I kept staring at the words, my heart slowly thumping against my ribs while I listened to the silent splatter of the rain outside my window.
Someone’s pulling a bad joke on you, Alfred. This has to be a joke.
I snapped the laptop shut and threw it on the bed.
Could it be Barry? But my laptop is password protected. He wouldn’t be able to access it. Only Ellen knew my password.
With my hand shaking uncontrollably, I picked up my phone and poked at the “messages” icon. I knew it in my heart even before I had opened them.
I couldn’t see Frank’s message anywhere.
A sense of foreboding rode over me and my stomach felt heavy. I dropped in the armchair, stretching my numb legs in front of the fire.
I didn’t hear anyone come inside my room while I was asleep. I tried to comfort myself that the saturnine furniture of the room and the dark wall paper—they must be the cause of the strange feeling that lay over me. But the terror wouldn’t leave me, instead it seemed to be settling on me more heavily than ever.
Martha… broken mirror…and now the creepy messages…there had to be a rational explanation for all of these—or…may be the motel was haunted?
Haunted? Nah, come on, Alfred. You’re overthinking it!
Never once in my life did I crave for the internet more than at that particular moment. Maybe I could find something of relevance on Google, or maybe I was being deprived of communication on purpose.
I had to talk to Barry. I made up my mind. Only he would know what exactly is going on at this motel. He should better have convincing answers to the questions that swelled inside me, otherwise I’d be out this forsaken place for good and that too before he could ask me for the rent.
I rose swiftly, grabbed the envelopes from the table and dashed towards the door. My insight stopped me from turning the knob. With slightly bent knees, I aligned my left eye to look through the peephole. The corridor was black just like in my nightmare, hiding countless tangled shadows. I scrunched my eye to pick any movement among them.
There wasn’t any...
And then, before I could react, I was looking inside a twinkling, grey eye.
I swore involuntarily and lost my grip on the cellphone and the envelopes. My bottom hit the ground with a sickening thud. My elbows burned as I scraped them against the carpet, quickly edging away from the door.
Chapter 7: Finding Answers
“Who’s there?” I spluttered loudly through a mouthful of panic and fear.
Silence answered me.
“I am armed…do you hear me? I’m a-armed,” I choked out with difficulty.
Slowly I got up on my feet, trying to steady my trembling legs. I lunged at the door, swinging it wide open. The door banged against the wall emphatically and then it sprang back, threatening to close my view of the corridor but I quickly extended my left leg forward to keep it open.
The corridor was empty except the blackness of its shadows. The lights that I’d seen on my first day creeping through the crevices of some of the doors had been switched off. The light from my room penetrated the gloom only for a few steps as far as the second door.
I’d better call Barry first and make sure he was sitting at the reception.
I closed the door shut and locked it. Without wasting another moment, I lunged at the phone and pressed the button which I’d become so accustomed to.
“Hello, Barry here,” a familiar voice called out.
“H-hey, B-Barry-are you back?” I asked, breathing heavily.
“I didn’t go anywhere, sir. I’ve been sitting here all morning. Is everything all right, sir?”
“No…it’s not. You wait for me in the lobby…I’m coming.”
The roof above me creaked loudly followed by a deafening clunk of wood striking on the metal.
Feeling very little curiosity at the growing commotion, I picked up the letters and my phone from the carpet, switched the camera flash on, twisted the door knob and scrambled outside the room. The door closed loudly behind me. My eyes watered as I managed with difficulty to keep them fixed on the grim darkness ahead. My body was shaking all over like an autumn leaf. With my teeth clattering and my jumper covered in cold sweat, I inched forward at a steady speed towards the main lobby. I tilted my head side to side, my heart drumming furiously against my chest. The light from my cellphone barely penetrated the thick shadows. At nearly every door I expected someone to drub me, carrying my body inside the room without making the faintest of the noises so that Barry wouldn’t come to my rescue.
