by Jeff DePew
“My daughter? Who has my daughter?”
She was with the housekeeper. She was fine.
“And the man? The man who was—in the room with me? Where is he?”
The nurse had stood and said she didn’t know. But her eyes betrayed her. She knew. The nurse had excused herself and had left the room.
***
Jessica King waited patiently for her elevator. When it arrived, she got in, closely followed by three twenty-somethings in skimpy outfits and dangerously high heels. The trio spent the entire elevator ride riveted to their cell phones, laughing and occasionally nudging one another to share something on their screens. Whatever it was only elicited more laughter. Jessica smiled at them and shook her head. Had she ever been like that? That young and carefree? Well, she had, she supposed, until—the bell dinged, the three girls looked up, and still laughing, spilled out into the fifth floor corridor.
At the seventh floor, Jessica got out, tugged her suitcase over the threshold and turned left. She actually could have used a bellhop to carry her suitcase, but it was always so awkward once they go the room. She tried to tip them at the elevator, but they usually wouldn’t hear of it. They always wanted to escort her to her room and show her around. Her? She knew the room better than they ever would. And then when they saw how it was decorated . . . that always led to questions.
***
Exactly a year after the shooting, she returned to the room. She wanted to see it one last time. The trial had lasted most of the year. Her lawyers had insisted she sue the hotel. At first she had refused, just wanting the whole terrible incident to go away. Just take care of her hospital bills and rehab and forget about it. But they had told her it was the hotel’s responsibility to ensure the safety of all guests, and by allowing one of their owners to shoot two guests, they were not protecting their guests. And she had her daughter to think about. This type of settlement could guarantee her daughter’s future. So she had acquiesced.
Kat was with her grandmother for the day. She had not told either one where she was going. They wouldn’t understand. And she couldn’t blame them. How could she explain wanting to come back here one last time? Except for her time with Kat, this was the only place she had really been happy for the past five years. She wanted to see it one last time. To say goodbye.
She leaned her cane against the wall and fished out the passkey she had been given and opened the door. Because it was a crime scene, and considered evidence, it had not been used since the shooting. The carpet and the door had been replaced, but the furniture was the same. Eventually, they would come in and sanitize it, repaint it and replace the furniture and it would be just like every other room, indistinguishable from the rest. But it wasn’t any other room. It was their room.
As soon as she entered the room, she had felt something . . . familiar and comforting. A feeling of peace spread through her. She was almost at the window, when she realized she wasn’t limping. A movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned. She gasped.
***
She stopped outside room 732 and let go of the suitcase. This was always the hardest part. Would it happen this time? Was it even right that she do this? Should she turn around, taxi to the airport, and head home? And then what? She had her beautiful house overlooking the ocean, she had her friends, and, of course, she had her darling Katherine and the grandkids. Her life was good, she knew, but something was missing. Something she could only find in the Excelsior. So she was here. Again.
She belonged here. This was where she wanted to be.
She took the key from her coat pocket and looked at it. She turned it over in her hands. How many times had she held this key?
She reached forward and unlocked the door.
The room was dark, and although she knew where the light switch was, she didn't hit it. The room had to be dark. Otherwise it wouldn’t work.
She pulled her suitcase into the room, shut the door and locked it. Checked the lock.
Jessica walked further into the darkened room. She knew this room intimately. But even without the room lights, she could just make out the shape of the bed from the light coming through the bottom of the door. The nightstand right there, and the dresser near the window.
She shivered and hugged herself. It was cold. But she knew she wouldn’t be cold for long. As she continued into the room, her right knee relaxed and her limp disappeared. Her posture improved, and even though she couldn’t see it, the white streak in her hair faded away.
“You look more beautiful every time I see you.”
A shadow detached itself from the wall beside the window. Green eyes glinted as it moved closer, the outline of a man becoming clearer and more solid. He was here. Her man. After all these years. Even death couldn’t keep them apart.
They embraced, and their lips met. They kissed hungrily, passionately. No talking was needed. What was there to say? She held his face in her hands. That face she knew so well. That face that would be forever young; forever hers and hers alone. His hands ran through her hair, now no longer in a bun. He caressed her neck. He kissed her her cheeks, her forehead and her lips. He moved down to kiss her neck, now the smooth neck of a twenty-five year old.
They fell together onto the bed.
***
Hours later they in bed. She rarely slept when she was here; and it wasn’t because of the sex. There was plenty of that, to be sure. But just to lie with him and talk; sometimes that was the best part. He asked questions upon questions; about Kat, the grandkids, her house, everything she had been up to since last year. He couldn’t hear enough. And she loved to share her life with him.
As dawn approached , he held her close and gazed into her eyes. He was starting to fade as night gave way to morning. This was the hardest part.
“You’ll be back?”
She kissed him. “Of course, my darling. Same time, next year.”
