What Kedzie had said was “…it's pretty sexy that you own all this.”
He looked at Sarah. She, too, had gone white.
It was clear why Kedzie couldn't hear them. For the same reason they didn't see Vaughn's real body when the fake Vaughn was with them, Kedzie couldn't see or hear the raised platform in the presence of the creature, who had taken the image of Sam.
“Oh, Jesus,” Sam whispered.
They had to do something. Sam and Sarah both forced themselves to peer through the eight-inch opening, trying to see what was going on, screaming Kedzie's name again and again, but it was no use. Then, to Sam's horror, Kedzie and the creature “dressed” as Sam entered their room, and Sam cried out as he saw his own face on the man walking Kedzie into the very space where they were trapped beneath the floor.
“Sam,” Kedzie protested with a playful giggle. “I'm flattered, but you mean you and Sarah didn't christen this place already?”
“No,” the voice of Sam said earnestly. “You know how she is. She doesn't think this is a mature venture. She doesn't understand.”
Kedzie laughed. “She's never been any fun.”
“Not as much as you, anyway,” the creature teased. Sam and Sarah watched as the Sam-creature playfully picked up Kedzie by the waist and placed her on the desk opposite the opening, the creature's back to them now, giving them a perfect view of Kedzie wrapping her ankles around the backs of its knees. Every few seconds, to Sam and Sarah, the illusion appeared to flicker, revealing a sort of inky black shape, but it was clear that to Kedzie, the Sam mask was a perfect fit.
“You're such a flirt,” Kedzie admonished.
“Oh, it's not that,” the Sam-creature said. “The thing is, Kedz, I've fantasized about owning this place a long time. You know I have. But you're the only one I've fantasized about inside it. Of having you, taking you, those strong legs of yours wrapped around my back, telling you how incredible you look, how amazing you are, and how you make me feel alive.”
“Sam,” she blushed. He was saying all the right things. She had been feeling so unsexy since the bad breakup, and the pregnancy, and he had always been so nice to her, and this place…well, it didn't look like much now, but she, too could see his vision for it. She could imagine his success, and how much fun it would be to be with him as he ran his nightclub, and how much carefree laughter they could have, like the endless party of her early twenties.
Sarah noticed Kedzie had raised her legs up to the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer. What the hell is she doing?
“Kedz,” said the soft, husky voice of Samuel T. Spicer. “I can't stop thinking of you. I need you.”
“Oh, Sam,” Kedzie replied in a sort of sympathetic purr, “I want you too. But that night…that was a one-time thing. I can't do that to Sarah again.”
Sarah made a sound like she had been stabbed in the chest. She grabbed Sam by the shoulder and forced her to look at him. Was it possible it isn't Kedzie after all? Could they both be an illusion? Was this just another trick? But the unspoken questions shooting like daggers from Sarah's eyes were received by a flustered expression of guilt from Sam, and Sarah had her answer. The bastard had cheated on her. With her best friend. Jesus, was it Sam's child, too?
“What's going on?” called Al.
“Are they going to get us out?” added Janet.
But Sarah and Sam barely heard the questions, and offered no response. They stared at each other in agonizing silence, until they could take it no longer, then turned again to stare at Kedzie, who was in real danger.
“Kedzie!” shouted Sarah again, this time with a touch of anger, Sam noticed. But she still couldn't hear them, still did not seem to see the raised floor panel, and still had her legs wrapped around the creature. Only now the creature's jeans were becoming loose, and they dropped to its ankles.
“Oh, God, that feels good,” whispered Kedzie. “But you really have to stop. We can't…ohhh Sam how do you know exactly how to touch me…”
Within moments, the creature was inside her.
Sarah looked away, but Sam's eyes were transfixed on the image of his own body thrusting into Kedzie just ten feet from their position. And as he watched, he could see the strange flickering, too, the patches of oily blackness that revealed true portions of the creature. But the creature's body wasn't matching up with Sam's. The human figure was upright, tall and narrow, while the creature underneath was bent and hunched to the left. Sam could see the hints of something like a shoulder where Sam's back would be, and some sort of black spike along the contours of his right thigh.
