"So you had to see it for yourself?" Linda asked.
"Jason promised me a case of beer if I'd go in alone for twenty minutes and bring back a souvenir. I was barely twenty-two years old and was making minimum wage washing dishes at a local diner, so a free case of beer was almost as good as having my rent paid. I drank three or four beers on the way to Delaney Street to catch a quick buzz. If I was going to do this, I wanted to have some fun with it, ya know? We pulled up in front just as the sun was setting, and at first I couldn't tell what all the fuss was about. I thought Jason was pulling my leg."
"Didn't look so haunted, after all," Linda said.
"Not at all. It was a little run down, but it didn't look abandoned. It was nicer than any other buildings on that street, and suddenly I was more worried about running into someone than any silly ghost story. I finished my beer, patted Jason on the shoulder and told him he'd better have my case waiting for me when I came out. It was a sure thing. I'd take that bet a thousand times."
Linda twirled a finger in the air, urging him to continue.
"When I got inside, all the lights were out. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I wasn't scared, not yet, but I knew something didn't feel right. I checked my watch, saw I was only inside for three or four minutes, and decided to explore the lobby to pass the time. I knew Jason wouldn't let me slide if I came out a single second before my twenty minutes were up.
"I figured there'd be something behind the Admissions desk I could take with me. A pen, stationery, anything, but it was so damn dark all I could see were fuzzy shapes. I found one of those little service bells and jammed it in my pocket. I thought if anyone lived there, they'd surely hear that damn bell jangling, but after a few minutes, I was still alone. I checked my watched again... ten minutes. Halfway. Easiest bet I'd ever won."
"Sterling's office is behind that desk," Linda said. "God only knows what he does in there."
"I never got that far. I'd gotten what I came for. I still had a buzz and hadn't thought to bring a damn flashlight, so I stayed in the lobby and waited out the rest of my time. I paced back and forth from the desk to the elevator, listening to the building settle and groan. Every second felt like years, and the longer I stayed, the more uneasy I got. I cursed myself for being so foolish. Here I was, a pretty big guy in the prime of my life, and I was chewing my fingernails like a kid who'd just lost track of his parents in a crowded mall. I must have checked my watch a thousand times. I looked through the front doors and saw Jason sitting in the car, smoking a cigarette, bobbing his head to whatever was on the radio. I couldn't wait to join him. That's when I heard the scream."
Linda clapped a hand over her mouth in an almost-comical, over-exaggerated way and held her breath. Mort chuckled but there was no humor there. There was never any humor in discussing the Blackridge.
"What did you do?" Linda asked.
"What any crazy person would do... I turned around to see where the noise had come from. I assumed there were probably homeless people living in there, or maybe junkies getting their fix, but I wasn't prepared for what came crawling out of the dark."
There was a pause and a moment where Linda looked like she might fall off the bed. "Well? What? What was it? I don't need the dramatic effects, just tell me what happened."
"I'm gathering my thoughts," Mort said. "Do you think it's easy to talk about? I still have nightmares about it twenty-five years later, so if you want to hear this, you're going to have to be patient."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
"No, don't be sorry, just give me time."
Mort sipped his soda, stretched, and closed his eyes. Linda could tell this wasn't easy for him. She didn't expect it to be. When she was about to nudge him to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep, he opened his eyes.
"I thought it was a man," he said. "He crawled through a door in the back of the room. Not walked... crawled. He dragged himself across the floor by his elbows, you know? Like an Army crawl. He looked directly at me... right into my eyes... it was awful. Hideous. His eyes were covered in some thick white film. I can only imagine he was blind, but it was as if he could see me, or see right through me. His jaw had been broken and blood leaked from his mouth and onto the floor in black streaks. Sounds came out of his mouth, but if they were words, I couldn't understand them.
"His face was covered in sores and his hair had fallen out in patches... like he had radiation poisoning or something. He kept dragging himself across the floor, gibbering and whining, never taking those pales eyes off me as he got closer. I'd realized I'd backed myself against the wall and started shimmying away from him, but he was quick for a man on his belly, and he was positioning himself to cut me off from the exit. Once he got into the light... Jesus Christ."
Mort rubbed a hand over his face and swept a tear from his eye before it could break loose and spill down his cheek.
"His fucking legs were gone," he said. "Not just his legs, but everything from the waist down, like he'd been blown in two. He dragged his intestines behind him... and all I could think about was how they reminded me of tin cans tied to a newlywed's bumper. Isn't that stupid?
"That's when I heard the footsteps coming up the stairs from the basement. 'Ver ah you?' someone said. Like a German accent. My first thought was that some lunatic from the SS had been hiding there since the war, still conducting experiments as if Auschwitz had never closed. Hell, maybe Josef Mengele himself. Surely the man sliding across the floor like a snake had been subjected to some kind of torture. I had no idea... I still have no idea how he was alive at all.
"The man I later learned to be Al Sterling sprang from the cellar door and watched me with eyes that constantly seemed to be moving. 'Vhat ah you doing here?' he asked, but that was the end of our conversation. I ran from that place like my pants were on fire, jumped in Jason's car, and begged him to go. I didn't say another word for twenty minutes, and didn't stop shaking until we were miles away. Jason lived up to his end of the bargain, and let me tell you, I've never gotten as drunk as I did that night. My free case of beer was gone in a few hours. Jason laughed at me, teased me for being such a pansy. I imagine if he hadn't been so stoned he would have recognized the fear in my eyes. He took that fucking service bell and drove off with it.
