Though he was thankful that he wouldn't have to return to the terrible ghost town, he knew in the back of his mind that his surveyance of the Sick House was not altogether finished. The final pieces of this puzzle, if they were to be found at all, still lurked there. He planned to fill his day by seeking additional information from other sources, but at the end of the day there couldn't be the least doubt that whatever he learnt would lead him back to the doorstep of the Sylvan Infirmary.
Chapter 17
The clerk was fanning himself with a newspaper when Ulrich walked into the rental office of the Hotel Acardi. He was wearing the same outfit he'd been wearing the night previous, and the garments featured the same stains in the same places. It was doubtful that the fellow ever changed out of those clothes. He met Ulrich with a little grin and set down his newspaper. “Now, what are you doing back here, Mr. Ullman?”
“It's Ulrich,” the investigator was quick to clarify. “And as it happens, I'd like to stay another night. I don't suppose room number four is still available, is it?”
He clapped his meaty paws together and chortled, struggling to get up from his rickety chair. His body bobbed once, twice, before he finally built up enough momentum to launch his bulk out of the seat. “Baby, it's just the way you left it. It's like you never went.” He did a little figuring, then dug around in a pile of disordered forms. Dashing through a few things with a pen, he made changes to the agreement Ulrich had signed previously and then peered up at him through the plexiglass barrier. “I tell ya what, I'ma give it to you for forty tonight.” He wedged a thumb inside the waistband of his sweats. “I'm feelin' generous.”
Ulrich chuckled under his breath and handed over a pair of twenties without protest. The man could've charged him twice that and he wouldn't have argued about it. The Hotel Acardi was the only game in town and Ulrich was desperate for a bed.
The clerk fiddled with the bills, smoothing them out and setting them inside a lock box before donning a fresh grin, somehow grimier than the last. “You caught me at a fine time, Mr. Ulrich. Was just about to take my lunch break and hit the sauna. Don't suppose you wanna join me? It's spacious in there, and it's relaxin'. Just melts the stress away.”
Ulrich shook his head, turning around and preparing to leave. “Oh, uh... no thanks. It's not really my thing. I'm hurting for some sleep.”
Throwing his hands out, the man groaned in exaggerated disappointment. “Aw, you're breakin' my friggin' heart, baby. And here I thought a big-city PI like you would wanna talk about that woman who dropped off the note yesterday.”
“What?” was all Ulrich managed to say, his legs stiffening at once and causing him to halt before the door. If this guy knew he was a PI, there was really no telling what else he knew. Wriggling on the hook, Ulrich looked back at him and took the bait. “Well, now that you mention it, a sauna sounds mighty relaxing.”
The clerk laughed. “I'm glad you think so. Course,” he added, rapping his sausage-like fingers against the desk, “it might cost ya a few bucks.”
Ulrich pulled out his wallet and counted out a handful of smaller bills. “You're pushing it.” Reaching over, he thrust them through the opening in the plexiglass barrier.
The clerk tucked them away and then opened a side-door, stepping out into the lobby. He brought with him a pair of white bath towels, and threw one of them Ulrich's way. Next came the keys to room four. “Come with me, baby. We got some relaxin' to do.”
Chapter 18
Stripping down and sitting in a hot little box with the sweaty hotel clerk was the last thing Ulrich had ever envisioned himself doing that night.
But there he was all the same, a towel draped over his lap, face pouring in sweat and somewhat short of breath. Ulrich had never been one for sauna; it was more torturous for him than it was relaxing. The smell of hot cedar permeated the wooden box, which wasn't nearly so spacious as the clerk had made it sound. In fact, there was barely enough room inside for the two of them. Two seats were positioned across from the container of super-heated stones, one close to the ground, the other elevated above it. The clerk took the higher spot, claiming that it was all the hotter up there, and Ulrich the lower seat. In this configuration, the clerk's sweaty knee continuously bumped against Ulrich's bare shoulder, and every time it did so, the investigator couldn't but wince.
