Dansk Bay Hotel

by Matthew Cornachione

  Indeed, there was something glistening down there, but not a fungal growth. No, this was a single patch of a viscous reddish fluid, smeared over the concrete. Unmistakable.

  Blood.

  Chapter 12

  Shit!

  This … this was fresh. Someone nearby was hurt. Or worse.

  I abandoned my futile effort to open the door. Keeping my flashlight pointed down, I traced the blood smears along the concrete. I’d been so focused on the walls, I’d missed it on the way in. I came to the corner where I'd first stepped in it and saw my bloody shoe prints leading away. From there the trail led up a staircase, along the second floor hallway, and into a room.

  I crept forward, afraid of what I might find inside. When I peered through the door, I saw no one. The room was empty. Well, empty of people, anyway.

  The blood trail led back to a filthy bedroll. A red spatter covered the wall next to it. There was a knapsack and a few other odds and ends, including a fishing pole. I guessed this had once been Lucas’ accommodations.

  My lips quivered, and I thought back to yesterday when I'd seen the young fishing hand. He had been aloof, fearful. That fear was apparently justified.

  So the blood trail led the other way. Into the basement. Which meant that whoever assaulted the fisherman had a key. There was only one person in town who I'd expect to have one. The same person I’d overheard this morning saying that the fishing hand wasn’t coming back to work anymore.

  Would Nekker actually kill anyone, especially in his own hotel? Was he some sort of psychopath? I wasn’t sure. From our encounters, I knew he was a little odd, but I hadn't sensed anything threating about him. But, he had to be involved somehow.

  Regardless, it was clear to me the fisherman was in grave peril. That, or I stood at the scene of a murder. This was too much.

  I turned and fled, running down the hallway, down the stairs, out the back door, and away from that terrible place. Rain pelted me as I sprinted down the driveway to the main road. I finally slowed, gasping for air and stopped beside the WWII memorial.

  Despite what I'd learned about Dansk Bay's contribution to the war, I found this place peaceful. It was a sign someone had cared about the lives lost, about the toll that crisis had taken.

  Part of me wanted to keep running, but another part (besides my aching lungs) urged me to think this through. So, there I stood, rain soaking my hair as I stared at the trimmed bushes surrounding the American flag. And, I breathed.

  Eventually, my heart slowed to a normal rhythm. I wouldn't claim I was calm, but at least I could think. With that clarity, my next step was obvious. You find a murder, you go to the police. Or, in this case, the sheriff.

  In no time flat, I stood at the town crossroads, looking at the doors of the sheriff's office. I didn't know what waited for me in there, but what I'd witnessed went beyond my own personal fears. Atrocities committed decades ago were bad enough, but one done this morning… That had to be set right.

  So, I pulled the door open and stepped inside, dripping all over the floor mat. I found myself in a small room with an empty reception desk straight ahead. Behind it was a closed door, a light showing underneath. A placard read “Sheriff Clement.”

  I knocked on the door.

  “Just a moment,” said a familiar voice.

  The door opened to reveal the bearded man who had pushed me out of the diner yesterday. Today, he was properly dressed with a crisp beige coat, official patches on shoulder, and a badge pinned to his breast. At his hip was a holstered pistol.

  “Well, I heard you were still in town. Need some help getting out?” He cracked a smile.

  Did he know I couldn’t leave town? That didn’t bode well, but I decided to go for it anyway. “Sheriff, I think there’s been a murder.”

  “Murder? In Dansk Bay? Ha, I doubt that, but I suppose I’d best hear you out.”

  “I was in the hotel—“

  “Trespassing?”

  “No, no. I mean, I have permission from Mr. Nekker. But listen. I found blood in one of the rooms. Someone hurt the fishing hand.”

  The sheriff let out a laugh at that. A laugh! He sat back and said, “Son, now come back when you have a real crime to report.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What you've seen, that there's fish blood. Happens all the time. Captain's a little soft on his hires, sometimes lets it slide when they steal from the catch. A big halibut can fetch a hundred dollars easy. Boy probably tried to fillet in his room and made a hash of the thing.”

