The job, as far as he was concerned, was over with. He'd call Jerome when finally his wits returned and give back his money. No job was worth this sort of risk to mind and body.
He wept when, some minutes later, the muddy road transitioned into one of proper concrete and the rain slackened sufficiently for him to glimpse a sign positioned just off of the shoulder.
WELCOME TO MCARTHUR, OHIO
Chapter 8
Harlan Ulrich looked a pitiable mess when he limped out of the SUV and stood, shivering, in the narrow parking lot in front of the Hotel Acardi. Evening had fully set in now, robbing the sky of any light, save for the vague twinkling of far-off stars, half-hidden behind a haze of clouds. He was in the middle of nowhere and had expected the skies to be clearer. The day's storms had put an end to that, though.
It was a rather small place and could not have boasted more than a dozen rooms in its two-story frame. The Hotel Acardi looked almost like two double-wide trailers stacked atop one another, perhaps a little bigger, and was every bit as run down as one might expect a budget motel to be in the sticks. Covered in metal siding that was more rust than anything, the neon sign above the front door read VACANCY, and flickered with the breeze. Rooms on the upper level could be accessed by rickety-looking fire escapes, which snaked along the exterior and swayed whenever a strong gust of wind came through.
Ulrich dropped his boot onto the ground, still half-filled with cold mud, and shoved his foot into it. Straightening his coat, he batted off some half-dried clods and attempted, in some small way, to make himself look presentable. It was pointless, of course. No last-minute preparations could clear the grime of the day from him. He looked like a tramp and smelled like one, too. No matter the state of the lodging, Ulrich intended to pay for a room in cash and head straight for the shower. When that was done, he'd spend the night in bed, any bed, warming his bones and hoping that his time in the rain hadn't been sufficient to cause pneumonia. Already there was a dull ache blossoming behind his eyes, in his sinuses, in his joints. It was going to to be a long night.
The interior of the SUV was a terrible mess. There were splotches of mud on the front seats, on the dash, all over the floor. The driver's seat was soaked with rain and already a sourness was circulating through the air. The exterior wasn't much better; the tires, rims and sides of the car had seen better days. When the mud he'd kicked up all over the thing finally dried, it was going to look like hell. Jerome probably wouldn't be pleased, but then, there was little he could do about it. Perhaps he'd run it through a car wash before driving it back to Toledo.
There was nothing else in the area. The Hotel Acardi had popped up close to the city limits, and though his researches had led him to believe that this was “downtown” McArthur, things seemed hopelessly barren. There was another building about a half-mile from the road. A gas station or restaurant. Beyond that, he thought, there looked to be a kind of strip mall. Trees filled in the empty spaces. He was getting damn tired of seeing those in such abundance.
Nothing much mattered to him by then. He was drained, mentally and emotionally, and could only muster a base automatism as he shuffled out of the car and prepared to book a room. He'd checked out, his mind dashed by all he'd seen. Maybe by morning he'd feel like himself again, but somehow, he doubted it.
Popping the trunk of the SUV, Ulrich hobbled over and lifted his valise out with a groan. When he'd slammed it shut and locked up the car, he dragged his bag behind him and shoved open the door to the hotel impatiently. The smell of cigarette smoke struck him at once, and a dim yellow light reached his eyes.
The lobby of the Hotel Acardi, a room the size of a large walk-in closet and sectioned off into two halves, was done up in knotted off-white carpeting that was at least as old as Ulrich was. One half of the room, where a black-haired man of perhaps forty-five or fifty years sat smoking and reading a magazine, was made inaccessible by a plexiglass box with a little opening at its center. A chipped-up desk teeming with takeout containers, water bottles and apparent trash was positioned behind this, and the edge was festooned by the clerk's slippered heels.
The waiting area was insubstantial, with only two flimsy folding chairs and a water fountain found there. The water fountain bore a sign which blocked would-be drinkers from the spot. It read OUT OF ORDER, and was rendered in the penmanship, presumably, of some previous decade. Ulrich cleared his throat, stooping to look through the plexiglass enclosure. The clerk, apparently, hadn't noticed his entrance. Or maybe he had, and simply hadn't cared.
