kendra knew it was really Rochester’s. Kendra saw a lot of her own reflection there—the dark hair and moody eyes, the broad nose—and her panic was dampened by sadness. It didn’t seem right that her mother would stay thirty-two forever, would always wear the face in the photograph on her dresser back home, would remain constant while Kendra grew up and older.

  Just like my characters. Made from scratch. Not good or evil, just drawn that way.

  “What?” Kendra said, coughing against the acrid smoke. “Do you want me to die here? Afraid to be alone?”

  Mother’s voice hardened, became a chorus. “We’re never alone.”

  The floor tilted, and Burton’s body slid across the landing and thumped down a few steps, rolling over so that his arms were splayed as if in jubilation.

  Her mother—demon, she’s a demon, a ghost kid in disguise—released Kendra’s arm and she fell against the wall. She glanced out the window, expecting to see fleeing guests on the lawn or the distant red lights of emergency vehicles, but the grounds were still and empty under the moonlight. Smoke drifted toward the surrounding forest like an army of ghosts, melding with the mist in the shroud of night.

  The hotel lurched and timbers grated, plaster board crumbling as the hotel shook again. Dad was downstairs somewhere, maybe trapped under the falling rubble or cornered by the fire.

  Free now, she clambered up the stairs, thinking she could navigate the third floor and go down the stairs at the other end. She glanced back at her mother—not my mother—and Gruff blinked, confused, as if wondering what he was doing standing there with hell erupting around him. He shouted, ran over Burton’s back as he hurried down the stairs, and lost his footing. He tumbled, gasping in surprise, and slipped through a gap of torn wood where the stairs had given way.

  Kendra paused, knowing she should run, knowing she could trust none of her senses, but tugged by a heroine’s instinct to save the day.

  Emily Dee to the freaking rescue.

  Gruff was only visible from the chest up, and he reached toward her with one arm while scrabbling for purchase with the other. His eyes were wide and scared.

  “Help,” he wheezed, smoke billowing up around him.

  Despite herself, she reached for him. Rochester, or the thing that owned Rochester, had made Gruff delay her until the stairs had collapsed. And now that Rochester had played his game, Gruff was just another toy to be discarded. She stooped and extended her hand, bracing herself against the stair railing, judging the man’s weight at 220 or so.

  But just before their fingers met, Gruff slid down a few inches, and then dropped away in a sudden eruption of splinters and rising sparks.

  She gazed into the smoking well for a moment, understanding he was lost. In more ways than one.

  The hand locked around her ankle.

  Kendra kicked, but Burton held tight, his eyes now open and filled with mad light.

  “The Diggersh daughter,” he said, the words mushed by blood and gore. “You going to leave without burying me?”

  “Sorry, Burton,” she said. “But I know it’s not you.”

  She brought her other foot down on his wrist, jamming her heel into the flesh. He didn’t wince but the muscles tensed. She stomped again, sick to her stomach but driven by fear and rage. Bones snapped and the clutching fingers loosened.

  Kendra danced away and ran up the stairs to the third floor.

  Chapter 47

  Violet stood by the main lobby entrance, arms folded.

  The small crowd pushed against her, shouting as the smoke blinded them. Rhonda had spit out her gum and Jonathan Holmes, the burly, bald member of SSI, tried to shove past her. The only light was from a torch held aloft by one of the guests. She searched for Philippe among the flame-licked faces but didn’t see him.

  Maybe her friends in the basement had taken care of him. She had a new maintenance staff, and they would be on call around the clock, forever.

  “Remain calm,” Violet shouted.

  “Let us the hell out of here,” Jonathan said.

  “The door’s jammed,” Violet said.

  “The second floor’s caving and the stairs are shot,” said Cody, the young, good-looking SSI guy. He cradled a whimpering old woman in his arms.

  Janey? Her heart clutched. No. This place is mine now.

  The old woman rolled her face away from Cody’s chest. Violet was relieved. Besides, Janey was too proud to accept help.

  The hotel gave a deep shudder, settling on its framework. Outside, shingles tore loose and rained down past the windows. The floor was warm beneath them, the carpet steaming. Some of the people were groggy and bleary-eyed from the carbon monoxide.

  Sleep tight, my valued guests. Enjoy your stay.

  Jonathan Holmes threw his shoulder against the massive door. He bounced off with a thrunk, cursing, while a couple of people joined Jonathan and put their weight against the door.

  “The windows,” someone yelled.

  The lobby featured large bay windows set with old-fashioned ripple glass. Like most of the windows, they were painted tight in their casings. The smoke now hung in a solid, roiling sea just beneath the ceiling, and a dim red glow blossomed from the far ends of the halls. The hotel was like a great ship going down, and Violet lifted her chin against those who would abandon it.

  “Don’t break anything,” she shouted, knowing they’d ignore her. Few understood the soul of this old place. To them, it was just wood, carpet, and glass.

