Grimm

by Mike Nicholson

  It seemed an odd place for the statue to be, almost as though it had been discarded there. Rory stepped closer. It occurred to him that among the deaths he had read about, one involved an elderly guest being scared to death by a wolf statue. Whatever the story was, the statue was magnificent. Despite being carved in stone, the fur appeared to have a soft texture, while the ferocious head was too life-like for comfort, even though the lolling tongue and some of the teeth had broken off. Rory was clear now about the wolf mentioned by Ramsay Sandilands, but he was none the wiser about the Curse of the Stonemason.

  The creak of rusty chains distracted him for a moment, and Rory looked up to see a battered wooden sign, on which he could just make out the wording: “Hotel Grimm. Aberfintry’s Finest.”

  Rory swallowed hard as he began to walk up the steps that led to a vast wooden door. By the time he reached the black stone walls it was set into, he seemed to have stepped into deep shadow and a shiver passed through him. Above him, frozen in stone, was a fearsome leering gargoyle that looked down and mocked him as he stood on the top step. The enormous iron door knocker, was another wolf’s head and Rory toyed with the idea of running straight back down the hill, diving through his front door and hiding under his duvet. Then he remembered the one fear that was greater than being here. Not being here. What would happen to him if he didn’t turn up?

  With an air of resignation he stretched up, heaving the giant wolf’s head upwards, before letting it thump down into the wood in the centre of the door. The sound echoed and then faded to silence. A slow shuffling sound and some hacking coughs began and gradually became louder. Eventually, a tiny wooden hatch in the door shot open.

  “GO AWAY!” snapped a voice and the hatch slammed shut again.

  I think that they need to work on their customer relations for a start, thought Rory.

  He raised his hand again, but before he could even reach the knocker, the hatch flew open once more.

  “DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME?” squawked a grumpy voice. “GO AWAY!”

  “But I have an appointment with Granville Grimm,” Rory stuttered.

  There was a pause and some grumbling and mumbling from behind the door. After a short silence, there was a slow creak and the front door of Hotel Grimm opened.

  Beware of Mr Granville Grimm,

  the madman on Scrab Hill

  He’ll know if you’re not listening,

  so start by sitting still.

  He can curse you with one look

  so if you want to live,

  You’d better do just as he says,

  and full attention give.

  Local cautionary tale to encourage

  children to behave

  9. Granville Grimm

  For the briefest of moments, daylight revealed the grubby stone-clad hallway as Rory stepped through the front door of Hotel Grimm. He caught a glimpse of fur and teeth from some dilapidated, stuffed animal heads on the wall, but before he could make out any more detail there was a thunderous thud as the door closed and he was consumed by darkness, leaving him in no doubt that he was inside Hotel Grimm for the foreseeable future.

  Rory blinked hard, his eyes desperately seeking out some light source, however faint. Gradually a glimmer from a low wattage light bulb, and a crack of light from between two curtains began to help him. As his eyes fought to make sense of anything in the gloom, the faintest detail of carpets, curtains, paintings, pillars and a marble staircase began to emerge.

  As his eyes worked overtime, his ears pricked up. He could hear a whistling draught, an occasional drip, a distant hinge creaking and what sounded horribly like the pattering of a small animal’s feet. Rory shook his head sharply as if to dispel the sounds and the images they were creating in his mind. At the same time, the smell of damp made his nose wrinkle uncontrollably.

  “Hurry up!” barked the rude little man. His shadowy figure was fast disappearing down the dim hallway. Frightened of being left on his own, Rory set off.

  But on his first step, something squidged under his foot. He recoiled as he walked on, desperately trying not to think of what it might have been.

  There were enough coughs ahead to let Rory know that he was still heading in the right direction, and as he rounded a corner in haste, he thumped straight into the man who was now standing wheezing against a doorpost.

  “Oof … sorry,” spluttered Rory.

  “HOO HA!” The noise erupted right beside him as the man cleared his throat and nose at the same time with the sound of a dredger scraping the life out of the bottom of a pond. Rory’s stomach churned as he remembered standing in something a few moments before.

  As the man grunted and limped off again, Rory couldn’t help but think that any potential guest at Hotel Grimm would already have turned round, headed off at top speed and made alternative arrangements for the night. Occasionally, the man jerked round and managed to seem annoyed to find Rory still there, at the same time as telling him to hurry up. Rory quickly got the impression that there was little that he would be able to do right in the grumpy man’s eyes.

  After a maze of twisting and turning corridors, Rory was ushered into a cavernous room, poorly lit by a couple of meagre bulbs that failed to cast light into the far corners. Rory decided that he probably didn’t want to see into them anyway for fear of what might be lurking there.

  All around the room, dark wood panelling covered the walls, while once gilt-framed gloomy portraits of even gloomier-looking men frowned down from all around. Only the whites of their eyes and their starched collars provided the slightest suggestion of light in each picture.

  Velvet curtains hung limply at every window, some in tatters, which Rory concluded was probably due to the flock of giant moths that was fluttering around, looking as though they might have been feeding on the fabric for generations.