“Oh…hey, hey, Sam…not so rough…” Sam saw Kedzie struggle, and attempt to push the creature back, but with one of Sam's hands it pinned her down, by the throat, and increased its speed. The true form of the monster began to melt through the illusion, piece by piece, like wet paper revealing the surface underneath. Sam could see the creature's right arm now, and its right hand, a sort of slick, shiny claw with three long coppery nails sharpened to points. And he observed again how the creature was hunched, and understood where the other claw was.
“Sam…Sam! What the fuck!” Kedzie was shrieking now, wailing in desperation and pain and confusion as the thing began to push its claw further into her body, tearing her flesh from the inside. Sam saw her blood spurt and pool underneath the table as her panic increased, and it was clear that she, too, now saw the true form of the demon inside her. It had ceased pretending altogether, the last flickery hint of Sam's form vanishing like steam, leaving just the rich black form of a child's nightmare. Its thick skin was shiny, like patent leather, but pitted and imperfect too, with signs of age and abuse, deep grey scars along its back like welts from a whip. The legs were strong and muscular, tapering down toward the feet like overturned wine bottles, ending at feet which resembled the claws of the hands, but sturdier, as they didn't move an inch as Kedzie fought against its strength with all of her own.
Sam tried to scream, to cry out and beg the monster to stop its brutal assault, but could not manage a single croak of protest. Helplessly he watched the creature's back constrict and tremble as it used all its force to destroy Kedzie's body, tearing the muscles off her bones as Sam himself might have torn the meat from a rotisserie chicken. Kedzie's own screams were gone now, replaced with the gurgling sound of her torn throat, and the chunks of meat falling onto the wooden floor.
Sam was vaguely aware of Sarah's voice shouting at him from a few stairs below, but he couldn't respond. He couldn't even move. He was still watching the large alien silhouette standing there amidst the carnage, its back rising and falling in heaving breaths, clear sweat glistening on its shiny taut skin.
And then it turned, slowly at first but then reeling around to face Sam, staring him down defiantly with two dark inset slits for eyes, smiling a hideous, wrinkled, toothless grin, face and chest covered and dripping with Kedzie's blood.
Sam felt someone grab his shoulder. Sarah was still shouting at him, yanking and pulling him down the stairs toward the elevator. They heard a dragging sound above them, and Sam dully realized that the creature had moved a piece of furniture, which he guessed had been the object preventing the floor panel from opening. Oh God, Sam realized. There's only one reason it would be moving the furniture.
The floor panel sprung open on its hinges above them, flooding the space with light. The monstrous form of the creature took just moments to assess the situation, then came bounding down the stairs.
Al was standing off to the side of the elevator entrance, in a wide stance with his gun raised at the beast, but he couldn't fire. “It's beautiful,” he whispered instead. The creature seemed aware of Al's hesitation, and slowed its pace, confident in its ability to stop the group before the elevator car could descend. It fixed its gaze on Al and his gun, and began approaching him with a leisurely strut, challenging Al to act, somehow knowing he wouldn't.
“Al!” Sam shouted. But Al didn't hear him. He was a statu
e.
“The Eaton,” Al whispered in a sort of hypnotized reverence. The creature smiled at him in reply, and there was something so alien about the black, toothless grin that Sam thought a full set of sharp teeth would have been less terrifying.
“Shoot it!” yelled Janet, who was standing at the elevator threshold. When Al didn't respond, Janet panicked, reached into her purse and threw the only projectile she had access to—the plastic bottle of water she had refilled in the baths. She had intended to create a distraction, giving Al time to snap out of his frozen state, but the creature had seen the bottle coming, and raised its left claw to bat it away. But the sharpness of one of its coppery nails had caused the thin plastic to become pierced instead, and the liquid splashed over the creature's arm and chest like a burst water balloon. Its unexpected reaction was not that of annoyance, but of extreme pain, and it uttered the first sound they had heard from the thing since it has abandoned the Sam illusion—a tortured, inhaled shriek like that of a great bird. It stumbled backward, grabbing its wet arm with a free hand, then recovered and fell forward instead, on its knees.
