Hark! the Herald Angels Scream

by Hark! the Herald Angels Scream (retail) (epub)

  I had not seen Robert in some time, and we were no longer the friends we had been, and if I am being completely honest, we were probably never great friends, just friendly, so I was surprised by his invitation.

  I wrote him and agreed, and met him on the decided day at a downtown hotel. It was an old hotel, and Robert’s family owned it. They had been hotel owners all his life. They had a chain of them, many of them boutique or old classic hotels. They had become quite well-off in the business, and when they retired, Robert took over. He had to travel a lot, examining the hotels to make sure everything was functioning properly.

  We sat in the back of the hotel restaurant and dined quietly amid canned Christmas music, multicolored lights, and decorations. The place was nearly empty, people having gone off to parties or to be with their families.

  We talked about this and that, recalling things that had happened to us, as well as things that involved old school chums, as they used to say.

  After dinner and dessert, we lingered over coffee, and it became obvious that we really had little in common but our school and business experiences.

  Just as I felt I had come up with an exit line, Robert said, “Do you remember that old hotel my family owned where we spent Christmas Eve and Christmas so many years ago?”

  “It was an unusual place, out in the woods, down by the river. Not very large.”

  “That’s the one. At one point it had been the location for a river stop, back when steamboats worked the water, and later on the hotel was built there. I forget when my family bought it. Very boutique. Only catered to a handful of guests, reservations only. Not too many rooms. It was full for several years, and then finally we closed it down when people quit making reservations. The highway was replaced by an interstate farther north, so there was no longer traffic coming near it, and it kind of faded. In its time we certainly had fine Christmas parties there. My parents really knew how to throw one.”

  They did indeed. I had only been invited once. I partied in the downstairs lobby with Robert and guests at the hotel, and some like myself who had been invited for the party, but not the Christmas Day festivities. The place was well decked out then, lots of lights and green boughs and colorful decorations. A Christmas tree that stood at the edge of the reservation desk rose up so high anyone on the second floor could have leaned over the railing and touched the glowing, silver star at the great tree’s tip.

  I remembered that party primarily because I met a pretty girl there, and we shared a Christmas kiss at the edge of the stairs. It was nothing more than a party kiss under mistletoe, but even to this day I remembered it. She was such a beautiful and unique-looking woman, the memory of the event was cut into my brain.

  “You know,” I said, “I haven’t thought about that hotel in years. Do you still own it?”

  “I do, but it won’t be around for much longer. I’m having it torn down, and then I’ll look for someone to purchase the land. Hotel has gone to seed. I could repair it, but I think the time for that place has come to an end. My family had Christmas there for years, and me and my younger sister used to call it the Christmas hotel. I have a lot of fine memories, but toward the end, some not so good.”

  “How say?” I said.

  Robert paused, sipped his coffee, and let the question ferment for a bit. Finally, he placed his cup carefully on the saucer. “I suppose I actually invited you here to tell you the story, and perhaps gain your support and assistance, because you were there one year, and you met what I believe to be the catalyst of this story.”

  In that moment I was no longer ready to leave. I was intrigued.

  “It was the next Christmas, the one after the party you attended, that something peculiar was discovered about room twelve on the second floor, the top floor of the hotel. I don’t know if you ever went upstairs or not.”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “I was only in the lobby, downstairs, for the party. I met a young woman there.”

  “Amelia,” Robert said.

  “Yes. You remember her, too?”

  “I certainly remember her, and every male there most likely remembered her, for she was indeed a beauty. Wore those big, gold hoop earrings, a red blouse, a short blue jean dress. You know, I believe she was barefoot.”

  “Hair tumbling down like an ebony shower, skin like coffee and cream,” I said. “Read that somewhere in a book, and liked it.”

  “Accurate description of her, no matter who said it or when. Anyway, she came back the next year as well, dressed the same way, and that’s when the peculiarities began.”

  “How so?”

  “Other than her first name, no one knew who she was or how she was invited, or if she was invited, but she showed up those two years in a row, and it’s presumed she drowned in the river behind the hotel.”

  Hearing that news, it was as if that magical kiss beneath a sprig of mistletoe had been taken from me. In my mind Amelia was still out there, as she had been that night, young and beautiful. The idea that she might have aged wasn’t something I could wrap my head around, and the idea that she drowned long years ago behind the hotel was impossible to grasp. I recalled how she moved, and how the men there that night watched her, unable not to, and I remembered one young man making a crass remark as she walked by. That had made me angry. He treated her like she was a bus he meant to catch and had missed.

  Other than that, I couldn’t recall much about the party. I didn’t even remember seeing Amelia again that night. But that kiss stayed with me.

  “I hadn’t heard about her drowning,” I said.

  “It was in the news for a few days,” Robert said, “but it was merely a suspicion. Truth is, no one knows exactly what happened to her, and I can’t even say for certain she has anything to do with the story I want to tell you, so you have to keep that in mind.”

  I poured myself another cup of coffee and decided to nibble on a piece of bread my diet didn’t need.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  Robert stared at his cold cup of coffee, as if he might fish his memories from it, finally lifted his head, and began.