  Had it been blazing, a fire under the enormous mantlepiece would have brought life and light to the room. Instead a few unconvincing embers glowed feebly as if about to give up the ghost.

  “Sit there!” barked the man, shoving Rory towards a giant high-backed throne-like seat at one end of a table so enormously long that it seemed a plane could land on it.

  A gigantic candelabra like a twisted tree was topped by three yellowing candles which were now unlit. Wax had dribbled and hardened to form a fantastic sculpture over time, which in the half-light resembled a hand pointing back out of the door, suggesting the quickest escape route.

  Rory had the sensation that he was being silently laughed at by the manically laughing faces carved into the wooden back of his seat. It was only after gazing round the room that he realized that a brooding figure was seated in silence at the distant end of the table. Rory made out a furrowed forehead, topped with wild, unruly hair. The man sat motionless apart from the slow movement of one finger twizzling a particularly long lock of hair around and around and around.

  As if a bit had been formed from the rocky side of Scrab Hill, the man’s face appeared solid, craggy and expressionless. Rory could make out few other features.

  “Good morning and thank you for coming.”

  The soft and polite voice which emerged from the hulking figure made Rory double-take to check where the sound had actually come from.

  “Er … no problem,” he said, caught off guard. No problem? No problem? his own thoughts screamed back at him.

  “I am Granville Grimm and am pleased to welcome you here,” said the man with the faintest of waves of his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to assist me with my project.”

  “Er … actually I was hoping we could chat about that,” said Rory. “I’m not really …”

  Oblivious to Rory’s faltering protest, the hotel owner continued. “I need some help and I believe you are the person to provide it. I am only too well aware that the public perception of what we offer here is not … shall we say favourable at times.”

  That’s the understatement of the year, thought Rory picturing the screaming headlines in The Chronicle
that spelled out death and evil in equal measure.

  “I’m not sure I’m …” stuttered Rory.

  “What I want here is … how can I best describe it?” interrupted Granville Grimm searching for the right words. “What I want is to be … functioning properly again.”

  Rory looked at the man and found himself wondering if he was talking about the business of the hotel or about himself. For all of his politeness, Granville Grimm’s low, saddened tones presented him as a very melancholic man.

  “I am not looking for the high levels of success and achievement you have gained for Zizz Cola,” he continued in his low voice. “I just want people to view us in a different light.”

  Rory stopped himself from saying “…and presumably to have a few guests that check out in the normal fashion by just handing their key back.”

  Granville Grimm’s softly spoken voice and his deliberate choice of words somehow made the idea of changing the hotel’s image and getting people back through the door sound like a straightforward project. Rory had to remind himself that this was Hotel Grimm which, as he had just learned, had its very own curse. From the hotel owner’s silence it appeared that Rory was now expected to begin to present his thoughts on the situation.

  Rory cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. “I think I understand what you want. I don’t mean to be pessimistic but … er … there are rather a lot of … er … large obstacles in the way of success.”

  There was silence from the other end of the table. Feeling increasingly nervous, Rory blundered on. “I mean it’s not just the issue of how you are viewed down in the town. Aren’t there some deeper issues that are causing problems here?”

  “Do forgive me, but I’m unsure what you mean,” said Granville Grimm sounding slightly baffled.

  “I mean that no matter what you do to try to change things here, could there be something working against you?” said Rory.

  “Go on,” said Granville Grimm.

  Rory took a deep breath. “I mean The Curse of the Stonemason,” he said.

  At that moment the stuttering conversation dried up completely and the room seemed to freeze over.

  “I want no mention of that.” The tone in Granville Grimm’s voice chilled the atmosphere still further.

  “No of course….” said Rory.

  Granville Grimm gave him a long hard look. Rory held the man’s gaze as long as he could and pushed away the fleeting thought that this might turn him into one of the hotel’s gargoyles.

  “Perhaps we should move on,” said Granville Grimm at last. “In fact, I think it would make sense for you to see around a bit, to get an idea of what we have here that might appeal to people.”

  Rory tensed up. He really did not want to go any further into the building at all. The words “death” and “trap” lodged in his head. At the same time it felt like he was at the point of no return. What would happen to him now if he turned around and said that he wasn’t really qualified for the job of rebranding Hotel Grimm?

  “Our butler, Grog, will show you around,” Granville Grimm gestured with a weary wave of his hand.

  There was a squawk from the other side of the room as the man who had opened the front door to Rory, reacted with shock to the fact that he was being expected to do something constructive.

  Rory felt equally unenthusiastic about the prospect of a tour with Grog, but kept his feelings to himself. Perhaps it was the grumpy little man who turned guests into statistics for the morgue, thought Rory. Having had his first taste of the inside of the building, Grog’s company didn’t exactly feel like a guarantee of safety.

  “One final thing.” Granville Grimm’s voice had become sterner. Rory was in no doubt that whatever was about to follow was a command that he was expected to listen to and obey. “Corridor Five is off limits because …” he paused. “Well, it’s just off limits.”