  “Uh, I don't think so. I mean, I've never seen a murder, or fish gutting before, but of the two, it looks a hell of a lot more like the first. There's even a blood trail leading to the basement.”

  “Bet he's got a freezer down there. More clever than most of the captain’s hands, that one.”

  Obvious bull, but something the sheriff said set off an alarm. “You said most of the captain’s hands. Does he have a lot? Do many of them leave fish blood in that hotel?”

  “Not that it's any of your damn business, but yes, they come through every summer. Sometimes a couple each season. Usually once they steal some fish they skip town. Guilty conscience, I suppose.”

  “And, do you ever see them again?”

  “'Course not. What are you getting at?” A note of hostility crept into his voice.

  “Nothing. Look, maybe you could at least investigate this scene. This time it might be different.”

  “Ain’t nothing worth my time.” The sheriff stood up. “Now if you haven’t got a real problem, then get out of my office. I hope I’ll not be seeing you again.”

  I was about to object when I glanced down to the sheriff’s desk. Poking out from beneath a binder was a paper addressed to Alaska Railway. I couldn’t read the message, but I saw enough. The subject line indicated “Request for suspension of service.”

  He was part of it all. The sheriff wasn’t going to help me. This man had used his authority to stop the trains and trap me in town. I needed to get the hell away.

  “Okay, I’ll go.” I backed out of the office then darted out the front door. As the door swung shut behind, I saw a parting smile on the sheriff’s bearded face.

  Chapter 13

  I strode down the street, mind reeling. The evil wasn’t just a carryover from WWII. It was happening today. Thea had hinted at it, but this drove it home. Nekker lured in fishermen every summer, killed them, and locked them in the hotel basement. Then the sheriff covered it all up. Or worse, helped.

  But I couldn't fathom why. How could that help Nekker’s business? It had to have something to do with the ghost, but I couldn’t see a connection. If my hunch was right though, I was up against a ghost and at least one serial killer.

  Terrifying, yet somehow reassuring. Evil men seemed easier to deal with than a hostile spirit. And, I hadn’t seen the ghost all morning. If Thea was right, I had fought it by thinking of Lena. Maybe I hurt it somehow.

  In any case, I knew where I had to go next.

  I passed by the docks. The abandoned shops looked especially ominous today. The weather worsened, leaving the area sheathed in fog as I rain pelted my head. I felt like the only person left in the world.

  When I reached the warehouse, I pushed inside and stormed up the stairs and down the hall to Nekker's office. Summoning up my courage, I pounded on the door and shouted, “Nekker, we need to talk.”

  No answer. I tried the handle. It was locked, so I pounded louder, but still Nekker didn't respond. “Nigel?” I asked. “Are you here?” Silence.

  I pressed my ear to the door, thinking I'd hear him rustling around inside. I heard nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights. He wasn't here.

  I looked through the windows behind me, surveying the warehouse floor. There was no sign of anyone at all. Where else could Nekker be?

  He could be out on a ship, visiting with a client in Anchorage, hiding in the hotel basement or...his cabin. Only place I could check was the last one. Might as well.
r />   I jogged back across town, hoping nobody was watching through their windows. I didn’t trust anyone anymore.

  At the top, I took the first drive. I guessed that Nekker would want the spot closest to town, and I was right. A three story monster cabin sat atop the cliff overlooking the bay. Any other time, I would have thought it gorgeous with its dark stained wood, a sloped modern roofline, and huge windows. Knowing a murderer lived there spoiled the beauty.

  I stopped at the end of the walkway, realizing this was my last chance to turn away. I could walk along the train tracks and take my chances that none of this ever caught up to me. But, no, I needed to do this. For Dansk Bay. For Lena. And, for myself.

  Walking with what I hoped looked like confidence, I came up to Nekker's door and pounded on it. “Nekker!” I shouted. I kept slamming my fist on the door, making a racket impossible to ignore.