Or would he? I dared not imagine what his primary response would be.
Before I knew I was out of the corridor and dragging myself towards the warm lobby, panting heavily. With the cell phone still flashing in my right hand, I saw Barry’s jaw drop as he scrambled to his feet.
“Good gracious—” He began with a shocked expression on his sweaty face.
“I need some water!” I said faintly, clutching a stitch in my chest.
Barry hurried forward, flung his armchair from above the counter and threw it on the floor with such an agility that it belied his obesity.
The chair landed sweetly on the carpet.
“Sit here, sir. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“Just—water—will—do,” I mouthed with difficulty. My breath seemed to have caught in my throat which felt raw and itchy as if I’d been screaming for hours.
No sooner had I settled myself in the armchair when Barry came lurching towards me, carrying an ancient looking bottle. I didn’t wait to ask him what it was. I felt an odd, sick feeling in my stomach that had everything to do with fear.
After I’d drunk at least three glasses of what tasted like soda, I got my breath back.
“Thank you, Barry,” I said heavily as I collapsed backwards in the soft chair. My eyes closed. I felt weak, tired and wasted.
“Would you like some coffee, sir?”
“Yes, but please hurry up! I need to talk to you,” I said weakly.
Feeling light headed with my eyes barely open, I watched him disappear behind the counter towards the dim light that was probably coming from the kitchen.
As soon as he was gone, a thousand thoughts thundered in my brain but as the memory of Martha swam into perspective, I bolted upright in the armchair. My eyes darted from the place where Martha had gone all wrong to the spot where I’d stood looking at her, nearly wetting my pants. It slowly dawned upon me that the place looked oddly unfamiliar, and then all of a sudden, I felt much braver than I’d been a while ago.
In my dream the counter was more circular rather than the rhomboid shape as it was now. The portrait had been replaced by the fading skull of a moose which looked older than motel itself. I got up from the chair and went close to counter from where the head hung. Biting my lip, I observed the wall closely for any portrait-shaped blanching. When I couldn’t discern anything peculiar about the wall markings, I relaxed a bit.
My eyes fell on the medieval looking rotary telephone catching dust on the receiver. Keeping my steps as light as possible, I crept towards it, picked it up and pressed the cold speaker against my ear.
There was no dial tone.
“Still not working, I suppose, sir?”
Nearly dropping the phone, I turned around to see Barry with a broad grin on his face, standing in the door way, carrying a thermos and two large mugs on a tray in one hand, and dragging what appeared to be a mahogany chair with the other. He settled the tray neatly on the counter and began pouring black, frothy liquid equally in the mugs.
“Sugar or cream, sir?” he asked politely.
“I’d rather not. Lost taste for it a long while back,” I said, walking up to him. I dragged my armchair back to where he was cramming his own little, moth-eaten one.
I saw him shift large amounts of whipped cream from the pitcher to his mug and began stirring it rather viciously.
“Cream is good, sir,” he said gleefully, pushing the untouched mug towar
ds me. “I’m living on creams, I tell you, sir.”
I thanked him and took a sip. My senses roared back to life. Everything seemed clearer, much clearer now.
“That I can see, Barry,” I muttered, eyeing his belly which gave a final shake like a ripple in a pond and became still as Barry abruptly stopped stirring.
Catching the look on my face, he gave a booming laugh and crammed himself untidily in his chair.
“Nice one!” he chortled, winking at me “That’s the best one I’ve heard in years, sir. Years, I tell you.”
I smiled back at him and for a minute or two we drank the hot, pleasant coffee in silence, listening to the groans of the windows and violent gusts of wind striking the front door.
“I hope it will be over soon,” he grumbled, “It’s a nightmare out there…one of the worst storms we’ve ever had at Barry’s since it’s opening in 1964.”
“Oh, frankly speaking… I never thought it’d be this old.”
