“Just a tiny mishap,” Warren answered back.
“How do we get out of here?” cried a woman’s voice.
“Stay in your room, ma’am,” Petula advised. “We’ll be up and running in just a few minutes.”
Warren gulped. He certainly hoped that was true.
Above them, between the ceiling-doors, was the gap that led to the grand staircase, which descended through each of the eight levels of the hotel. Normally, Warren could ride the bannister all the way down to the lobby, but gravity was no longer on his side. They’d have to find another way.
“We can take the elevator,” Petula said.
“But it hasn’t worked in years,” Warren said.
“Exactly!” Petula replied.
Warren realized what Petula meant. With the hotel now lying on its side, the elevator shaft was the most direct route from the top floor to the lobby. He took off for the end of the hallway, carefully jumping over the doors and wall sconces under his feet.
The doors were closed, as always, and a sign on the front said:
Warren had written the words himself, using his best handwriting. He’d been especially proud to sign it “Mgmt.,” knowing that he was the one doing the managing these days. But now the sign had to come off. He removed it carefully, then rolled up his sleeves. “We’re going to have to pry it open.”
Petula nodded, and together she and Warren wiggled their fingers into the seam between the doors. With a great groaning creak, the two heavy panels grated apart, one rolling up and the other disappearing down. Inside, the elevator shaft was very dark.
“You first,” Warren said, hoping he sounded polite rather than scared.
Petula went ahead, ducking quickly out of sight.
A MESSY SITUATION
“Wow!” came her voice. Warren scrambled after her. The elevator shaft was chilly and smelled like axle grease. They picked their way down—or, Warren supposed, across—toward the lobby. Pipes, pulleys, chains, and gears crowded their footsteps, and the only light came from thin strips that shone through the doors at every floor they passed. After counting down from eight, they reached the final set of doors. With a mighty push—and help from Petula—Warren wrenched the doors open and tumbled forward into the lobby.
“Oh dear,” Petula said.
Rubbing his head, Warren rose to his feet. Oh dear was right. The lobby—the grand entrance to the Warren Hotel, the first thing that guests saw upon arriving and the last thing they saw before they left—was in utter chaos. The stately potted plants had tipped over, spilling dirt everywhere. The curtains had slid off their rods and lay lumped in the corner of the room like sad velvety ghosts. The lobby desk had overturned, its papers scattered across the ground. The grand chandelier hung limply from the side of the room, opposite the checkered tile floor that was now acting as the wall.
“This is going to require a lot of cleanup,” Petula observed.
Warren almost sighed but stopped short. No true manager would ever act so unprofessionally. “Let’s check the kitchen,” he said. “I want to make sure everyone’s okay.”
If the lobby was chaos, the kitchen was an absolute disaster. Every pot, pan, utensil, and ingredient that wasn’t secured had tumbled to the wall that Warren was now standing on. Splattered eggs and a soupy stew were dripping down the ceiling. At first, Chef Bunion and his assistant, Sketchy, were nowhere to be found. But after Warren hoisted himself into the room—and Petula after him—he found one of Sketchy’s tentacles wiggling under a tangle of cookware, apples, potatoes, and canned goods. Chef Bunion, it turned out, was buried under a mound of flour.
“No worries, my boy!” Chef said, clapping the white dust off his apron after Warren dug him out. “We’ll get this mess sorted out in no time.”
Sketchy let out a weak whistle that didn’t sound nearly as certain.
“Oh, come now,” Chef said. “I’ve been meaning to rearrange the kitchen anyway!”
“Well, whatever you need, I’ll be back to help,” Warren said. “But first I have to get to the control room, so we can get the hotel back on its feet.”
They hurried through the basement to the secret passageway that led to the control room. At the end of the passage, Warren could just make out the doors lying open, likely from the crash.
“That looks bad,” Petula said.
And it only got worse. Inside the room, the air snapped with hissing and crackling from what seemed like every part of the hotel’s navigation machinery. Sparks leapt from the control panel, which was now hanging upside down. Tendrils of smoke curled out from between buttons, levers, and knobs. The candy-colored lights, usually lively and bright, flickered dimly.