  Silence. Well, if Nekker wasn't here, maybe I could find some evidence inside. I shook the front door, but it was locked. I stepped off Nekker's porch and circled the house, trampling a couple flowers along the way. In back was a large deck. I took the stairs up and tried the back door. It opened.

  Moving as noiselessly as I could, I stepped into the house. I crept through the kitchen, dining room, then into the living room. It was there, against a leather sofa, that I finally saw Nekker.

  Or, rather, his corpse.

  Nekker's rotund body lay in a heap between the couch and a coffee table. His head was toward me, and I could see the sticky mess of matted hair where he'd been bludgeoned. Half opened eyes stared blankly toward the fireplace.

  I staggered back, doubling over and vomiting on the hardwood. The blood stains in the hotel had been scary but abstract. With an actual body death wasn’t pretty. Especially not this way.

  Once my stomach settled, my mind turned back on. This didn’t make any sense. Hadn’t Nekker been the perpetrator? I must have been wrong. Or someone else had figured him out and gotten revenge. My thoughts raced through all the possibilities.

  Then something caught my attention. There on the coffee table was a small book, resting open. It seemed out of place, like Nekker had been reviewing it before his murder. I picked it up and saw it was a list of names. My heart caught; last on it was mine: Kyle Ressler – hotel. Above that was another I recognized: Lucas Brewster – fishing hand. Lucas’ name had a line through it.

  The rest of the list was crossed out. Most of the others had “fishing hand” written after their name. A couple were labeled “tourist,” and one more with “hotel.” I was pretty sure I was looking at the string of victims. Nekker had definitely been involved, and here was proof.

  I was so engrossed that I almost missed the approaching danger. Only when the hair on the back of my head tingled did I turn around. There, floating in the gloom, was the ghost.

  Or, rather, a ghost. This one was different. Where last night’s terror had been fuzzy, this one was sharp, lines mimicking those of a live human. To boot, it was a full body instead of just a head. And it’s face was far from withered. In fact, I recognized this one.

  If I’d had any lingering doubts that the fishing hand was in trouble, they vanished as his ghostly face stared at me. The poor kid wasn’t just dead, he was the next elixir test subject.

  Aaaaiiiiiiiyyyyyyaaaahhhhh! The ghost’s mouth contorted as a wail echoed through the cabin. It stretched its arms out and wobbled toward me.

  I darted to the side, and it whisked past.

  I wasn’t sure if it could actually hurt me, but I didn’t want to chance an end like Lena’s. I ran out past the house, onto the road and down the lane. Risking a glance back, I saw that it was chasing me. This one was much faster than the spirit last night.

  I picked up the pace. Disoriented, I turned away from town, but there were a few more cabins out here. I angled for the closest, sprinting up the porch to the door. Tugging at the handle, I found it locked. With the ghost following, I didn’t have time for anything subtle. Whispering a silent apology to the owner, I lowered my shoulder and slammed into the door.

  I don’t know if it was my adrenaline or rotted wood, but the frame splintered and the door swung inward. I dashed inside, passing through a dusty sitting room and kitchen to find a secluded study. Slamming the door shut, I backed up to the far wall, hoping that I was hidden.

  My heart almost stopped when the ghost floated right through the doorway. I took a step toward the window, but the ghost slid between it and me. I skittered back, the darted aside, trying to slip past. It was too quick. The ghost stayed between me and escape, herding me toward a corner.

  It had me pinned, but I’d already survived this once. Compassion had worked before, maybe it would again. I raised my fists, steeled my will, and thought of poor Lena.

  The reaction was immediate. The ghost backed up and wailed, its pained shriek cutting through my head. As I watched, it grew fuzzy and wobbled like a flame in the breeze. Then it spun around, as if caught in a whirlwind.

  Suddenly, everything stopped. We met eyes, and I saw tears streaming down its spirit cheeks.

  Hheellpp mmee…

  Then, it exploded.

