Shivering slightly, I took a deep breath and felt as if the whole filth I’d been breathing for so long in the contaminated atmosphere of my hometown was getting sucked out of me. I could faintly hear, amidst car’s groans, the rustling of the leaves and a distinct hum of insects generating an overwhelming melody. For a second, I thought I saw a flicker of an animal’s tail, perhaps a squirrel, disappearing quickly between the branches of the huge oak trees which had now become so thick as if leaning on to each other for support; their overly grown branches smashing threateningly, ready for a scuffle.
The road began to widen as the sound of running water penetrated the air.
A river or a ravine, I thought as the driveway finally gave way to a bridge ahead. On its edge, I applied the brakes to make sure I was headed in the right direction. I grabbed my phone from the dash board and poked at the touch screen.
Barry’s Lodge, about 15 miles west after the bridge!
This is it, I said to myself and stepped on the accelerator. The car zoomed across the bridge as my phone buzzed. It was Frank. “Call back as soon as you see this.” I dialed his number and waited. The call dropped. I dialed again. A voice message rang in my ear:
“Hey, this is Frank. Please leave a message after the beep.”
“Hi, Frank. I hope you’re all right. Your plan worked. I’ll reach the lodge in about ten minutes. Will call you when I get there. Take care.”
Then, it immediately struck me that I hadn’t informed Ellen, and I should’ve been in Bristol about three hours ago. I quickly typed the message:
“Hey honey, just got here. There was an accident on the freeway and traffic held me up. I’ll call you when I’m free…just seeing things around. Give my love to kids. Talk to you in a bit.”
I drove for another five minutes, but I failed to notice even a single building. It was a completely desolate strip of land with the thick forest on two sides, stretching as far as I could make out in the dark. Rain, which was coming down in small drops, suddenly became the size of red grapes and began thundering down on the car’s top and the windshield. I switched the vipers on and flicked the car’s beam from low to high.
My neck muscles felt like wood from repeated rotation, and I was about to curse loudly when, finally, my eyes fell on an ancient stone structure hidden among the copse of trees and leading to it was a dingy track joining the intersection.
The black pathway led straight inside the forest towards the building.
“Thank God!” Heavy a sigh, I turned the car towards the aisle. Massive, twisted branches arched over the way as if it was tunnel. For a minute, there was an utmost reticence as if I was trespassing a lair, waiting for something sordid to strike. The rain failed to pave its way through the overhead impervious meshwork of boughs. I shifted uneasily in my seat, as sweat trickled down my spine and inside my pants. An owl hooted in its nest in distance soon fading to the sound of scraping and swishing of the leaves to my right.
I was just beginning to get jittery when the pathway abruptly ended and an extensive two-storey building hovered into view, giving an eccentric panorama. Luckily, the rain had stopped as I parked the car in front of the desolate structure and switched it off. Very slowly, I turned the handle and got out.
Chapter 4: Settling In
Crisp breeze stung my face and I grabbed the overcoat tightly around my chest. I wished I’d brought a scarf along as goose bumps rose at the back of my neck. A staggering scent of scruffy grass and damp earth filled my nostrils. Without making much commotion, I silently closed the car’s door and began to discern the enclosure.
It was an ancient facade, built mostly from wood and amber blocks, standing a little apart from the forest behind it. An Auburn tree, with the trunk thicker than I’d ever seen my whole life, held its guard to the left of the building with the branches arching over the roof as if keeping a look out for intruders.
The moonlight fell in turrets over the place, illuminating the white paint which was peeling in places to reveal the underlying cracks which, in turn, had provided a breeding ground for glistening creepers that twisted around the building’s countenance like venomous vipers. I counted about ten vacant eye-like windows, each of them staring at me with a squint of cold contempt.
For a split second, I thought I saw something move, perhaps a shadow behind one of the windows. And then, it wasn’t there.
Maybe it’s one of the tenants! I wondered.