Thanataphobia
The condo had one of the best views on the Las Vegas Strip. With the electric shutters raised, the panoramic windows on three sides commanded views from Mt. Charleston to the west to Boulder City and Arizona in the east, and the entire Las Vegas Valley, including the strip, in between. The casinos, new and old, the expensive towers, the giant observation wheel. Flashing lights shone through the windows, blended and altered the bluish light from the flat screen TV, bouncing off the ceiling and creating eerie shadows on the walls.
Normally, the noise of the traffic on the Strip could not reach up here. Residents were supposed to feel as though they were removed from the rest of the world. The sliding glass door to the balcony was open, however, and the shrill cries of sirens echoed through the room. Sirens. All the time now, it seemed.
Logan Barnett sat on the arm of the couch, staring blankly at the TV screen. He held the remote and pushed the channel up button repeatedly. It was the same on most channels. If the station wasn’t showing the same footage of the president being quickly led from his helicopter to a motorcade, it was showing scenes of civil unrest, cities in flames, rioting, looting. Exhilarated newscasters reporting on mass rioting, governments toppled, panic in the streets.
The crawls at the bottom of the screen varied from “The End of Days? ... The White House calls for Martial Law... Paris in flames... Experts Have no Answers... “ and on and on and on... He thumbed the TV off. How had it gone so wrong?
He shut off the TV and went out to the balcony. He stood beside a chair that lay on its side and leaned on the railing.
The sirens were much louder here, more insistent. He could also hear voices. Screams, really. And figures running through the streets, dodging cars, fighting. Some, he could just make out, were looking at him, pointing and gesturing. Others were lying down. On the sidewalks, in the streets. But they were all moving. They were all alive.
Three Days Earlier
The room was bare of furniture, hardwood floor gleaming in the shimmering light of several dozen candles placed throughout the room. Large diagrams and circ
les within circles painted across every surface of the room. Symbols, runes, letters, in Latin, Aramaic, even Aklo, among other, older languages along with unrecognizable inscriptions and figures covered the walls and ceiling. Writing over writing. Patterns crossing over onto other designs. The closet door was closed and painted over, continuing the patterns. A stepladder stood leaning against the window, which was covered with cardboard and painted over. Beneath stood several cans of spray paint.
A large circle was spray painted in the center of the floor. It was surrounded and accented by more detailed writing and symbols. Barnett, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, was on his hands and knees, an ancient tome in one hand and a piece of red sidewalk chalk in the other. The pages of the book were patchworked with sticky notes: pink, yellow, blue, white. Other pages were marked with paper clipss, napkins, newspaper clippings, highlighted Xerox copies and other makeshift bookmarks.
He stared intently at the pages, his lips moving soundlessly, then drew a symbol, looked at it, back at the book, added a line, looked at it again. He picked up another book from a stack on the floor, undid the metal clasp, leafed through it briefly, and located a specific page. He read, looked back at what he had written, nodded, placed the book and chalk down, stood up, his arms pushing in the small of his back, and stretched. He glanced at his Rolex. Ten–fifty. Plenty of time. He had been at it for three days, barely sleeping, barely eating. Tonight should be it.
Picking up the chalk and the book, he looked around the room one last time. He grabbed a plastic trash bag and tossed in the cans of spray paint, leftover chalk, and wadded up towels. No distractions. Everything neat and orderly. He looked around again. Nodded. It was time.
Closing the door behind him, he walked past a small bathroom, laundry room, through a connecting door, and into a modern, expansive kitchen. The bedroom and bathroom off the kitchen were originally intended as a maid’s quarters, but he had a different purpose for them. Barnett dropped the trash bag beside a chrome trash can and continued up a flight of spiral stairs and entered a master bedroom. It contained a king-size bed and a dresser. Nothing on the walls. Barnett stripped off his paint and chalk-smeared sweatpants and stepped into the shower. The cold water hit his back and he shuddered, but stayed beneath the stream. Despite the discomfort, he felt invigorated beneath the icy blast. If he couldn’t handle some cold water, how would he deal with what he had planned?
After his shower, he toweled off and pulled on a pair of jeans and a white Oxford shirt. He rolled the sleeves up and tucked it in. In all his research, Barnett had been unable to determine if what he wore made any difference. He knew that some of the ceremonies called for particular robes, or often, nothing at all. Since he had not found anything specific, he decided it did not matter. So he might as well be comfortable. As he finished getting dressed, he glanced down at his cell phone on the floor, plugged into a charger. He paused, debating whether or not to check his voicemail, but left it. No distractions.
In the kitchen, he threw a frozen pizza in the top oven and poured himself a large bourbon. Only one. He was nervous, but he needed to keep his wits. His head began to throb and he looked through a selection of pharmaceutical bottles on the counter. He found what he was looking for and swallowed several Tramadol. He twisted open a plastic water bottle, chased down his pills, and topped off his bourbon. He walked to the window and stared out at the lights.