  Something made Rory want to ask more questions, but it was clear that this part of the conversation was now firmly closed and it quickly followed that the meeting had ended too as Granville Grimm concluded the business. “I look forward to seeing you back here in one week’s time with your proposals.” With that, he stood up, turned and disappeared into the shadows. Only the click of a door told Rory that Granville Grimm had left the room.

  Still in the giant seat, Rory wondered what he was supposed to do next. The grating rasp of Grog clearing his throat, brought him to his senses. His tour was about to start.

  10. The guided tour

  Rory wondered if Granville Grimm was expecting Grog to provide a tour commentary as they went through the dingy corridors. If that was the case, then the odd little man was falling well short of the mark.

  “Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous … don’t want more guests anyway … better off without them.”

  Given this succession of complaints, Rory tried to make out what might be Hotel Grimm’s features of interest. However, he found it difficult to pick out many details in the darkness other than a continuation of shabby carpets and raggedy curtains. Nothing in Grog’s manner invited any questions, so Rory remained mystified as to what might draw visitors to the hotel. However, as they turned into a corridor to find the walls covered in unframed painted canvases, curiosity got the better of him.

  “Who painted these?” Rory called ahead.

  “Stop dawdling!” snapped Grog.

  Rory slowed down as much as he could without losing track of Grog, sensing something familiar about the paintings. The canvases were clustered around one door on which “GG” was painted in large letters. Granville Grimm himself appeared to be the artist. It occurred to Rory that the fact that the hotel owner was quietly spoken, polite and painted portraits had never appeared in the stories about him.

  Grog had already rounded the next corner like an unstoppable, limping toy. Glancing back as he moved on, Rory could have sworn that there was a movement in the shadows. He caught up with Grog, who was wheezing heavily as he eased himself down a short flight of stairs to open some double glass doors.

  “What’s this?” asked Rory walking into a large space. It had little to offer other than stacks of chairs and a wooden floor badly in need of a sweep.

  “Ballroom,” snapped Grog.

  The room was far less gloomy than everywhere else and looking up Rory realized that it had a glass roof. Hints of the hotel’s turrets were visible through a coating of moss and grime. Rory struggled to imagine this drab room full of dancers with a band in full swing.

  “Has this been used much in the past?” Rory asked trying to prompt more from his guide. Grog grunted. Frustrated by the continuing lack of information, Rory snapped.

  “Do you like dancing yourself?”

  Expecting at least a “harrumph” in reply to such an impertinent question, Rory was stopped in his tracks as the butler’s whispery voice answered: “I used to.” Too taken aback to ask any more, Rory was suddenly distracted by something under his foot.

  “What’s this?” said Rory looking at the small brass plaque screwed into the floor. The inscription was letters and numbers. “LG: 5.12.29–28.8.48”.

  Grog looked at Rory long and hard as if trying to work out what to do with him. “You need to look into your local history a little more,” he croaked, and with that he turned again and walked towards the door.

  That was almost a helpful answer, Rory thought smiling.

  Re-entering the labyrinthine hotel, Rory noticed that periodically they passed numbers on the wall as they were about to turn into each corridor. They had already passed two, three and four and moments later Rory looked up and saw a number five.

  “Not that way,” said Grog seeing Rory pause.

  “Is that Corridor Five?” asked Rory, remembering Granville Grimm’s comment. “Why is it off limits?”

  “It just is,” said Grog unhelpfully.

  Rory took another step in the direction of the corridor and at that moment the most fearsome noise started; a clattering, banging, wheezing, dreadfu
l sound. Rory yelped and leapt towards Grog.

  The butler looked uncomfortable with the noise itself, not to mention the fact that Rory had heard it. He limped away hastily without another word.

  “How long has it er … been like that?” asked Rory, now keen to keep close to Grog as some residual crashes and bangs finally dwindled to silence.

  “Long enough,” Grog replied.

  Rory wasn’t sure what exactly was going on in Corridor Five, but it sounded a lot worse than a case of dodgy plumbing. Bella Valentine’s account of her terrifying time at the hotel popped into his head. He suspected that he had just heard something of whatever it was that she had encountered that had left her with shredded nerves and a slot in The Chronicle.

  Desperately trying to be positive that the hotel might still reveal some selling points, Rory hit upon an idea. “Is there anywhere that I can see the view from?”

  Distinctly unimpressed at this enquiry the wheezing Grog gave Rory a withering look, but grudgingly pointed a gnarled finger towards a small archway. Leaving the butler to recover his breath, Rory began to feel his way up a long spiral staircase. Shoving on a door at the top, he found himself blinking in the daylight, blasted by fresh air. He stepped out onto a tiny balcony perched on one of the hotel’s turrets.

  Rory looked down, glad that he didn’t suffer from vertigo and traced the route he had taken up Scrab Hill. The ledge where he had stopped was one of the hill’s clearest features, the cable car station nestled like a little garage just above it. The ledge itself looked like a space large and flat enough to stage a football match on, and from this new vantage point, Rory could see that the derelict building, which he had noticed earlier, blended into the hillside at the far end.