Her eyes rolled. She whipped her head from side to side and shook her ass, arms pumping to the beat of the crops as they pulsed, vines swelling and deflating like arteries.
Steve broke a sweat, no longer turned on, but terrified. “Maybe we should go,” he said, pointing to the sky. “Heat lightning is a warning that a storm is coming.”
She slowed her movement enough to steady her breathing. “Do you know why that's my favorite part, Steve? About the crops growing from her body?” She glared at him, and the lightning flickered, distorting her beauty into something sinister. Her bare breasts glistened with sweat.
She moved close, and he found himself unable to avoid her predatory advance. She was on him in an instant, hot breath in his ear canal. Her lips caressed his ear lobe as she whispered, “Because it's just like these crops.”
She pulled away... stared at him. Her pupils swirled, two black pits of madness. “You see, my family has an arrangement with the crops. They grow big and ripe every year, and in return we offer a sacrifice.”
Something like regret wrinkled her brow. “I'm sorry it has to be you.”
Her palms slammed into his chest, and he flew back, landing a few feet from the rock with his ass against the cold, hard earth. He was dead center of the clearing; he realized that now, and the vines... they moved like snakes through the grass, slithering away from the pumpkins and into the brush. Tall weeds shook from side to side as the vines came at him from every direction, moving through the grass so fast he didn't have time to react.
They coiled around his ankles, inching up his shins. They twined around his wrists. He screamed and tried to struggle free, but he was no match for their speed and strength.
The grip on his limbs tightened as Steve was pulled in every direction. A vine slithered down his throat, but it didn't silence his screams. He shrieked and writhed and only fell silent once his appendages were torn from his torso, body ripped to bloody pieces. The gory chunks of meat were dragged down into the hungry soil.
Aiyana frowned. She didn't enjoy watching him die, but Steve would live on through the crops. She'd been raised to respect the land, to tend it and feed it. She only did what had to be done.
Her name had meant “eternal bloom” in those early days, when her people had roamed the wild plains. Her ancestors were gone, many forgotten, but their gods still held dominion over earth. As long as her family's land continued to thrive, she would continue to sate the gods.
And this land would thrive as long as she lived.
The Woman In The Niqab
If you're reading this email, you’ve been selected as the new night auditor of the Ladford Inn. Congratulations... I suppose. My memories of the hotel are mostly fond ones, with the exception of my final week, when I decided I’d rather take my chances in the unemployment line. Here's to hoping you are spared the misery of the chilling encounters that sent me running from the Ladford with my pride dragging behind me like a dead dog.
I didn’t put in a proper two weeks notice when I resigned from my position, a grievance that Eleanor was quick to air (as tends to be the case with most of Eleanor's grievances). On her bad days, she comes off as a real Ice Queen. Those steely blue eyes could shatter diamonds if she concentrated hard enough, I’m certain. But don't be fooled. Deep down she’s a real softie. She insisted I write this letter, since I've left you with little to no training. How could I refuse?
She owns four hotels and personally manages each one, and I understand her concerns with making sure you receive proper training because—quite simply—she’s too busy to deal with it. She never sits still. She’s all business, and I'd hate to play cards with the woman because she's got a poker face to rival all others. I've seen her use it in response to difficult customers and hotel drama (all of which you'll come to know too well). She uses it in other circumstances, too, like when I think she’s caught a glimpse of the Ladford’s unwelcome guest—the tortured woman who now haunts my dreams.
I once asked Eleanor if she's seen anything strange. She donned that poker face and shook her head, and I couldn’t tell if her response was genuine or a bluff. The slightest wrinkle of fear crossed her brow, though, and it whispered: Yes. I have seen her.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up.
Eleanor has been my supervisor for more than five years. Despite her tough exterior, she’s always shown me kindness, which is why I agreed to write this letter. She asked me to give you some pointers and share with you, my predecessor, all the expert advice I’ve gathered in half a decade on the job.
This isn’t going to be that sort of letter. If Eleanor has chosen you for the position, I'm sure you're plenty bright and capable of handling things on your own. Besides... there's something more important I need to tell you. Forget about room keys and guest services for a moment. I need to warn you about the woman in the niqab.
Three weeks ago, a Pakistani man by the name of Sameer Ahmed came to stay at the hotel after arriving in the states. The construction of his new home was running behind. It would be several days before it was finished and ready to pass inspection. He was stuck in limbo between his old home in Pakistan and his newly built American mansion. He had paid good money, more money than I could dream of spending on a house, and he was furious at the situation.
The spoiled son of an oil company CEO, he didn’t care for the public aspect of a hotel, sickened by the inconvenience of being forced to lay his head where so many others had laid theirs. He let his frustration show, always tense, biding his time with every painstaking tick of the clock. His dark eyes twitched when he spoke, his bronzed complexion flush with impatience.