Three chimneys protruding at odd angles from the roof appeared unusually mute. A broken vacancy sign hung from a pole with the help of a rusty chain. I could see the twinkling rain drops dribbling down the chain at erratic intervals.
Noticing these things, I began to walk towards the stony steps which led to a wooden, black door. Dead leaves and acorn crunched noisily under my shoes. Looking around, I saw a flurry of golden-fiery lights hovering over the bushes near the entrance, and I thought it to be a group of fireflies but it had vanished completely by the time I got there. The stray puff of wind, that was quiet for some time during my observation, began to blow, arousing nocturnal whispering all around me.
An icy, cold wave swept over me and my head suddenly felt heavy. An animal screamed into the night cutting the whispers like a knife. It became awfully silent once again as a shudder worked its way up my back.
Without warning, it hit me that something was radically amiss around my ambience.
Taking one cautious look behind my back, I began to climb the steep, stony steps. I reached the black door and was just pondering over the prospect of leaving the place when it swung open with a loud creak, nearly making me jump in fright.
My heart began to race as my eyes crumpled against the blinding yellow light.
“Welcome, my friend. Welcome to Barry’s lodge.”
Slowly opening my eyes and tolerating the retro-bulbar pain with my tightly clenched jaw, I saw a short, portly man standing between the door way. He was smiling broadly and I couldn’t help but notice his crooked, bare front teeth.
I shook his hand which was horribly cold and squeezed through the gap between his flabby tank and the door frame. I found myself staring at an unusually large foyer. The humidity and the faint smell of burnt fish was smothering. Sloppy caramel tapestries covered the walls, and an antique, bronze chandelier hung from the ceiling, partially obscured by the gossamer filaments of inevitably blooming spiders. Silver candelabrums with clinging, tempered wax stood on the mantle. The wood was crackling merrily in its crate. The bronze pendulum of a large, dingy looking grandfather clock swayed loudly, squeaking every now and then, as if the chains hadn’t been oiled in a long time. My eyes jumped from the knitting basket and a red yarn to an unfinished jumper that lay on the wooden reception from where two narrow, carpeted corridors turned to my right and left, leading to daunting obscurity.
I could barely see a winding staircase behind the counter, dotted with a sloppy red carpet. A gigantic head of a moose hung just above the reception from a wooden peg, which went straight through one of the eyes and deep inside the wooden frame; its skin had turned pearly grey with the transition of time, its mouth was hanging wide open and a small cranium was supporting about four intertwining antlers which casted flitting shadows on the wooden floor. Just to the right of the door leading to the staircase, a large key rack, made out of cedar wood, was plastered firmly on the wall, carrying keys to their respective rooms.
A mere glance at the rack and it dawned upon me that there were roughly about forty rooms in the motel.
“Quite a big place, eh?” I said to myself.
“How are you, sir?” said the man, rubbing his hands together as he closed the door shut. He turned towards the reception, still beaming and pushed what looked like a weak spot in the counter, which immediately gave way to reveal an empty space.
I looked closely and understood that it was a narrow passageway linking the two sides of the reception.
Gasping loudly, he tucked his belly inside and squeezed his way in.
He was a short man, barely more than five feet, and had small watery eyes that fidgeted in their sockets a little too exuberantly. Sharing with me a supercilious smile, he turned to face me. I tried not to look stunned at his conduct, but I must’ve failed at it for he said in a raspy voice:
“Ah, I beg your pardon, sir…but please, I must insist here that there is no sight in the world more beautiful than the sight of melted cheese.”
“No… ha ha... It’s all right,” I said quickly. “Erm…is this Barry’s lodge?” I added, still in disbelief that Frank wouldn’t have picked a place so bleak for my writing skills to flourish.
“Barry’s it is, sir,” he said, nodding. “How can I help you?”
“Err…well…urm...I think I have a reservation. My name’s Alfred Blackwood,” I muttered rather glumly, the balloon inside me that had swollen at the idea that perhaps I was at the wrong place, slowly punctured into nothingness.
“Mr. Alfred?” said the man excitedly.