  One guy picked up a settee and hurled it against the window. It bounced away, but the glass cracked. A couple of people had dropped to their hands and knees to dodge the smoke. Even the torchlight did little to penetrate the murk.

  “The couch!” Jonathan waved a few people over. Two men joined him and they bent and lifted the furniture to their waists.

  “You’ll have to pay for damages,” Violet said, but no one was listening.

  If Janey were here, they wouldn’t dare.

  She could sense them—she wasn’t exactly sure what they were, only that they’d always been here and they had something to do with Janey’s disappearance—hovering around the corners, their laughter mingling wit
h the distant crackle of flames and the cacophony of destruction.

  “Heave,” Jonathan commanded, as the three men rocked the sofa backward. On “ho,” they hurled it into the window and the glass exploded. Cool night air poured through the jagged opening and the frantic crowd rushed to escape.

  “Women first,” Cody yelled, carrying his injured patient to the window.

  Rhonda made a move toward the window, but Violet grabbed her by the back of her blouse.

  “Lemme go,” Rhonda said.

  “You haven’t punched your time card.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Where’s the cash drawer? At the desk?”

  “How should I know?”

  Cody passed the injured woman through the window, and she was reluctant to let him go, clinging to his neck with tapered, skeletal fingers. He finally passed her to Jonathan, who was standing outside in the hedges. A man in a toboggan was helping women over the lip of the window, but not everyone was as chivalrous. Violet smirked as a chubby young man in T-shirt and jeans shoved his way through the crowd and clambered out, revealing the fleshy swell of his upper buttocks.

  “Kendra?” Cody called, looking around the rapidly thinning crowd. He was just like the rest, calling a woman’s name like she was a possession.

  Well, no one is going to possess me.

  Now that the curtains were yanked wide, the lobby was filled with moonlight and was almost beautiful. Smoke curled around the piano as if it were on a nightclub stage and some music-school dropout were about to peck “Heart And Soul.”

  But the audience was vanishing. Violet grimaced at the thought of guests leaving before they’d checked out. Had they no respect?

  Janey would never stand for it.

  But Janey’s no longer in charge. Now they’ve made me caretaker. And what am I supposed to do about it?

  Good question.

  But one thing she knew, there was no sense letting good money go up in flames. She elbowed through the chaos and headed for the office.

  Chapter 48

  Wayne opened his eyes to dirt, his head like a bowl of mashed potatoes with blood gravy.

  Moist, forest-scented air wafted over his face, but smoke boiled from behind him. He tried to stand but couldn’t feel his legs. He remembered the darkness, the basement, and then....

  He was lying on the ground just beyond a concrete pad, the wooden door split and sagging to one side. Behind him came screams and the rending of wood. He rolled over just enough to see the outside of the hotel, the back end with its sloping addition and a tin-roofed maintenance shed. The November night chilled his skin but the warmth of the fire crept along his spine like a molten snake.

  “Yo, you okay?” someone asked. It was a college-aged man in dirty chef’s whites, obviously a cook who’d fled the kitchen. He stood near the edge of the forest, at a safe distance, nervously puffing a cigarette.

  “Kendra... the others....”

  “Get out of there, man, the place is going to blow,” the cook said. His face was streaked with grease and soot and his eyes bright with fear.

  “My daughter’s in there.”

  “They’re all out except—Jesus, there’s a dead guy behind you.”

  Wayne’s first thought was “ghost.” But ghosts didn’t exist. That meant—

  Wayne reclaimed the glimpse of Rodney Froehmer’s deranged face. He tried to turn but he couldn’t. Somehow it didn’t matter, whether it was a ghost or just a normal, everyday corpse.

  Kendra is safe. I can just lie here and rest. “I can’t move.”

  “Just my luck,” the cook said, tossing his cigarette aside and approaching Wayne.

  “Never mind me,” Wayne said. “Other people are in the basement.”

  “You must have hit your head. They all evacuated when the power went out.” The chef bent over Wayne. “How come you’re still here?”

  “We were hunting in the basement.”

  The sputtering flames licked light along the chef’s moist face. “Don’t know if I’m supposed to move you or not. What if you’re paralyzed or something?”

  “Well, I can lay here and burn to death or lay over there and still be alive,” Wayne said.

  The cook looked dubious, though he was in a hurry to retreat from the burning structure. “You won’t sue me?”

  “Never saw you,” Wayne said. “And this didn’t happen.”

  The cook lifted Wayne from beneath his armpits. Tingling needles of ice worked down Wayne’s thighs as blood began flowing through his legs. When the cook dragged him out of the doorway, Wayne at last saw what he’d left behind. Red light limned the entrance, revealing Rodney’s prone form on the basement floor. A steel pipe protruded from his chest.

  “Don’t look back,” the cook said.