He had an assistant by the name of Tahir, a short Pakistani man, very soft-spoken and polite though his English was broken. Tahir was not staying at our five-star hotel, but rather a ramshackle motel several blocks east, as his employer saw fit. He had dark circles under the dark circles on his eyes, and I was certain it was from dealing with the stressful antics of Mr. Ahmed.
The wife, Mrs. Ahmed, remained a mystery to me throughout her two week stay. I never learned her first name; never dared to ask. She did not converse with men outside her immediate family, only occasionally whispering in her husband’s ear. She most likely didn’t know a word of English. With no reason to establish a first name basis between the two of us, I accepted her as a blank slate... an unknown guest. But after so many years of getting to know my guests on a personal level in order to better accommodate their needs, I admit, it felt odd to have this one slip through my fingers.
You know how skimpy clothing is often described as leaving “nothing to the imagination”? Well, Mrs. Ahmed’s wardrobe left everything to the imagination. I was familiar with such cultural garments from text books, television, and newspapers, but I’d never seen one up close. A niqab, that’s what they’re called.
A black veil concealed the entirety of her face. It covered her eyebrows and even the bridge of her nose. The eye slits were narrow, and I remember thinking it would drive me nuts to have all that cloth in my peripheral vision. A head dress draped her shoulders and hung down her back, and not a single strand of hair could be seen.
I hid my discomfort as best I could, mindful not to hurt the feelings of the woman beneath the shroud. Different strokes for different folks, I always say. I noticed that even her fingers were hidden beneath gloves. Her hands left no prints where she leaned upon the counter, and I thought, “She might as well be a ghost”. It was a perfectly innocent thought which seems so ominous in retrospect.
I made sure to smile at the woman every evening as she came to get a bucket of ice. I wished to make her to feel as comfortable as possible. The move from overseas was a huge one. I imagine adjusting to the change in culture was exhausting. I have no way of knowing if she smiled back, but a couple times she nodded in my direction before hurrying over to the ice machine.
I assume Mr. Ahmed had some personal use for the ice, as he would yell for her to hurry up if she took a f
ew seconds too long. Perhaps he needed to soak his feet in a cold bath after a full day of pacing back and forth and placing angry phone calls to the real estate agent. One thing is for sure: his wife was never fast enough. In a gruff foreign tongue, he barked at her from down the hall, and although I could not understand his words, they didn’t strike me as particularly encouraging.
Two nights before Sameer Ahmed checked out of the hotel and headed for his newly built mansion, the woman in the niqab encountered a problem on her nightly run to the lobby. ‘OUT OF ORDER’ was scrawled on a sheet of paper and taped to the ice machine, written with red permanent marker in all capital letters. The daytime clerk had scheduled a repair for the following day and scribbled a Post-it note to me, which now clung to the front desk, drawing my attention with a nauseating shade of yellow.
Mrs. Ahmed couldn’t read the ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign, of course, but a glance at the empty tray and a few unresponsive clicks of the button told her everything she needed to know. She hung her head in defeat, hugging the empty bucket to her black-clad bosom.
I was quick to respond. “Mrs. Ahmed?” I said, addressing her directly for the first time since she arrived. “I can help with that.” I pointed to the bucket in her gloved hands. I approached, and as I did, her eyes widened like a cornered mouse.
Then something very unexpected happened... I saw beauty in those eyes. It struck me. It held me captive!
Her eyes were not brown as I’d imagined the countless times she had averted her gaze, but a brilliant shade of amber which shined like bowls of honey in the sunlight. I reached for the bucket in a cautious “I come in peace” gesture. I was taken aback by her gorgeous orbs, and she by my close proximity. She loosened her grip and let me remove the bucket from her fingers.
I ran to the employee lounge, moving quickly as I knew her ticking-time-bomb husband would run out of patience soon. I filled it and returned to the lobby even faster than I had departed. She was standing in the exact same spot, a motionless niqabi mannequin until she nodded her thanks to me.
I held the bucket a moment longer and gazed into those lovely eyes. Amber is a rare color, the color of my first girlfriend’s eyes, the thought of whom still causes my heart to race. I was irresistibly drawn to that color.
“We plan to have the ice machine fixed by tomorrow evening.” I said. I was stalling, though I wasn’t sure why. “There’s another one on the second floor if you need it.” Recalling our language barrier, I frowned. Pieces of ice fell to the carpet as I handed the silent woman her bucket, now brimming with frozen cubes.
Then I noticed Mr. Ahmed six doors down, his head poking into the hall. His olive complexion was flushed with blood as he observed our one-sided conversation with an unpleasant scowl. I immediately turned and made a beeline for the desk, hoping I hadn’t caused the woman any troubles.