  * * *

  —

  My sister and I always called it the Christmas hotel, because of the parties there. These days it’s in ruin. I have been out there most every year, even after its closing. I always unlock the door with a head full of fond memories, but once inside they fade.

  First word of strangeness in the room, discomfort on the second floor, came many years back, the Christmas after Amelia’s disappearance. The hotel was still in business then, of course. A young married couple rented number twelve and left in the middle of the night. I don’t know what their exact complaint was, but I was told they found the room “unsavory,” and couldn’t sleep for things going on up there.

  The room was fine the rest of the year, no complaints, but come Christmas Eve, no one could make it through a night. This seemed ridiculous to me, and I thought it best to discover what was causing the problem, so I set about spending Christmas Eve in the room.

  Keep in mind this was some years ago, and I was young and strong and willful. I felt that though others had vacated the room, I would not and that I would deduce the problem and see that whatever was causing the disturbance was repaired. A board nailed down, a creaky wind-rattled window fastened shut, what have you. Simply put, I felt the problem with the room was a natural one, perhaps compounded by the guests having indulged in too much Christmas food and liquid cheer during the annual parties.

  Before I tell you about that night, perhaps I should preface a bit, and this is where you can make up your own mind about how much Amelia has to do with this, if anything at all.

  On the night she disappeared and was assumed drowned, she was seen with two young men on the stairs, laughing, engaging them the way she engaged every male there, and then there were no more memories of her.

>   At some point in the night she disappeared and was not seen again, though her clothes were found on the river’s edge, and that led to the belief she drowned, perhaps having gone skinny-dipping, encouraged to do so by excess alcohol.

  The police were called out the next day, but Amelia was not found. As no one actually knew her, or even knew her last name, there was nothing that could be done. The two young men said to have been with her on the stairs were investigated, but neither admitted to going upstairs with Amelia and there was no real proof they had, other than a young woman who said she saw them together on the stairs, and knew them, but admitted the next day she was terribly drunk and was one drink shy of being able to see pink elephants carrying umbrellas. So she was a poor witness at best.

  The room was looked over, but there was nothing amiss. No one reported to the police, or the hotel, about a missing loved one, so that was it. There was nowhere to go with it. The very next year, Christmastime, the strange events in room twelve began, the ones that so frightened that young married couple, and they continued every year thereafter.

  On the Christmas Eve I chose to check it out, I left the party early, about eleven p.m., and with my overnight bag in tow, slipped up to room number twelve. I showered and dressed in my pajamas, then set about enjoying a room service delivery of hot chocolate and a few Christmas cookies.

  The lady who delivered the snack had worked with us for some years, and she informed me that, no matter what, she would not stay in that room past the stroke of midnight. She had been at the hotel too long, heard the stories from departing guests, and was certain there was something dreadfully wrong. She was in and out like a postman.

  As I ate, the clock ticked its way toward midnight. The time was easy to see, because the room had one of those old tall clocks from another era. It wasn’t a clock that banged the hour, but merely a large-faced clock that could be seen even with the light out if the moon was bright and the curtains were pulled back, and that night it was so bright it made the windows glow like lighted frames.

  When I finished eating, the clock hit midnight; I distinctly remember that. I got up and went to the window and looked out. The land behind the hotel, and the river beyond, were bathed in silver, and the water seemed especially bright, like a long, wide ribbon.

  It was then that I noticed a curious thing, and to this day I have no idea who was responsible for it, or when it was done, but the window was nailed to the frame in several spots, the nails having been driven in awkwardly but firmly. I know because I tried to lift the window, and it wouldn’t budge. I remember thinking the next day I would have the nails removed, and the window frame replaced.

  I pulled the thick, dark curtains over the windows, blocking out the moon, slipped off my house shoes, turned off the lamp by the bed, and climbed under the covers. I had already decided that for all practical purposes my ghost hunt was over.

  I fell immediately to sleep, but not long after I awoke, chilled. It was not cold outside, or hadn’t been when I went to bed. You know how it is in our part of the country, but in that moment of awakening, it was as if I had laid down in a snowbank.

  I turned on the lamp by the bed, but it had ceased to work. I got out of bed and felt my way to the light switch by the door, but the results were the same. Nothing. The electricity seemed to have gone off, and my first thought was that an unexpected storm had come through and caused the loss of power.

  After bumping my shins a few times against furniture, I located my overnight bag, pawed my way into it, and found the penlight I had there. I used it to make my way to the closet where the extra blanket was kept, something to bundle me against the cold.

  It was one of those closets that has a sliding door, and when I slid it back, I lifted the penlight. The beam caught something on the top shelf, and it seemed to me in that instant that it was a set of eyes. I jumped back, stumbled against a chair. When I took another look, there was nothing on the shelf other than the blanket I had been looking for.

  In that moment I decided no matter how hardheaded I thought myself, the story of something being wrong with the room had gotten to me a bit. I took a deep breath, pulled down the blanket, and made my way back to bed.