Wetting his lips with a sip of water, the clerk set down his magazine and cigarette and looked up at his guest. No smile was given, no salutation. The man's brows were closely knit for a time as he scrutinized Ulrich's unkempt appearance. “How many beds?” he said simply, in an abrasive tone of voice. There was an accent to it, more New York than rural Midwest, but years of smoking had given it the grit of sandpaper.
Ulrich pulled out his wallet, slightly damp from the tumbles he'd taken earlier in the rain, and stifled a shiver. His hair was still dripping with rain and his breathing was labored. “One. Just one bed.” He pulled out a few twenties along with his ID.
“That'll be, uh,” the man hesitated, glancing over the counter and gazing narrowly at the trail of mud Ulrich had tracked in. “Ya know, let's call it a wash at 80. A little extra there for the carpet, you understand.” He chuckled a bit, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling as he continued. “And it, uh, seems to me that you could probably use a shower, ain't that right, bud?”
Ulrich said nothing, but took four bills, crumpled them, and then reached through the window, dropping them onto the desk with his ID.
The clerk shook his head, standing up and giving the sagging waistband of his navy sweatpants a forceful tug. They looked well-worn, as though the man had never worn another pair in his life. “Now, no need to get all bent outta shape there, baby.” He took another drag, reducing the cigarette nearly to cinders. “I'ma give you a key and you just get yourself squared away there, eh, princess?”
“What time is check-out?” asked Ulrich stoically, whipping back a sopping lock of grey hair.
The clerk chortled as he rifled around inside his desk. “Not so fast, baby. I'm not that kinda fella, you gotta take it slow with me, you hear? I need your autograph on this here paper.” He pulled a one-page agreement from a stack on his desk. It was stained in coffee, or what Ulrich hoped was coffee. Dropping his cigarette butt into a crowded ashtray, he handed over the keys while simultaneously running Ulrich's ID through a copier. There were two brassy keys fixed to a ring, one large, the other considerably smaller. “That little key there unlocks the gate leading to the sauna. You like to sauna, baby? Looks to me like it'd do you a world of good, a round of sauna. I keep it locked up around back with a bit of fencing. Ya know, just to keep the riff-raff out. Those teenagers, they can't seem to stop sneaking back there when I ain't payin' attention. Caught 'em in there fuckin' like three times already!” He laughed heartily, his paunch quaking and undulating. The T-shirt he wore, stained with some kind of yellow condiment, didn't fit him terribly well and failed to reach the bottom of his gut, which peeked out from the hem like a pale knot of dough.
“Don't say,” replied Ulrich, lifting up his bag and turning around. “Which room is mine?”
“It's number 4,” replied the man, dropping back down into his chair and sighing. “Right around the corner, to the left. It's got a hell of a view,” he said with grandiose gesticulation. “Check-out's at noon, but things are slow now, and if you hang around a little longer than that, I ain't gonna fuss.” He shot a wide, magnanimous grin, his yellow teeth gleaming in the light. They looked like they'd been carved out of pure butter.
Ulrich was eager to warm up and to build some distance between himself and the classy fellow working the desk. With nary a word he stuffed the keyring into his soggy pocket and then marched out with bag in tow, letting the door slam closed behind him. “Room 4,” he muttered
, taking a moment to glance around. When he'd gained his bearings, he turned the left corner and began to the rear of the building, where a number of doors with unkempt patios were revealed. Sure enough, his room was the first one in the stretch, right on the corner, and its solitary window would give him a view of the forest which at that moment was at his back. Great, he thought. That's exactly what I want. To stare at more of these damned trees from my room.
He was unsure if there were other tenants on the ground level. The room above his own, number 8, had a lit window, but every other room he'd seen appeared dark, with the curtains drawn. The concrete patio was filthy. Hairline cracks could be seen throughout it, and from these cracks there sprouted tall weeds. Doubtful scurryings entered into his periphery as he fussed over the stubborn key, jamming it into the lock and attempting to give it a turn. It wouldn't go. Squinting at the handle, he gave it a tug and then tried once more to turn the key. It finally gave way with a creak.