  Chapter 14

  Until then, I’d never have guessed that ghosts could explode. But the fishing hand’s ghost sure did. Sparks shot out in all directions, the ghostly body dissipating before me. A wave of pressure swept across the room. My ears popped, my stomach turned, then it passed.

  I was alone in the dim cabin.

  Panting, I stood there for a few moments, waiting to see if anything else happened. When nothing did, I calmed down. This whole episode had gone from strange to bizarre to terrifying, but I was still alive.

  Too bad I couldn’t say the same for Nekker and the fishing hand.

  I leaned on the desk, my whole body feeling wobbly, sapped of strength. As I cradled my head in my hands, I noticed a worn journal, yellowed pages speaking to their age.

  That was a strange thing to find lying around. I almost brushed it aside, but an old journal had gotten me this far. I picked it up and cracked the aged spine.

  Inside were the initials C.F. My heart raced as I scanned through some entries and saw that these were from the WWII POW studies. This journal must have belonged to Friedrich, the young, angry scientist from the museum journal. Eager, I searched for insights about how to defeat this spirit.

  10-11-43

  Initial tests were an absolute failure. Subject mortality rate is 100% with no sign of supernatural activity. I contend that our detectors need to be more finely tuned. Regardless, the elixir must be modified. I remain convinced that lithium is the key, but something stronger may be needed. Alas subjects are unable to withstand even mild doses. Challenges lie ahead.

  3-5-44

  Eureka! Our first success, albeit a small one. Subject 27 triggered an electromagnetic pulse on the detector across the room. The effect lasted 1.9 seconds before subject expired, a clear breakthrough. Still, its potency is limited. We must enhance this effect.

  5-18-44

  We’ve continued to make improvements. We regularly register activity on all four detectors for up to six seconds. Subject mortality still remains the primary issue. Only one subject has survived, and it suffered irreversible brain damage – useless for further work. The military is demanding something usable soon, and I intend to provide it. I think they are planning something big.

  9-7-44

  Progress has stalled. We have yet to achieve greater detector activity, but have decreased elixir volatility. In the last two months, approximately 50% of subjects survived, 10% without any discernible brain damage. Unfortunately, only two subjects survived repeat testing.

  2-1-45

  A truly auspicious start to the new year. Inspired by historical tomes from the Far East, we’ve modified the formula, and our potency has skyrocketed. Electromagnetic activity has saturated the detectors. Better still, we’ve had visual confirmation of our success, an image of a subject’s face floating in the room. The
image is vague, like a cloud, but there can be no doubt that we have achieved full mind-body separation. All that is left is to stabilize the compound sufficiently to let the mind travel far afield. Currently, the effect can only be sustained for about thirty seconds.

  8-18-45

  Damn, word has come that the Japanese surrendered. We won’t be getting any new subjects. Fortunately, subject mortality has dropped to 5%, though lingering side effects are still common. We have argued to the government that it is too dangerous to free these last prisoners. They have agreed and our work can continue. We are too close to stop now.

  2-6-46

  We lost our last subject today. The elixir is much improved, but still imperfect. It leaves lingering damage to subject psyche. The cumulative dosage of several tests proved too much for even the most stalwart subjects. No word on where we will get new subjects, but I have some ideas.

  8-11-46

  No! This cannot be! They are closing us down. This work must continue. I know the answer is so close, just within grasp. Fortunately, I have a plan.

  The journal stopped there and I stood up, stunned. Here was hard evidence of what was happening, what these ghosts really were. But reading it had been horrible. That man, Friedrich, had taken countless lives in pursuit of this fantastical elixir. And, he hadn’t cared one bit. He only wanted more people, or “subjects” as he callously called them, to poison. As if this government psychic program, or whatever it was, justified the killings.

  He had to be long dead by now, but someone had found his old journal. Someone was still down in that lab, carrying on Friedrich’s evil work. If Nekker wasn’t the murderer, it could be anyone in town. I had a guess which one it was.