The clerk wasn't shy, had dumped his clothes in a heap outside the sauna, and kept the towel draped over his lap only as a formality. Sitting around, sweating in the nude with strangers came naturally to him, apparently. He was some time in speaking, leaning back and sighing with great enthusiasm. When he finally spoke, it was about the sauna, rather than what Ulrich had come to discuss. “This is high-quality, treated red cedar. Crank her up to about two-hundred degrees. When we're through here, I got a hose out there we can spray off with. It's good and cold out, so you know that water's gonna feel like ice.” He talked like he was really looking forward to it.
Ulrich gulped, finding his mouth robbed of saliva. Already he'd been sitting there, fidgeting uncomfortably, longer than he'd ever done in a sauna. Once, as a young man, he'd used a sauna for a few minutes at an athletic club. After that experience, where he'd ambled out light-headed, he'd decided it wasn't for him. This time, he'd already been baking for at least ten minutes, and he could feel his heart rate gradually climbing in a kind of panic. Was this what it was like to die in the desert? The dry, intense heat washed over him continuously. His skin was hot and sweaty to the touch, but it was the warmth that sprang up from inside him that was most striking. His organs were getting toasty. Surely that wasn't healthy. He scratched at his scalp, and was shocked to find his hair hot to the touch. It felt dried out, like a mound of greying straw about to ignite in the summer sun.
Ulrich cleared his throat. He'd had just about enough of the heat and wanted to get the clerk talking. “So,” he began, “who dropped off that note?”
Sniffing at the hot air and spreading his legs a little further so that his pudgy knee bumped Ulrich's shoulder for the hundredth time, the clerk replied, “If I'm not mistaken, it was a middle-aged lady, name starts with 'R'. Rebecca Williams.” He paused. “Nah, Willis. Rhonda Willis? Something along those lines.”
Ramona Willis had dropped off the note warning him to stay out of Moonville. That much was obvious to Ulrich. Now the only question he had was why the woman had delivered the message. What was she trying to warn him away from? Was it simply a warning borne from superstitious fear that'd compelled her to do so, or did she actually know something about Moonville? Was there something she was specifically attempting to guard him from? The clerk's further rambling on the matter only served to further convince him that it'd been Dr. Klein's housekeeper, Ramona, that'd dropped off the note. Everything the clerk said jived with what Officer Mark had described.
“She was lookin' mighty out of sorts, probably on the tail-end of one of her famous benders. Sweet lady, but everyone in town knows she's a real lush. Woman drinks like a fish.” He sat up, wiping at his brow. “So, uh, what brings you out here to the middle of nowhere? Your license said you were from Toledo. Kind of a long way for a PI to go for some R-and-R, no?” He laughed, his grating voice echoing throughout the box.
“How do you know that?” asked Ulrich, turning up towards him. “That I'm a PI. I don't remember telling you.”
The clerk cracked a smile. “Well, ya see, we got this thing nowadays. It's called the Internet, and lookin' up someone's name is a real simple thing. I like to know who's stayin' at my hotel, and when they're outta-towners who have people droppin' off real strange notes for 'em, then I pay attention. You, uh... you been pokin' around in the woods out there? That, uh, ghost town?”
Ulrich nodded. “A bit.” He was miffed that the rude clerk had seemingly read the note. “Tell me, do you read all of the private correspondence that comes through here for your guests?” he asked, glaring back at him with annoyance.
The clerk declined to answer that question and inst
ead continued his own speculations about Ulrich's presence in the area. “Lookin' for that doctor, eh? The one that went missing?” It was strictly a rhetorical statement; that he already knew the answer was clear.
“Yeah. And I think we found him.”
Clicking his tongue, the clerk seemed to understand the meaning behind this and shook his head so that fat drops of sweat flew from the locks of his greasy hair and onto Ulrich's bare back. “Shame about that. Damn shame.”
Ulrich shuddered, the smell of evaporating sweat mingling with the scent of baking cedar and inciting nausea in him. Either that or he was beginning to get dehydrated. He tried to swallow, but his throat was made of clay.