“It’s definitely old, sir. Older than me, I should say. I was born here, you see. And I inherited it back in 1963 when both of my parents died. I was seven then. Ah— good old days, sir. Can’t ask God for anything better than those memories. I had a great childhood, sir. A great one, indeed.”
I saw his chest heave upwards as he let out a sad sigh.
“What happened to them?” I asked curiously.
“Car accident,” he muttered shortly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly.
“No, sir— you don’t need to be sorry. I’m proud of them. They taught me great things in life at that tender age…and…only they could’ve done it. I just miss them a lot—” he broke off as tears welled up in his eyes and, to my disgust, he began smothering his nose against the sleeve of his lilac jumper as thick, tenacious mucous appeared in streaks against the plum background.
For a moment, I could only hear him gasping and sobbing, my mouth wide-open in surprise.
“Oh, I’m really sorry, Barry. I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories,” I said uneasily.
I couldn’t think of anything better to calm him down.
“Nah…nah…it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just that it really gets lonely at times.”
“So, you’ve been the one taking care of this place since then?” I asked quickly, trying my best to change the topic
“Yes,” he said hoarsely as his chest swelled up once again, tears still shimmering on his eyelashes. “All by myself.”
“You never thought of settling down or having your own family?”
“No, sir,” he smiled weakly. “Marriage is for strong men and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m not strong enough. I’ve been running the place like my parents would’ve liked to me to do—it’s the only thing I’ve got,” he finished with difficulty.
“No siblings?” I asked, thinking that Martha wasn’t his wife, after all.
It was a bad dream that’s all it was.
“I was the only child…oh God, I still remember the day I was baptized. My parents were so happy---they even got me a new bicycle,” he mumbled dreamily.
I watched him as he poured some more coffee, filling the mugs to the brim and eyeing the empty pitcher of the cream rather greedily.
“So, what brings you running amok out of your room at his hour of the day, sir?” said Barry, his face lit up with concern as he took a loud slurp from his mug and placed it silently on the wood.
I looked inside my mug and felt the hot steam rushing up my nostrils. My brain was racing once again as a number of questions poured in, each more bizarre than the former.
“Barry…err… am I the only tenant staying at this motel right now?”
“Yes, sir. We had a couple of guests two days ago when you arrived, but when I warned them about the upcoming storm, and that they might’ve to stay until it was over… they checked out the very next morning. Not everyone likes staying here, you see, especially with the strict rules my pa made,” he waited for me to laugh.
But I didn’t. I had other more pressing matters on my mind. Questions I needed to ask.
“The mirror in the bath—”
“Not again,” he groaned angrily, showing his bandaged left hand from where old specks of blood mottled the gauze. “I’ve told that old loony, Mr. Sanders, a million times already...but does he listen—”
He never got the chance to compete his sentence. At the same time, a loud bang filled the whole foyer nearly knocking us out of our chairs. I could feel the vibrations of the blast under my feet.
“What’s that?” I said in a hushed voice, rising to my feet, thinking what exactly I would do if the whole building collapsed.
“Oh…it’s nothing. The boilers have been messing up lately,” sighed Barry casually. “The whole place needs repairing. You see that staircase behind me? It creaks so much that sometimes I wonder if it would continue to support my weight.”
“So that’s what’s been scaring me out my wits,” I said, laughing as I sat down.
Barry snorted with laughter.
“Yes, I’m afraid it does startle you if you’re not used to loud noises. Bloody thing bangs quite frequently, you see, sir.”
As soon as he had finished, a new set of noises erupted over our heads; loud groans of what sounded like pipes followed by shrill, gurgling sounds.
“We’re not heading for an explosion, are we Barry?” I asked in a worried tone.
“Never heard of boilers blowing up places,” he shrugged. “Have you, sir?”
I shook my head and took another gulp of coffee, thinking deeply.
Barry rose from his chair and began filling it up again.