Thirty minutes later, I received a noise complaint from room 110. A middle-aged business woman by the name of Susan Bennet had been staying in 110. She was a quiet, introverted woman. She tipped the staff well and kept her room tidy without much help from housekeeping. She didn’t strike me as a prankster, so I believed her when she told me she’d heard horrible screams coming from the next room
I was suddenly tense. An icy knot formed in my stomach. My mouth went dry, and all I could do was force a small amount of saliva down my throat and try to locate my voice. Needless to say, I had a bad feeling about Mrs. Bennet’s noise complaint.
Had the screams come from Mrs. Ahmed in 112? Was she in some kind of trouble with her husband? I couldn’t help but wonder: did I cause a fight between them? I didn’t think such an innocent encounter would cause marital tension, but the look on Sameer’s face had been so angry. I assured Mrs. Bennet I would look into the matter, confirmed the time of her wake up call while I had her on the line, and bid her goodnight and sweet dreams.
Beads of sweat formed on my brow as I made my way down the hall. The couple who had stayed in room 108 had checked out this morning, and no one else had rented the room. The noises must have come from 112.
I approached the door and knocked, lightly at first. Nobody answered. I knocked again, this time speaking through the door as well. “Mr. Ahmed. It’s hotel management. We’d like to make sure everything is all right…”
I heard him unlock the deadbolt and fasten the latch. He opened the door about two inches and peered through the crack. The metal latch prevented it from opening any further. Mr. Ahmed was breathing hard. Perspiration moistened his forehead, and his black hair glistened like an oil slick. “All is fine,” he bluntly assured me.
I tried to peer over his shoulder into the room, but he deliberately filled every inch of the opening and cleared his throat as if to say, Get on with it. What is this about?
“A guest reported hearing a scream through the walls. I was worried Mrs. Ahmed may have… taken a fall or twisted her ankle.”
”All is fine,” he repeated, glaring at me with dark eyes. He began to close the door.
“May I see her?” I asked. “You know… just to follow up… to close the report.”
He stopped and flashed me an insulted expression. “She is not veiled. No visitors. You can close the report.” He shut the door in my face.
The next evening, I waited for the woman with the gorgeous amber eyes to fetch her husband some ice. Hours ticked by and she never showed. I sat alone at the desk, reading a novel and trying not to notice the absence of a certain shrouded lady.
I rubbed my arms, warming them against a chill that had lingered in the lobby all night. No matter how I adjusted the thermostat, a cold draft remained, coaxing my body hair on end like a snake charmer. I thought maybe I was coming down with a virus because I started getting really cold, to the point where I started to shiver.
For a moment, I thought the woman in the niqab must have slipped past me as I was reading my book because the ice machine grumbled to life. I looked up, but nobody was there. The lone machine hurled ice cubes with a steady clink, clink, clink. It seemed louder than it ever had before and worked aggressively, shaking back and forth as it spewed chunks of frozen water into an overflowing tray.
I raised an eyebrow as I watched this mechanical wonder, an appliance that turned on by itself and whipped itself into a frenzy. “Some repairman,” I mumbled. I pulled a bookmark from the drawer, set it in place and closed the book. I could hardly concentrate with all the racket. Besides, I needed to unplug the blasted thing before the carpet got riddled with puddles.
When I returned my attention to the lobby, Mrs. Ahmed was standing there. The silhouette of her robe-like dress and loose veil stuck out from behind the machine. The shapeless black figure stood stock-still, mostly hidden by the possessed ice machine as it churned out cube after cube.
“Ma’am?” I rounded the desk and approached her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with this machine. I thought we had fixed it, but it’s not, and—” I stopped in my tracks and began to back away.
In the harsh fluorescent lighting—which Eleanor despises for the way it illuminates every speck of dirt—I tried to make out a woman’s form beneath the garment. It hung loose down to the ankle-length hemline, but eventually my eyes found the shape of a human figure inside. Yet the fact remained that it was floating, not standing—suspended, somehow, mid-air. Where usually she wore dark sandals and socks, there were no feet, and that long black dress looked menacing as it hovered against the off-white walls, inches above the carpet, facing me.
The air grew colder as I looked up, searching for an explanation in her amber eyes. What I saw snatched the breath from my lungs in one fell swoop of terror. Her veil was in place, tucked inside her head garb like it always was, the same narrow slits for the eyes. Only… she had none. No eyes at all...nothing but darkness where they used to be.
The ice machine rumbled and roared, propelling my hysteria to new heights as she reached a gloved hand to her face. She wrapped her fingers around the veil and peeled it away. The face of
nothingness stared back at me. An empty void inside the niqab.
The lights clicked off without any theatrics. No exploding bulbs or popping circuits. They didn’t so much as flicker. Just instant blackness.
My jaw chattered as the chill increased triple-fold. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I closed my eyes and whimpered. I stayed that way, eyes squeezed shut like a dope, until the ice machine ceased its psychotic production.
The Tooth Collector (and Other Tales of Terror) Page 7