“Oh no!” Warren cried, running his hands through his hair. “How could this happen? Uncle Rupert was supposed to be in charge of the controls…”
“Warren?” said a voice. “Is that you?”
Even though the room was nearly pitch black—the windows now rested on the ground outside—there was just enough light to reveal the guilty expression on Uncle Rupert’s face.
“What happened?” Warren asked.
“How should I know?” his uncle exclaimed innocently. Ever since relinquishing management of the hotel to Warren, he had taken to dressing far more casually than his usual suit and tie; currently he was sporting beach attire, complete with a sun hat and sandals, no doubt anticipating the next scheduled stop in the seaside town of Shellby. “There I was, just minding my own business, resting in my hammock and trying to enjoy a cold drink, when suddenly out of nowhere a giant moth flew in my cup!”
RUPERT MAKES EXCUSES
“I don’t understand…,” Warren said.
Rupert puffed himself up to his full height, which was still not particularly tall. “Well, I was simply so frightened that I threw my drink across the room. And I suppose it might have landed on the control panel—”
Warren took a closer look at the array of buttons, levers, and knobs. Sure enough, a syrupy liquid dripped over its sides. Warren reached out a finger, but a spark sizzled at him and he quickly pulled it back.
“But you know the control panel can’t get wet!” Warren exclaimed.
“I wasn’t drinking water,” Rupert said. “I happened to have been enjoying a pineapple sarsaparilla. Anyway, tell me something, Warren. Why is everything so lopsided? It’s making me dizzy!”
Petula drew herself a portal. “I’ll go get a soapy rag from the supply room.”
“Wait—” Warren said, but before he could stop her she had disappeared. His frustration growing, he turned back to his uncle. “I’m announcing a new rule, Uncle Rupert: No more drinks in the control room. Water or otherwise!”
“But—but—” Uncle Rupert stammered, gesturing to the hammock that had been strung from wall to wall but now drooped from the ceiling. “Where else will I be able to enjoy my daily sarsaparilla?”
“Anyplace but here!” Warren said.
Uncle Rupert pouted. “I say we ought to address the moth problem before making any new rules.”
Fortunately, just then another portal materialized and Petula reappeared, soapy rag in hand. “A lot of upset guests have made it to the lobby,” she said. “I’ll try to clean the panel while you go talk to them.”
“No!” Warren snapped, snatching the rag from Petula. “Weren’t you listening? Cleaning it isn’t going to work—the control panel is too delicate.”
Petula scowled. “I was only trying to help.”
Warren felt a twinge of shame. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d better get to the lobby and see to the guests.”
Petula drew him a portal, and this time Warren didn’t object. He stepped into the vortex, and after a twisty sensation that made his stomach feel inside out, he emerged into the lobby, which was now packed full of angry people. As soon as they caught sight of Warren, everyone began complaining:
“What took you so long?”
“Why has the hotel tipped over?”
“I spraine
d my wrist when I fell!”
“This stop isn’t listed on the itinerary!”
“What a horribly jarring experience!”
“This hotel feels like a fun house, but I’m not having any fun at all!”
Warren hurried over to the desk and flipped it upright. “I apologize for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen, it’s just a small technical difficulty! We’ll be on our way shortly.”
“I paid a lot of money to stay in a moving hotel,” one guest blustered. “What’s the point if it’s not even moving?”
“Exactly!” another guest chimed in. “I’m checking out, and I demand a full refund!”
Warren blanched. “But we’re miles from the next town. There’s nowhere to go!”
The guests shouted back their complaints in unison:
“I’d rather walk all day than spend one more moment here!”
“I have a bruise the size of a grapefruit!”
“How am I supposed to sleep when my bed is upside down?”
“I’m checking out, too! And I want my money back!”