The first thing that caught his attention as he switched on the light was the ominous shifting of several small somethings in the far corner, near the rough-looking radiator. He held his breath and leered over at the fixture, which groaned as it fired up. Nothing darted from underneath, but it was precious little comfort. There were bugs in this room. Probably lots of them. The big kind, the kind that could sprint nice and fast, and whose death would involve the sort of exoskeletal crunch that made his stomach retch just thinking about it. Son of a bitch...
The disappointment didn't end there, however. The bed, situated at the center of the room, looked a mess. The starchy, sun-bleached comforter hung half-way off of the bed, revealing musty-looking yellow sheets. One pillow, a series of lumps encased in a yellow pillowcase, headed the thing. There was a clock on the wall across from the bed, but a moment's study was all it took for him to realize it wasn't functioning. A rickety nightstand, whose only burden was a remote control, sat beside the bed. Though there was not a corresponding television for this remote to be found, there did appear to be a space against the wall, opposite the bed, where a TV had once been situated, if the outline in the dust was to be trusted. A closet with a fractured mirror finished out the main room, and a narrow hall led to what Ulrich presumed was the bathroom.
Slowly, and with a deep breath, Ulrich closed the door behind him. To his dismay, the entire door frame creaked and rocked for his effort. The whole doorway might've been felled if only he'd given it a stiff push. He messed with the deadbolt and chain lock for a time, but knew them useless in light of the rickety door frame and ultimately opted to push the nightstand against the door. It was a feeble barrier, but would be better than nothing in this old room that was surely no stranger to thieves.
Ulrich held out hope that the bathroom might prove serviceable, and after some minutes' hesitation, set his bag down on the bed. Walking past the closet and catching his sorry reflection in the busted mirror, he turned the corner and found himself faced with an open doorway. Reaching just inside, he sought out a switch and, upon finding one, gave it a flick. A dim yellow light not unlike the one in the rental office came on, revealing to him the shape of the bathroom.
The floors were a scummy tile. A large drain sat at its center, a possible safeguard against flooding, but was missing its cover. The dense brown grime that lined the opening gave him pause, and he wondered what awful little creatures dwelt inside it. The shower curtain had once been a transparent plastic, but was now cloudy and mildewy. The basin seemed intact, but the fixtures themselves showed signs of rust where they met the wall. There was a toilet, its seat yellowed and its lid covered in a profound layer of dust where offensive messages had been rendered by the fingers of past occupants. The sink was possibly the best-looking thing in the entire hotel room, but upon switching on the tap, Ulrich found it only sputtered water in dribs and drabs, and that the wooden cabinet that held the relatively pristine-looking sink was rotten and wobbly.
“Eighty dollars for this?” Ulrich pursed his lips and shook his head, pacing outside in the hall and wondering if he shouldn't just sleep in the car overnight. If he set out now, he could find directions, visit a truck stop for a shower and make it back to Toledo well before sunrise. It was tempting.
Ultimately, however, he surrendered to the room. His day had been too long, his recent fright too great. He needed rest, and though terribly inadequate, the room would simply have to do. Ulrich couldn't be bothered to seek out new lodging and knew that to do so would be an errand of at least an hour. The room's flaws were numerous, but he put them out of mind. He needed a bed, a shower. Some place to pass the night and make sense of what'd happened to him that day in the infirmary. Room 4 met those criteria, albeit disappointingly.
Ulrich took as warm a shower as the bath would allow, and even ten minutes in, when the hot water began to wane and transition into a cooler spray, he stood beneath the shower head, bending down so that the water might cleanse the entirety of his lanky frame. When he'd scrubbed the grime from his body he stepped out of the shower, batting aside the filthy curtain and narrowly scrutinizing the pilly terrycloth towels that'd been provided. There were a few spots on them that looked like cigarette burns, but they seemed clean enough to use overall.
Toweling off, the investigator looked himself over in the smudged up mirror, noting the redness of his eyes and glimpsing, cringingly, the handprint that'd been left behind on his forearm. He'd mostly forgotten about it till then, had put it forcibly out of his mind so that he might relax in the shower. Without even touching it however he found the spot to ache deeply. He flexed his arm, caressed the dark mark with his fingers, and flinched as though expecting the pain to worsen. It felt like a deep muscle pain, or like some soreness of the bones.