“I will get it checked once the winter is over,” he said in a low voice, “but God knows, sir, I’m running pretty low on cash. It’s been a hard winter for business and I don’t complain. I never do, sir. You know why? Because this lodge has never let me down. Not yet. And it’s my belief that something always comes up in the end. So, why complain, huh?” he added with a smile on his face as he looked at me, his eyes twinkling.
Blushing slightly, I raised my mug to my mouth and asked:
“You were saying something about Mr. Sanders?”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot. He’s our glassmaker—well—the only one in Skiddaw town but he’s an old fraud, sir,” he said gloomily. “He makes mirror more fragile than butter. Two broke yesterday morning …one in the kitchen and one in my room. They can’t stand harsh weather. But he’s our best bet, here. I have yet to find a glassmaker in Skiddaw who’s cheaper than him.”
I nodded approvingly.
My heart began to thump heavily as the final question roared inside me. I glanced nervously at Barry who looked in a good mood and was now rolling his index finger inside the pitcher, drawing out foamy cream and licking it with pleasure.
For a moment, I thought he still looked like a seven year old boy.
“Do you know Martha, Barry?” I managed to keep my voice straight.
But my words seemed to have pierced Barry like a spade; he dropped the pitcher, clutched his chest and his elbow struck the mug in front of him, which fell with a loud crash, shattering into smaller pieces.
“W-who?” he gasped.
I looked at him, appalled at his reaction. It seemed that he somehow knew her or was at least familiar with the name.
“W-why did you ask that?” he repeated, rubbing his face as small shimmering beads of sweat appeared on his brow.
“Do you know her?” I asked again, raising my eyebrows but the sense of foreboding rose back inside me.
Should I tell him about my dream? No, Alfred. This is not the right time. Let’s hear him out first!
“Who are you?” asked Barry suspiciously.
He looked as though the mere mention of her name made him feel faintly sick. He swallowed several times like a cornered mouse, throwing me another sharp sideways glance.
“What do you mean?
” I asked coldly.
“I mean…urm…what else do you do for a living other than being an author?” Barry shuffled uneasily in his chair.
“Well …err…I’m currently running a recording studio and before that I was—”
“You aren’t getting me,” he said laughing hysterically. “You’re not one of those paranormal guys, are you?” he added, looking me up and down with shrewd eyes as if he was buying a hefty piece of beef.
I shook my head silently.
He gave me one final, dark stare and rose from his chair.
“I apologize for any disrespect, sir,” he said reproachfully.
“Please it’s important—” I began.
“No, sir. No, please …no…please, you must understand. You’re a nice guy but I simply can’t tell you anything more than what you already know. I don’t want to give you nightmares. Nothing’s wrong withthis place. AbsolutelyNOTHING!” he roared like an angry baby-elephant, slamming his fist hard on the counter.
But I could smell the stench of frustration and fear on him. And I knew it in my heart that if I pressed a little longer, he might give in eventually.
“Look, Barry. Just give me a background story…all right? That’s all I want. Maybe I can include that in my upcoming book, and I’ll give you—let’s say… thirty percent rights of my book. That’s about thirty percent share of whatever I make. You do want to renovate the place, after all. Don’t you?” I said hastily in a warm flattering voice.
He looked puzzled and angry at the same time.
I thought that perhaps I could’ve done a little better to convince him.
For a minute or two, he kept shaking his head and muttering words like, “Should’ve known…no respect…need the money…”
Finally after one skeptical frown in my direction and to my disbelief, he nodded his head.
I smiled at him, scratching my head.
Pain seared across my right temple once again and I immediately stopped.
“But before I begin, sir,” he said in a threatening tone, pointing his thick finger at me. “Let me set some rules first. They’re only two. They’re always two. Rule number one--you’re not allowed to interrupt. I want to get over and done with it as quickly as possible. Save your questions until the very end. Rule number two--you’re solely responsible for whatever happens after that. Did I make myself clear?”
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 7