For a moment, they were all too stunned to move, but Janet's actions had indeed succeeded in bringing Al back to reality. He dropped the gun to his side and rushed into the elevator, motioning the rest to follow. Sam and Sarah did, but Janet's gaze was fixed on the stairs. She had no intention of descending into that prison again. The creature was directly in her exit path, but she could run around it, she was sure, and be free. Without a word of explanation to the others, she sprinted right, forgetting her leg injury and her tight, restrictive skirt, and did indeed make it past the kneeling demon, if only for a moment.
“Janet, no!” cried Sam from the elevator car, moments too late. Janet's leg gave out before she reached the first stair, and she fell forward, arms flailing, just as the creature regained strength, spun around on its knees, and attacked. On impulse, Sam tried to run to help, but Al stopped him from leaving the car by sliding the gate closed just inches from his face. Stunned, Sam tried to protest, and reached for the gate handle himself, but Al had already pressed “5,” locking the mechanism and whirring the motor to life. The car began its descent as they saw the creature break Janet’s back.
twenty-four
The plan was simple. Oliver would gather the staff, they would climb to the upper levels, then walk down floor by floor, urging everyone to pack their things and walk up the stairwell to the Mastersuite. They wouldn't mention the creature hypothesis, to avoid a panic, but to convey urgency, they would strongly imply that it wasn't safe to remain until the source of a “steam leak” was found. Oliver reasoned this would fit in with the average guest’s understanding of the problem, although Jon suspected the real reason might be a desire to save his professional reputation.
Since the elevator was halted on the eleventh floor, the creature couldn't use it, either, leaving the stairwell as the sole means of passage. There was a danger in this, they all knew, but also a sense of security—the creature couldn't ambush them from the elevator side. If the creature revealed itself, they would know for certain where it was, and then try and take action, such as locking it on a specific floor, or better yet, trapping it in an individual room. With Oliver and his staff starting at the top floors and moving down, and Jonathan, Clem and Matthew starting at the lower levels and moving up, the chance of a confrontation with the creature was high. Still, it seemed the most logical course of action that assured all had a chance of escape.
Oliver had knocked on all the doors of the third floor, and the staff and builders had wearily stumbled out of their rooms and into the hallway. He explained the situation and the plan, urging them all to pack quickly and be prepared to help the guests to the Mastersuite. There were several nods of approval, but also a few smirks. Oliver realized that he was slurring his words a touch, and had to explain why.
“It's alcohol,” he said. “But I am not drinking for fun. We have discovered that the consumption of alcohol seems to interfere with the…hallucinations. It is easier to determine whether something is real or imaginary with alcohol clouding the brain, allowing the illusion to be less convincing when it appears.” Oliver considered explaining the creature hypothesis as well, but decided against it. All they needed to know was that some things they were seeing were not real; the cause wasn't important and might foster panic.
Solomon Sabo, one of the construction staff who had been giving a skeptical glare, cleared his throat. “If that's true, shouldn't we also have a nip or two before we begin? You forbade us from drinking last night, you recall.”
Oliver stiffened, reflexively defensive at his previous night's orders being challenged, but couldn't disagree with the man's point. They were the most sober people in the hotel, at a time when he needed as many accurate eyes and ears as possible.
“Alright,” Oliver agreed. “Take five minutes to pack your things, anything absolutely necessary, and I'll run back down to the bar for some liquid courage. Is that acceptable?”
It was. The men and women scurried back into their bedrooms to gather their things, and Oliver ran back into the stairwell and sprinted down the stairs. He thought he might run into Clem on the way down, who he had last seen gathering alcohol. But Clem must have already made it to a higher level, as when Oliver entered the lobby, he was alone.
Oliver was about to jog to the bar, but stopped. It was so quiet.
“Hello?” he called to the room. A dull hint of his own voice echoed back.