“Lots of stories came outta that town in the old days,” said the clerk, closing his eyes and turning his face to the ceiling. He gave a satisfied sigh. They'd been in there at least fifteen minutes now. Either that or Ulrich's panicked, crispy mind had lost all capacity for figuring the passage of time. How long did the man plan to sit in there? Till they became literal mummies? He continued. “When I was a kid, and even before that, they had a lot of weird stories. The tunnel, ya know, it brings a lot of people through here. Best known attraction in the whole area. That infirmary building, though, it's a little harder to get to, and only the real hardcore types seek it out. I remember my dad telling me not to go there when I was a little one.” He chortled. “Said that when he was a kid, he and his friends would hear screams and shit comin' outta there, like people were being hacked apart or some shit. Makes me wonder why the ol' doctor went out there.”
Ulrich, unimpressed by this, lowered his head and fought to catch his breath. “Doesn't surprise me. It was full of the critically sick and mentally ill.”
The clerk opened one eye, leveling it on Ulrich firmly. “Nah, it wasn't like that.” He cleared his throat. “I'm not saying that the place wasn't packed with loonies, but the screams-- my dad, and others, said that it was like people were being picked apart. Hurt. Some even say experimented on. Now, I know how that sounds, but there was a rumor flyin' around about that time among those who was old enough to know that some questionable shit was going down in the infirmary after it was supposedly closed down.”
Ulrich shrugged. “And?”
“And maybe that's why it's haunted,” spat the clerk matter-of-factly. “Now, I can't say for sure, 'cuz I've never been personally, but so many folk have seen shit in there it's gotta be related. Think about it. Sick people, crazy people, all of them being tortured and whatnot. Ain't no one gonna fade away peacefully after somethin' like that. Nah, they'd linger behind, like a black stain on the place. Hell, I know I would if it were me.” He pursed his lips, then added, “At least, that's what they say.”
Hauntings. Before that day, Ulrich would never have put stock into any discussion of such things. Rational explanations for singular events were easy enough for him to come up with, and even in those cases when reason could furnish no such clarification, it was much easier to simply tune it all out as nonsense. He couldn't do that anymore, however. His visits to the Sick House, and the conversations he'd had with Officer Mark, had changed him. He was far more willing to entertain talk of the paranormal now than ever before, and if not for the great discomfort that wreaked his body in the sauna right then, he might've been far more interested in the clerk's ramblings. As it was, he felt ready to burst out of his own skin, to run out of the little box and roll around in the cool grass until his body returned to a normal temperature. Nonetheless, his curiosity saw him stay. “Interesting,” he muttered.
“The old-timers don't like to talk about it, least of all with outsiders like yourself,” said the clerk, adjusting himself on the seat and repositioning his towel. “And if I was you, I'd keep from asking too many questions about such things unless you know who you're dealin' with. It's liable to get you into some trouble, if you catch my drift. The nuns who ran the joint were well-liked, very respected, but some stories came out of all that Sick House business that had people talkin'. Rumor has it there was a killer nun that worked there; broke her vow by murderin' some patient and then disappeared. Dunno much more than that, and maybe it's just an old story, but I tell ya, when I was a kid we all believed it. Mothers even used to warn off their kids from that spot by tellin' 'em the Devil's Nun might snatch 'em up.”
This was the first he'd heard of any killer nun. Ulrich smirked. “A killer nun, huh? That's a new one. And yeah, I get the feeling that the people around here aren't fans of folk like me, who ask too many questions. I hear it's because they don't want us taking what we've learned out of here and spreading sensational lies about the town. Rumors and all that, which might wreck the place's reputation.”
“Ain't just that, baby,” interjected the clerk.
“Oh?”
“McArthur's been around a long time, and there's lots that these people are proud of. But, uh... that shit out in Moonville I just talked about? Well, stranger, that ain't it. If you lived out here, you wouldn't be all too proud of what was done in that old Sick House either. The people of this town keep holding that stuff close, hoping that it'll die out, end up forgotten.” The clerk's cast took on an uncharacteristic firmness. In all their dealings over the past few days, Ulrich had never once seen him look so grave. “But things like this... suffering of that kind, well, it can't just be forgotten. And I reckon it's going to linger in those woods, waiting to be found out, even long after the two of us have bought the farm.”