Warren did his best to placate his disgruntled clientele and convince them otherwise, but they were beyond reason. A line began to form behind the counter—with, Warren noticed in dismay, a visiting journalist named Mr. Vanderbelly lurking nearby to record every detail on his ever-present notepad.
“Please tell me you’re not going to write about this,” Warren said to him.
“A journalist must record what he sees,” Mr. Vanderbelly said, nodding his head mournfully. “Headline: ‘The Warren Stumbles! Is This the End of a Fad?’ Or how about: ‘The Warren Hotel Plummets—Along with Its Profits!’ ”
Warren groaned. There was no way around it: he would have to start handing out refunds.
Within an hour, the lobby was empty…and so was the hotel’s cash box.
Warren turned to Mr. Vanderbelly. “I suppose you’ll be checking out, too?”
“And miss documenting the story of the year?” he said with a guffaw. “I think not!”
Before Warren could reply, a loud HONK! HONK! HONK! sounded outside. Curious, he peered out the closest window. His former guests were walking down the road toward the next town, luggage in tow, but their way was being blocked by a strange-looking car—the same vehicle Warren had seen earlier that morning. The driver’s-side door flung open and out stepped a barrel-chested man in an ill-fitting purple suit. He had thinning hair, long curled mustachios that twitched like antennae, and spidery legs. Surveying the crowd, he smiled broadly, causing several gold teeth to glint in the sun.
After briefly wrestling with a sideways doorknob, Warren hurried outside, ready to intervene.
“Greetings, travelers!” the man exclaimed. “It appears you’re on your way to Pineycones. If anyone’s interested in a ride, I’ll be happy to drive you…for a reasonable fee, of course! My trusty jalopy can seat six passengers, and this opportunity is first-come, first-served. Now hop aboard if you’d like to make the initial departure!”
AN OPPORTUNIST ARRIVES
All at once, the Warren’s former guests began pushing and shoving into the car. Somehow ten people managed to squeeze their way into six seats. Those remaining looked put out.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry!” the man said smoothly. “I’ll happily make extra trips for paying customers!”
Warren shook his head. He hated to see anyone taking advantage of his guests. Except that they weren’t his guests anymore. They had checked out, and until he could get the hotel up and walking again, Warren was out of luck. With a heavy heart, he climbed back into the lobby, the front doors falling closed behind him.
“Mr. Warren!” Mr. Vanderbelly called, waving his pen in the air. “A few questions about your most recent failure!”
“Maybe later,” Warren said with a sigh. “First, I need to call an emergency meeting.”
THE SUNDRY SHOPPE
he keeper of the Sundry Shoppe waited behind the counter. He was a tall man with gray hair, about seventy years old. In his hand was a canteen that should have cost only a florin or two, but he was trying to convince a customer that it was worth ten times as much.
“Twenty florins seems rather expensive,” the customer said.
“But this is no ordinary canteen!” the shopkeeper exclaimed. “It is equipped with a special cap that keeps the water from leaking out.”
The customer seemed confused. “All canteens have caps. That’s the whole point of a canteen—”
Undeterred, the shopkeeper talked over him. “And imagine how thirsty you’ll be without a canteen! It would be irresponsible to leave this store without one. Do you know how far you’ll have to walk to find a freshwater spring?”
“Well,” the customer said, “there’s a freshwater spring just up the road. I travel this way often, and I know these parts fairly well.”
The shopkeeper cringed. His store was strategically placed miles away from anything; most customers walked through the door feeling lost, disoriented, and desperate to buy much-needed items.
Apparently this customer was the exception to the rule.
“Fine,” the shopkeeper said, chucking the canteen behind the counter. “If that’s the case, how much would you like to pay?”
“Two florins,” the customer said.
But before the shopkeeper could reply, a deafening crash ended their negotiations. He grabbed a pair of binoculars off the shelf and hurried outside, his annoying customer trailing behind.
Outside, the shopkeeper raised the binoculars and peered through the lenses; over the tops of the trees, he glimpsed the edge of a curious-looking building as well as two long mechanical legs flailing helplessly in the air.