He shuffled out to the main room, rifling around in his bag for a clean change of clothes. When he'd dressed, he tossed the towels into a corner of the room and sat cautiously at the foot of the bed, his gaze wandering throughout the space. Ulrich wasn't a wealthy man, and his job often saw him visiting rundown motels of this sort. Still, this was the first time he'd ever been a guest at one. He shook his head in disbelief, placing a palm against the top of the bed and giving it a little push. The mattress felt harder in some spots than others, and would probably be uncomfortable to sleep on. Then again, if the burning behind his eyes was any indication, he didn't much have a choice but to sleep. He was ready to drop, and the lumpy bed was probably the safest spot for him to do so.
Every time he thought to lay down and put out the light, Ulrich's mind was transported back to the shadowed infirmary, to the disordered and dangerous interior of the place, to that rickety stairwell... to the thing that had reached out and touched him in the upper level and sent him racing out.
Ulrich crossed his legs and kneaded at his eyes. Jerome hadn't said anything about this sort of thing. I mean, he'd begun to allude to... certain stories about the Sick House, but I cut him off. Maybe that was unwise of me... he thought, glancing down at his forearm and giving his wrist a little turn. The handprint was as vivid as ever. Just what was that in there? Was it real? Was it... He chuckled to himself. Just a single visit to that old building and already he was willing to entertain the idea of ghosts. But what did ghosts have to do with his investigation? “Not a damn thing,” he muttered aloud, as if to assure himself. “Jerome sent you here so that you could track down his missing uncle. Dr. Siegfried Klein exists. Ghosts do not. Don't lose the plot and go to pieces here. Whatever happened in that infirmary was strange, no doubt, but it wasn't supernatural. Maybe it was a college student, lurking in there and playing a prank.” He pursed his lips, tracing the shape of the handprint on his arm. “It's probably ink of some kind. It'll wash off eventually.”
As much as he wanted to believe it, he didn't really think it was mere ink, though.
Rocking back and forth on the foot of the bed, he rifled through his bag and drew out his notebook, plucking from between its pages the photograph of Dr. Klein. Ulrich studied it afresh, holding it
up before him and standing to pace. The smiling old doctor had a kind face; why anyone should want to harm him was a mystery. It wasn't the investigator's problem anymore, though. He'd already decided to throw in the towel, give up the case. It wasn't often that he broke his contracts, but this time he felt it was warranted. To proceed felt too unsafe. He'd gone in over his head this time, taken on a real doozy. Edgar Hudson back home had been right to pass over the job when Jerome had come knocking. Hudson had seen the danger in it, probably.
Ulrich nibbled at his thumbnail, setting down the photo and pacing the stretch between the bed and closet. “No one would blame you for backing out now. Not after what happened today.” He gulped, running a hand through his damp hair and leaving it a mess. “It's a shame, but you really aren't cut out for this kind of thing. Even Hudson, with his reputation, avoided it. If he didn't think it worth pursuing, or, worse, couldn't get the job done, then what makes you think that you can?”
Ulrich buried his hands in the pockets of his sweats and sighed. No one would blame him if he backed out now, perhaps, but if word spread, he'd be mocked for it. He could see it now, the way Hudson and his associates would laugh at him for being scared off. It wouldn't help his already meager reputation in town if he quit now, that much was certain. He palmed at his forehead, kneading at the individual wrinkles in his brow and fighting off the early pangs of a migraine. “They'll all laugh at you,” he muttered. “Just like they've always done. Just like they've always had reason to do. They'll laugh because you couldn't handle it. Because you gave in to the superstitions and lost your wits.” Usually Ulrich was not one for pride, always willing to take the easy way out and follow the path of least resistance where his work was concerned. It was easier for him to go about his life ignoring what his contemporaries said about him behind his back. It was easier to pick up their scraps, to do the simple, uneventful jobs they themselves were too good for.
The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1) Page 7