It was nearly twelve when he approached the adjoining door and opened it. He was carrying a butane lighter and a battery-powered lantern which he placed by his feet. He stepped inside and carefully closed the door and shot the deadbolt. He looked around to make sure everything was as it should be. A couple of candles had gone out, so he quickly relit them. With a piece of chalk, Barnett made some quick additions to several of the diagrams, solidifying a line here, thickening a line there, and he was ready. So much time, so much effort, so much money had gone into this... project. Time to see if it had all been worth it.
Midnight.
Barnett opened the book to a page he had marked with a 7-11 receipt. He placed three bells on the floor by his feet. They were small, roughly made and very old. It had taken him two years to find all three of them.
He began to read aloud, softly at first, finding his rhythm, and then with more power and ferocity. He felt something in the room change, and he stumbled over a word. The room had grown noticeably colder. He looked around before continuing. One of the candles flared suddenly, revealing for a moment a shadowy figure in a corner of the ceiling. He heard a flapping sound for an instant, as if enormous wings were beating. He glanced upward nervously, and then winced and put his hand to his temple. His headache was back.
Barnett continued reading, chanting, reciting. He could see his breath as the room grew steadily colder. He grew hoarse and he cursed himself for not having the foresightedness to bring one of his water bottles. His voice cracked and the flames danced.
He knelt and picked up the first bell and rang it gently. The room shuddered, the walls creaking, the window rattling.
Another candle flared, and he saw the outline again before it disappeared and the candle went out. This time, the shadow seemed more... solid. It’s working.
Barnett picked up the pace. He rang the second bell and recited the words. A candle flamed up and the figure appeared again. Only this time, it stayed. And the candle did not go out.
Barnett stared at the dark shape in the center of the circle. It seemed smaller than he was expecting. It was hard to make out exactly what it looked like. It was somewhat amorphous, but human shaped. It moved, but it was still. It was dark, but he saw flashes of white. Without taking his eyes off the figure, he knelt down and rang the third bell, said the words. The figure coalesced into a solid, discernible shape.
“By the power and word of—” Barnett began and the rest of the candles popped out, all at once. The room was plunged into darkness. He took an involuntary step back, and then another, backed into the door, and cried out. The book tumbled from his grasp. Kneeling down, crawling forward in the darkness, he desperately felt around for the lantern. His fingers fumbled and found the power switch and twisted. Harsh white light filled the room. Barnett grabbed the book and clasped it to his chest.
He leafed through the book, looking for the page where he had left off. He continued: “By the power and word of—” and began listing gods and beings whose names had not been spoken aloud for thousands of years, if ever at all.
“Release me,” said a voice (in his head, in his ears—it was impossible to tell where it had come from.)
This was difficult. He was more frightened than he expected. Deep breath. Be strong. He closed his eyes, his face screwing up in concentration. Deep breath in. Hold it. Now out. Focus. He continued reading, reciting the words. He read carefully, hitting all the syllables and the harsh, discordant consonants.
“Release me,” repeated the voice. (This time it was in his ears.) The figure glided toward him. As it moved, it seemed to clarify, to grow more solid. It looks like a child! he had time to think before it reached the edge of the circle. A bright flash. The building shook or maybe it was just the room. He heard something crash to the floor in the kitchen. A vivid blue light shot around the floor, tracing the circle he had drawn on the floor. The dark figure stumbled back and righted itself. The room smelled like burning plastic. The circle continued to glow blue for a moment, then went back to its original red.
“What have you done?” came the voice again, but this time it was clearly audible. The voice was soft, speaking faintly accented English. Or is that just what it sounds like to me?
A boy—or maybe a girl? stood in the center of the room. He looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. He was dark, with sharp cheekbones and large black eyes. His hair was short with tight curls. He wore black pants and coat with a white shirt, open at the collar, tie loosened. His feet were bare. He stared at Barnett. His face showed nothing. No pleading, no anger.
“Let me go. This
should not be happening.”
Barnett strode towards the barrier, feeling more confident with every step. He turned back to the book and continued to read.
The boy winked away, and in his place stood an ancient, horrible woman, hunched over, dressed in filthy rags. She gnashed her teeth together, which made an odd clanking sound. By the glare of the lantern, he realized her teeth were iron, filed to a point. Eyes, white and milky, regarded him hatefully. She held a broom in one claw-like hand, and pointed a bony finger at him with the other. Her nails were long and broken and filthy.
“Dat' mne svobodu.” Her voice was a husky rasp, barely audible. A thread of saliva hung from her tongue, which dangled over her black and blistered lower lip, as if there was only room in her mouth for those terrible teeth but nothing else.
Barnett was horrified, but held his ground. He had been warned that this could happen. He turned back to the book. Don’t think. Just read.
The crone leered at him and licked her cracked black lips. More drool fell to the floor. It pooled blackly beneath her.
Then she was gone and in her place stood a great, tall figure, clad entirely in a heavy black shroud and carrying a scythe. Its face was a bleached skull, and eye sockets blazed with internal flame and the empty jaw gaped at him. Despite the absence of any sort of breeze, the shroud was waving and fluttering.
“RELEASE ME!” blasted through his brain, intensifying his headache.