“Must be that walking hotel,” the customer said. “I suppose it tripped.”
“A walking hotel?” The shopkeeper adjusted the focus on his binoculars. Indeed, it seemed like the building had fallen, and now it was struggling to regain its footing. Something about the structure looked familiar…
The annoying customer tugged on the shopkeeper’s shirtsleeve. “Look, can I buy the canteen or not?”
“Fine, fine, give me the two florins,” the shopkeeper said. At this point, selling junk to tourists was the least of the man’s concerns. A bigger opportunity was to be had here—a chance to profit from the wreck of an entire hotel. Hundreds of stranded visitors might be arriving on his doorstep at any moment!
As soon as the customer set off, the shopkeeper morphed from his present state—a tall, gray-haired man—into his true form—a wrinkled imp with small yellow eyes and pointy claws. The seventy-year-old “shopkeeper” was just one of his many disguises. He was a mimic, a creature imbued with the power to transform itself into anyone it encountered. All the mimic needed was the single tooth of a victim and its body would automatically fill in the rest. The mimic crept behind the counter, ready to sell overpriced food and water to stranded passengers. But then he glimpsed a poster that had arrived earlier in the week, and at last he understood why the hotel looked so familiar. Here at last was a chance to have everything his heart desired!
arren used the hotel intercom to summon his staff, urging everyone to gather in the ballroom. The largest space in the hotel, it also served as the dining hall. Crystal chandeliers hung limply from the west wall, casting a dim flickering light across the overturned table. Normally the table was grand enough to seat fifty guests, but now it resembled a centipede flipped on its back, lying helpless with its legs in the air.
Within moments, Mr. Friggs, Chef Bunion, Sketchy, Beatrice, Petula, and Uncle Rupert had assembled as requested. [Mr. Vanderbelly slipped inside as well, notebook and pen at the ready.] With everyone’s help, Warren managed to flip the dining table right side up, and then each person extracted a chair from the jumbled pile in the corner of the room.
“That’s a little better, thank you,” Warren said, taking a seat. “Now, it seems that our first order of business is repairing the control panel.”
; “What happened to the control panel?” Mr. Friggs said.
Warren glanced at his uncle, carefully choosing his next words: “There was an unfortunate incident with a pineapple sarsaparilla, which caused the machinery to malfunction.” As Warren spoke, his uncle slumped so low in his chair that he was practically under the table.
“This is a disaster!” Mr. Friggs exclaimed, his pale eyes blinking behind round spectacles. “Rebuilding the control panel will take weeks, possibly months!”
“We don’t need to rebuild it,” said Chef Bunion, a stout fellow with a sharp beak-like nose and arms as big as ham hocks. “All we need is a little Dr. Stickler’s De-Stickifier! I’ve used it on the gooiest pots and pans and it works like a dream!”
Sketchy whistled, his bulbous head nodding in agreement.
“I used our last bottle of De-Stickifier a week ago,” Warren said with a frown. “I needed to dissolve the wads of chewing gum under the third-floor billiards table. And now we’re stranded too far from the next town to get any more.”
“I wish my portals worked over longer distances,” Petula said. Her magic could be quite convenient in a hurry, but a portal would take them only so far: about one hundred feet, to be exact, slightly less on rainy afternoons.
Beatrice held up a card—fwip!—engraved with a post box. It was her sole means of communication: many years earlier, an evil witch had stolen her voice, and now she was forced to communicate using flash cards.
“Mom’s right—we could order some by mail!” Petula said.
“That will take too long,” Warren countered.
“We don’t have a choice,” Chef Bunion said.
“Hold on a moment,” interjected Mr. Friggs, the hotel’s chief navigator. He pulled a map from his pocket and unfolded it across the table. “We may be far from the next town, but if I recall…A-ha!” He jabbed at the map with a knobby finger. “There it is. A tiny general store not too far from here. Just ten minutes down the road. Perhaps it’s worth a look?”
Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods Page 2