“Maybe so,” admitted the investigator, his nose dripping with a steady stream of sweat. “I never did catch your name.”
“It's Dennis. Dennis Acardi. My grandfather opened this hotel years back, and it's been in the family ever since. Seen better days, of course. It is what it is. Bein' the only game in town helps,” he said, his expression softening into a grin. He climbed down from his perch, throwing open the door and letting out a good deal of the heat. “Let's hose off. Been in here long enough,” he said, dropping his towel and walking out into the evening butt-naked.
Wrapping his towel tightly around his midsection, Ulrich staggered out behind him, the cool air washing over him and sending him into delicious shivers. The autumn chill was the most pleasant thing he'd ever felt, and it was all he could do to cast off his towel and take off running. The heat radiating off of him was profound; another minute in that tiny kiln and he might've burst into flame.
“It's a fine night,” said Dennis, bending over and seeking out the hose. Turning on the tap, he quickly turned and sprayed Ulrich full-force in the face.
The investigator shrieked as the frigid water met his hot skin. An intense dizziness hit him like a freight train and muddled his vision with black spots. Within a few moments however, as the initial shock subsided, he regained control of his body and found that the cool spray actually felt good. The immense heat was sapped from his skin and things gradually returned to normal. By the time Dennis turned the spray on himself, Ulrich was feeling surprisingly energized. It was like he'd just wandered out of an hours-long fever.
Somehow, the way forward was clearer than it had been only an hour before. In the morning, he'd meet up with Sister Ruth, tie off his loose ends with Jerome and, possibly, figure out what'd really happened in the Sick House. Aside from fulfilling his contract with the client, he'd see if he couldn't settle the business of the infirmary, simultaneously freeing McArthur from the specter of its sordid history. He'd find out what really happened there and how, if at all, it was related to the death of Dr. Klein. Someone had killed and buried the man, using the building and its awful legacy as a cover. Maybe the killer had wished the place's reputation would keep people from investigating the crime in earnest.
They'd made a critical error, however. They hadn't counted on Harlan Ulrich being on the case.
For the first time in his career, he wasn't just going to take the easy way out. When he put his mind to something, really committed to a cause, he was unstoppable. And whoever had killed the doctor would be learning thi
s the hard way. No amount of frightful myth could deter him from his investigation. The Sick House was a fearful place; he knew it first-hand. But whoever or whatever was responsible for this crime would be found out. And, just maybe, he'd be able to sort out the facts from the rumors and settle the infirmary's reputation once and for all.
Mentally and physically he felt refreshed. Thanking Dennis for the information, he hobbled off to room four, his clothes bunched up under his arm, where he started immediately for the shower. Then, after guzzling a good deal of water at the bathroom sink, he dropped into bed, sleeping like a rock till morning when the sunlight peeking through the blinds saw him awaken.
Chapter 19
On his way to breakfast the next morning, Ulrich removed his Sinatra CD from the stereo and decided to give the local radio stations a try. He only succeeded in finding one, which was playing a grainy old Conway Twitty number. Tapping along with the beat on the steering wheel, he drove the familiar route to Milo's, pulling into the same parking spot he'd done the previous day and stepping into the restaurant feeling refreshed and relaxed. The hostility of the locals wouldn't bother him today; now that he understood why they loathed outsiders, he was feeling sympathetic. Really, he couldn't blame them, and would instead try to prove them wrong by succeeding in his investigation.
First things first, however. He needed to eat. There could be no progress on an empty stomach. The sauna the night before had left him curiously famished, but the sleepiness that'd overtaken him afterward had won out and prevented him from seeking out a late-night snack. His stomach groaned loudly as he entered the restaurant, the metal door closing behind him with a great smack. His entrance drew the attention of the staff and patrons once more, but this time he knew better than to dwell on it. Without invitation, he strolled quietly to the same booth he'd sat in the day before and sat down.
The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1) Page 13