“Yes, why?”
“You’re the writer.”
“I’m afraid, yes-.”
All of a sudden, he grabbed my hand once again and began shaking it frantically. I politely pulled away from his cold hands.
“Ah, pardon me sir for my frankness. What a pleasure to have you here, sir. It’s an honor, really,” he sighed as he wiped pearly specks of sweat on his brow with the back of his hairy arm.
“Did Mr. Frank call for the reservation?”
“Mr. Frank Preston?”
“Yes, that’s him,” I said dryly. A tiny ray of hope which I had contemplated just a while ago finally dissolved in the stream of his words.
“Then, I guess everything’s in order, sir. My name’s Barron Harold. You can call me Barry. And I’m the caretaker of this place.”
“Pleased to meet you, Barry.”
“Same here, sir,” he smirked. “Same here. Ah, let’s see where I kept it …I forget it almost every time,” he added and disappeared beneath the counter only to reappear again, panting, and holding a battered looking register in his hand. “Yes…why don’t you just sign over here…one second…yes, here…it’s just for a record that you checked in, sir.”
He pointed to a peculiar looking quill and an ink bottle that lay in a corner.
“You don’t have a pen?” I asked, staring at the sloppy bottle covered in smudged stains.
“It’s our tradition, sir. We don’t use pens at this motel, I’m afraid.”
“All right,” I mumbled and picked up the quill. It was a crow’s feather, and I could see marks of something that looked horribly like dried blood. Before scribbling on the register, I read my room number. It was twenty three on the first floor. Ellen and I always approved of rooms on the second floor so after clearing my throat, I asked: “Barry, I think it would be better if you could provide me a room on the second floor. It’s just an old habit. Do you have one that’s empty?”
“Sir, I would advise against it,” he said in a serious note, shaking his head.
“And why would that be?”
“Sir, the rooms upstairs haven’t been opened in a while,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “And some of them are inhabited by…err—” He broke off and started looking over my shoulder.
I turned around my spot to find nothing but the wooden, entrance door staring back at me. Something felt wrong. I could sense it. Maybe, I was nervous but the temperature in the room had definitely dropped a few degrees.
“By BATS!” Barry swore loudly, slamming his fist hard on the table.
I looked at him coldly, alarmed by his sudden quirkiness.
“Bats?”
He must be kidding me, I thought.
“Yes, sir—bats…big ones, I tell you. And I don’t think that’s a great idea for you to spend the night on the second floor, and by the way it’s currently out of bounds for new visitors. Oh! Wait a minute, sir.” He vanished behind the counter once again. After a bout of swearing and cursing, he re-emerged carrying what looked like a thick book. Wiping dirt and clinging web off it on the front of his jumper, he placed it neatly in front of me.
“It’s my duty to inform you that…urm…that… there are certain rules and regulations that you must abide by while you’re staying with us.”
Thinking of the possibility of the man being a complete lunatic, I flicked the file open and scanned the appendix. To my surprise, the rules went from one to hundred. I turned the page and the “Rule number One” held my interest, “Warning: No Nighttime Strolls after Dusk.”
I continued to read:
“Visitors at Barry’s Lodge are hereby warned under penalty of arrest that you must cooperate with the staff members, who only have your best interests at heart and will stop at nothing to make sure that you are safe and sound. The entrance door will be locked at 8:00 pm sharp, without entertaining any leverages or concessions, what so ever. So, unless you are looking forward to spend the night out with one of our hefty and extremely dangerous “cougars”, you are hereby warned once more that you must return to the motel at all costs by 8:00 pm. Failure to comply with this rule shall invoke appropriate action by the security staff, provided you’re still alive by the end of your beastly encounter.”
As soon as I’d finished, I snorted with laughter. Barry frowned at me, looking confused and annoyed at the same time.
“Please, sir, I think you’re taking them lightly—”
“I’m sorry, Barry. I think …err…they seem a bit funny,” I said, still chuckling. “So, do I have to go through all of them?”