A chill melted its way along Oliver's spine, causing his shoulders to shudder and a gasp to catch in his throat. He spun around in the silence, convinced someone was there, but saw nothing. He found himself intently aware of every dark place within the range of his vision, and imagined something horrible oozing out of each shadow—a black, cold liquid tar which would drown and consume him.
In the silence, the pounding of his heart could be heard and felt in his head, and he began to feel nauseous. He was certain he was going to vomit, and raced to the bathroom behind the bar. When he reached the porcelain, though, he realized it wasn't vomit, but an intense hot diarrhea that was consuming his innards, and he unfastened his pants and sat down within a second of being too late. The force of the expulsion made him cry aloud in surprise and agony, and his headache took a new direction, no longer pounding with his heartbeat but rather ratcheting up to a squeal deep beneath his eyes and extending to the base of his skull.
Oliver became aware of a voice in the room, a sort of panicked whisper, and was surprised to find it his own. He was speaking a prayer, some automatic verse from his childhood he scarcely recognized. Embarrassed, he stopped himself, and soon felt another forceful expulsion from below. He put his elbows on his thighs, and his head in his hands, and tried to breathe at a deliberate pace. I have never tried to drink so much so quickly, he thought. That's all it is. I'll be fine in a minute.
It took several minutes, but the headache began to lose its edge, and as his intestines were thoroughly expelled, Oliver cleaned himself and left the bathroom. The floor was as silent as it had been upon his arrival, and he no longer felt the need to call out. He had a job to do, and that was to procure alcohol for his staff, give them instructions on how to assist the guests' orderly departure, and then find some way of salvaging his dignity and good standing in the community.
His stomach gurgled with discomfort as he picked up two quarts of J & A Mitchell scotch whiskey. Oliver's vision was still blurred, and he knew his time in the bathroom had not affected his sobriety, so he decided he didn't need any more himself. But would two quarts be enough for the sober staff? He tried to do the math, though it threatened to bring back the headache. Fourteen people? Fifteen? Was that counting himself and Matthew? He couldn't remember.
A loud clanging sound from above startled Oliver, and he almost dropped one of the glass bottles. It was a familiar noise, just the inner mechanisms of the steam boiler which he had heard countless times, but Oli
ver had never realized how loud it sounded in absolute silence. Had it always been that loud? Surely he would have noticed before. Oliver supposed he always stayed in the Mastersuite, far away from the maintenance room on the second floor, but the volume of the metallic scraping and banging still distressed him. For the first time in The Eaton, Oliver didn’t feel safe.
You can do something about that, whispered a voice in his head. Yes, Oliver realized, this was true. The back office held two revolvers and more than a hundred rounds of ammunition in the top drawer of the desk. He had never cared for such weapons as a younger man; his father had left him his Civil War Remington when he passed away, but Oliver had kept it in a display case and never fired it. In fact, he had never fired a weapon of any kind, until these two Colts were purchased a few years back, in response to a wealthy friend of the family’s being robbed and murdered in her Detroit home. Oliver remembered thinking that if a sweet old widow could be murdered in Detroit, one of the safest major cities in the world, then he too had best be prepared to defend his home and investments wherever he lived.
He set down the whiskey and made his way to the back. He found the weapons in no time, chose one of the guns at random, and loaded it with ammunition. Oliver even grabbed a handful of additional cartridges and placed them in his vest pocket. Although on some level Oliver knew there was no guarantee simple bullets would be effective against a supposedly shape-shifting monster, he still wasn’t convinced of Jon’s full assessment of this danger anyway. At the very least, a gun could help him restore order in the event of a full-scale panic.
Oliver tucked the loaded revolver into his inside jacket pocket. He retrieved the two bottles of scotch and made his way back to the stairwell. Although his confidence had been bolstered, he made an involuntary sound of disgust as he looked at the stairs before him. The thought of climbing to the third level was hard enough; accompanying the group to the tenth level was almost too much to contemplate. But Oliver steeled himself and took each step at a deliberate pace, pausing at each half-landing to catch his breath, and remembering to prepare a nice, false smile of self-confidence before opening the third floor door.
The Eaton Page 24