  “Too late,” Wayne said.

  “Least he don’t have to worry about burning to death.”

  By the time they were 20 feet from the building, Wayne had regained some feeling in his feet. He raised himself up, wobbling, as smoke crept from the basement and drifted toward the trees.

  “You ain’t paralyzed,” the cook said.

  “Guess not.”

  “Man, I hope I turned off the gas to the deep fryer. Janey Mays would have my balls in a blender.”

  “So everybody evacuated?”

  “Yeah, they’re out front. You’re one of them ghostbusters, right?”

  “I guess.” But we’re the ones that got busted.

  “Sorry about your friend there,” the cook said, already lighting another cigarette. “You must have been the last two in the building.”

  The flames had just begun to penetrate the first floor. Wayne swayed on his numbed legs and took a trembling step toward the hotel. “I have to find my daughter.”

  The cook grabbed his arm. “Hold on, man. I told you the place was empty.”

  “I have to be sure.”

  “Hear that?”

  Wayne listened beyond the crackle of the flames, the whisper of the Blue Ridge wind in the trees, and the groan of straining timbers. A wail poured over the valley like the scream of a wounded dragon.

  “Sirens,” the cook said. “We’ll get you an ambulance.”

  Wayne nodded, wondering if Kendra was worried about him. He glanced up at the window of the room where he and Beth had conceived her—

  And there she stood.

  Chapter 49

  Bad move.

  Kendra had ducked into 318 because it was the first open door she’d found while feeling her way down the smoky hall. She’d hoped to escape through the window, but it was jammed tight and the lattice framework was too narrow. Even if she broke the glass, she wouldn’t be able to slip through. She looked down at the crowd milling on the front lawn, hoping to spy Cody, but also hoping he’d noticed she was missing.

  Dad must have escaped. If he’d been in the basement, he’d probably been one of the first to spot the flames. No doubt the same short-circuit that had caused the power outage had also ignited the hotel. The place was a real tinderbox and wouldn’t withstand the flames for long.

  She ran to the other window, saw two forms on the lawn behind the hotel.

  A row of red strobe lights made a wash across the treetops, emergency vehicles rolling in from Black Rock. If she could only hold out for a couple of minutes, trucks with ladders and firefighters would arrive on the scene. She’d wave and some hunky hero with an ax would climb up and smash the glass and chop apart the frame, then escort her down to safety. Dad and Cody would be impressed and—

  The door slammed shut behind her.

  In the darkness came the unmistakable sound of bedsprings. Then came the rhythmic creak made by jumping feet and a soft whisper:

  “Lock the door and throw away the key, stay and play with Mommy and me.”

  “Bruce,” she said, not turning around.

  The boy repeated, with more insistence: “Lock the door and throw away the key, stay and play with Mommy and me.”

 
His jumping grew more violent and she expected to hear his head thump against the ceiling. He repeated the line again, nearly shouting.

  And the rain began. Kendra squinted and sputtered against the deluge, realizing the sprinkler system had activated. A little late, perhaps, but working nonetheless. Except she now believed something else controlled the White Horse Inn, a malevolent brat that abused its toys and pouted when things didn’t go its way. And now it was taking a whiz, letting loose all its frustration and rage, drenching her so that her clothes stuck to her body.

  “It’s no good, Bruce,” she shouted against the spray.

  “Stay and play...stay and play...stay and play....”

  “I can’t stay,” she said.

  The beating red rays of light were closer now, pushing up from beneath the trees and down the lane that led from the highway.

  “Stay and play,” it said, but it was no longer Bruce’s voice. A woman’s.

  A spotlight tracked across the front of the hotel, momentarily illuminating her face. It was Ann Vandooren, the woman Cody said had rigged a prank camera.

  “I’m not staying and I’m not playing,” Kendra said, trying to sound tough, though it came off more Dr. Seuss than Emily Dee.

  “You should have been mine,” Ann said, moving closer to Kendra, hands upraised, ignoring the falling water.

  “I didn’t do anything to you.”

  “Besides getting born, you mean?”

  Kendra backed to the window, flipping wet hair out of her face. All she could make out of the woman was her sinister silhouette, but the form didn’t matter that much, whether it was Bruce’s, Burton’s, or Eloise Lanier’s. They all drew water from the same well, and they all wanted her dead, for some reason.

  Christ, what a comic book this is going to make. Assuming I ever get out of here.

  But “here” was where it had to end, right?

  According to her mother’s ghost, she’d been conceived in this very room. Her first spark of life had glinted when Digger’s stone had struck her mother’s flint. She’d crawled out of the mysterious pool of spirit matter and became the quirky kid with the crooked smile and a talent for doodling, the sad kid who watched her mother waste away at an age when her biggest worries should have been soccer and long division, the troubled kid who had to grow up way too fast because her father needed a parent.