“Precisely, sir. And we don’t allow check in’s unless we have a written permission from the visitor himself.”
“Is there a way we could skip them?” I asked wearily, feeling the thick, dry pages. Hundreds of them. My legs felt like cold lead pipes, and I longed for a warm shower and a cozy bed.
“You can. But we’ll still require your signature so that we are in complete understanding that you’ve agreed to comply with them, sir,” said Barry, shrugging his shoulders.
“All right, let’s get it over with. Tell me, where do you need them, Barry?”
He took the file and started turning the pages, pausing every now and then as if making up his mind, and then finally pointed at an empty space.
“Here!”
I took the quill and signed it hastily. I needed to get to my room as fast as I could.
“Now, you can keep the quill. We’ve established a bond,” said Barry, with a look of achievement on his face. “It’s our rule number eighty seven.”
Smiling at the erratic nature of the rules, I cleaned the tip with my other hand and stuffed the quill in the back pocket of my trousers as I saw Barry lifting a key, having an appearance to that of an ancient relic, off its hook below the number twenty three.
“I’ll lead the way, sir,” he muttered and dashed outside the counter with surprising energy.
“Oh…hang on. I have to bring the luggage from my car. Could you—”
“No, sir. I must apologize for any inconvenience but guests arriving after 8:00 must handle the luggage on their own--that’s for the safety of the staff. It is rule number two, sir.”
“Okay…I’ll get it,” I said in a stern voice.
He ushered forward and opened the door. I was uncertain whether I should step outside or not but feeling his eyes on the back of my neck, I began to walk. My legs shivered in the intense cold, and I thrust my hands deep inside my coat. The clouds had dispersed, and the moon washed the damp earth with its silver gleaming light. I quickly walked towards the car, without waiting to look around and if I hadn’t read the first rule, intrigue and excitement would have surely superseded my growing nervousness. Quivering at the idea of cougars running loose around the property, I quickly opened the trunk and lifted the luggage out of it. Making sure that I was carrying my phone with me, I strolled back to the door, taking quick and long strides.
Within minutes, heaving and panting, I was back inside the warm l
obby waiting for Barry to escort me to my room. He was kind enough to lend his hand as he began to drag the luggage in front of me, while I walked behind him towards the corridor on the left, glancing shortly at the room numbers “11-23” carved on the wood.
It was a dimly lit passage and I couldn’t help but notice that all the rooms looked similar. A golden glow made its way from underneath the gap of some of the doors, lighting up the checkered linoleum floor.
“How many people are staying in here, Barry?”
“Not many, sir,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “They come and go. It’s usually empty during this part of the year, and I’d say we’re lucky to have a few of them today. But not a single one of them is a writer, sir,” he added, winking at me.
I returned the gesture by smiling and going slightly red behind my ears, feeling grateful in my heart that the light in the corridor didn’t shine bright enough.
“Well, here we are!” said Barry, stopping abruptly in his tracks.
We were facing a wooden door directly ahead of us.
There were six rooms on the left and six on the right with mine in the center at the end of the corridor.
Not bad! I wondered.
Barry stuffed the key in its hole and twisted it. He looked back at me and with a nervous nod in my direction, he grasped the silver, metal knob and turned it. The door opened with a loud creak, unveiling a dark space in front.
“I’ll turn the lights on,” he mumbled and disappeared in the darkness.
I heard something heavy fell on the ground followed by a loud groan and then, silence.
“Barry?” I asked hoarsely, my heart skipping a beat.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Fear overrode me as my ears pricked and I tried to decipher the objects in the darkness, waiting in apprehension. I could hear the faint, angry howls of the wind as it struck the sprawling, gothic motel. I was about to answer my intuition to bang the doors in which I’d seen some light earlier or shout for help, when I heard Barry’s moaning voice answer back:
The Haunting At Barry's Lodge (Gripping Paranormal Private Investigator Suspense Novel): Unexplained Eerie Story of the Supernatural and A Dark Disturbing Psychological Thriller with a Killer Twist Page 4