  I turned off the penlight, placed it on the nightstand, and tried to go back to sleep with the extra blanket over me. This time falling asleep was harder to do. I thought about those eyes I had seen, or believed I had seen. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I kept picking the penlight off the nightstand, turning it on, and poking it in the direction of the open closet.

  Could a raccoon or possum have found its way into the closet? Perhaps there was an opening to the attic, and a creature had somehow come in that way. That idea got me on my feet again, and sure enough, when I poked the light back into the closet, I could see there was indeed a trapdoor in the ceiling, but it was closed.

  Dissatisfied, I went back to bed.

  I finally did go back to sleep, but a little later on I was awakened once more by intense cold, and now there was a smell like dead fish and wet weeds. The air in the room seemed heavy. I literally felt the hair on the back of my neck and arms stand up, and my nostrils quivered against the stench.

  Though the curtains were pulled tight, they were abruptly pushed back by something unseen. The moonlight dropped in, filling the room, but there was nothing comfortable about the lack of darkness. Instead, the feeling of unease increased tenfold. I was paralyzed with fear. I lifted my penlight again and poked it at what seemed to me to be the source of the discomfort, the open closet.

  From the top shelf of the closet something dropped and smacked against the floor, and then that something began to move toward the bed where I lay.

  I couldn’t tell what it was, and even with my penlight on it, there was a dimness about it. It came toward me, slowly, squirming and crawling. Its general shape was humanlike, but the face was like a white grub with mashed human features. Bony arms and legs poked out from the bundle, and long fingers scratched across the floor, pulling it forward. Where it crawled it left behind a slime trail, and it made a wet, squishing sound as it came.

  I could not move a muscle. It was as if anvils lay across my body, pressing me down. Excruciating moments passed as it neared the bed, and finally it arrived. A fat, wet hand lifted up and clutched at the edge of my blanket. I could see right through the thing, could see the wall and closet beyond. It tilted its head and examined me, as if trying to make out my face, and then, as if disappointed, dropped to the floor at the edge of the bed.

  It stood. It was so surprising I think I screamed aloud. I feared that would attract it to me, and I stuck my hand in my mouth and bit down to keep from crying out again.

  But it didn’t so much as turn in my direction. It trudged toward the window on its sticklike legs. The window lifted without its touch, and it fell through the open gap. Wind blew the curtains, the moonlight dimmed, then brightened, and the bubble of fear that enveloped the room evaporated. I felt the weight lifted off me.

  I forced myself out of bed. I didn’t use my penlight. The room was bright enough with moon glow and I could see clearly. The floor was spotted with puddles of water, and I could feel the dampness against my feet. I leaned out of the open window, looked down.

  The bony thing lay there in a heap. As I watched, it stood and lurched toward the river, its swollen head nodding first to one side, then the other.

  Closer it came to the water the less visible it was. Moonlight poked through it, and by the time it reached the bank it was no longer perceptible, at least to the human eye. Yet, I could clearly see footprints being made in the sand by the shoreline, and then the water splashed, as if something heavy had been dropped into it, and finally the room went dark.

  And here is an even more incredible part to my story. The curtains were drawn again, without my aid or that of anyone or anything that I could determine. They just snapped closed. The c
hill left the air, and I swear on everything I love and believe in, when I peeled the curtains back to try and look out again, the window was down and the nails were still driven into the wood; there was no sign that they had fallen out. The puddles on the floor were gone as well.

  I stood in the dark for a long time. When I walked back to the bed, I felt as if I had been in a hypnotic state. All the dread I had experienced was gone. A strange calm had settled on me, a kind of drained relaxation that I remembered from my youth after a hard hike or a strong run.

  I climbed back in bed, crawled under the covers, and slept soundly until I could feel the warmth of the morning sun cutting through the dark curtains. It was just a room now, and the events of the night before seemed dreamlike, and I considered that was exactly what it had been, or at least I tried to. But I knew better. It had been there, and now the Christmas haunting had passed.

  I dressed and went down to the river to look for the footprints I had clearly seen on its bank in the moonlight, but there was nothing there.

  As I said, I don’t know if any of this actually has to do with Amelia, but she certainly came to mind. Had she been in that room? How did she end up in the river? The thought wouldn’t leave me. I took it upon myself to have the river dragged, and brought in divers to search for the remains of a body, or anything that might have belonged to her, though whatever might be left of her would now be fragmentary, and had most likely long been washed out to sea years ago. It was a long shot, but I took it.

  Nothing was found.

  I hired a private investigator to find the young woman who had seen the men on the stairs with Amelia, and I set him to look for Amelia herself, to find out if she was still alive.

  As for Amelia, when it was all said and done, nothing new was learned about her. However, the investigator did find the drunk woman who had been at that party so many years ago, found her easily. She lived nearby, and it turned out she had been a schoolmate of my sister. I either had not known that, or had forgotten it. She said she really couldn’t remember much about the event anymore, but at the time felt she had seen the three of them going up the stairs. And she provided the names of the young men, which had been forgotten after the initial investigation. She reminded my investigator that she had been drunk beyond reason.