"A few hours later they found his car off the side of Interstate 80. The news said it was a drunk driving accident, but I've had my doubts, and I've always wondered what happened to that bell or what Jason had seen staring back at him from his rearview mirror."
They sat in silence for almost five minutes, waiting for the dark cloud hanging over them to dissipate. Linda knew all too well that something was very wrong at the Blackridge, but Mort's story chilled her to the bone.
"You think they killed him?" She asked. "Do you think... somehow... it's responsible for my father's death?"
"I think once you're tainted by that kind of evil, it attaches to you, follows you, ruins everything you hold dear."
"You never told anyone?"
"My wife," he said. "After many years and many attempts, I finally told her what I'd seen. She thought I was winding her up. Once she knew I was serious, she got angry. She wanted to know how I could see something like that and not go to the police. She didn't understand. What could I say to anyone without them looking at me like I'd escaped from an institution? We never discussed it again, and I think that's just how she wanted it. We stayed together, probably more so for our daughter than any real love she may have had for me, but she never looked at me the same way again. A few months after I told her, we found out she had ovarian cancer. There was nothing they could do for her."
"You don't think the Blackridge had something to do with that?"
"Did the Blackridge kill your father or was it a case of one too many cheeseburgers?" Mort shouted, inhaled deeply, and collected his thoughts. "Do you know what my wife's last words were? When she was lying on her deathbed, no more than seventy-five pounds and skin so jaundiced she looked like
a fucking banana, she reached up and grabbed my arm with a hand that had become twisted and grotesque. Her grip was amazingly strong. She opened her eyes one last time, pulled me close, and said, 'Never go back there.' I didn't need an explanation; I knew exactly what she meant. I never had any intention of seeing that place again, anyway. Three hours later she was dead."
"Mort... I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know her. Once she was gone I had nothing else to fill my time. Sure, I had the motel, but all that is is an unwelcome distraction. Bills, bills, bills. More headaches than it's worth."
"Then why stay here? Why keep doing it?"
"Because without it I have nothing left. My daughter is living her own life and I have nowhere else to go."
Linda thought Mort seemed more angry than depressed. His sadness manifested as bitterness. She wished she could help, could say anything that would ease his suffering, but nothing came to mind. She was just as broken, and her wounds were too fresh. Once several minutes had passed, she pointed to the scrapbook Mort had placed on the nightstand.
"What's that?" She asked.
Mort's eye twitched. He frowned and pulled the book into his lap.
"Another part of the story."
***
"Maybe we should finish this another time," Linda said as she stifled a yawn. "It has to be after midnight by now."
"There isn't going to be another time," Mort said. "Listen, kid, I like you. You seem like a nice girl, but after tonight we're not going to talk about this again. Do you understand? It's caused me a lifetime of grief and I'm not about to let Al Sterling catch my scent."
"If you've been so scared all these years, then why in God's name would you stay? You can run a motel anywhere."
"Pride," Mort said. "I'm not tucking my tail between my legs and running halfway across the country. My old man taught told me to put up my fists and fight for what I believe, and goddammit that's exactly what I've done. If something comes for me, so be it, but I'm not running away."
"You're a stubborn old man," Linda said.
"And what are you? Why haven't you left? Your credit is good. You could have hopped on a bus or rented a car and drove back to Scranton... or Philadelphia, or Omaha fucking Nebraska, but you didn't. You're still here. To repeat your question, why would you stay within walking distance of the Blackridge if you think it's dangerous?"
Linda hung her head and swallowed. Mort was right. At any time she could have hopped on a bus and disappeared, but instead, she'd decided to bed down at the Windstar and live off junk food rather than having to face the real world again.
Or having to face her mother.
"Show me your damn picture book," Linda said.
Mort took it off his lap and placed it on the bed. "You know, you're more like my daughter than you could imagine. Quick with your tongue."
"And you're a crazy old man with too many stories."
This elicited a brief laugh that lightened the mood just enough to continue.
Mort opened the book and turned it toward her.
"This photo was taken in 1922 at the ribbon-cutting ceremony to celebrate the opening of the Hotel DeMarco."
"It was beautiful," she said.
"Do you recognize anyone?"
Linda scanned over the faces of the dozen people in the photo, and after twenty seconds, pushed the book away with a squeal.
"No! It can't be!"
"See the resemblance?" Mort asked.
"That can't be Sterling. He doesn't look any different now! It must be his father... or grandfather. If that was him, he'd have to be a hundred and fifty years old. Surely you don't think that's him."
"I haven't seen that face since I was twenty-two years old, but there's no question in my mind that it's the same guy."
Linda pulled the book closer and took a second look. The man standing on the steps was a carbon copy of Al Sterling. The black-and-white picture made her head ache.
"Oh! Oh my God!" she gasped.
"What?"
"This woman," Linda said, "dressed up as a maid. That's Audrey. That's my neighbor!"
"She's in all the photos, too."
"No! This is ridiculous. People don't live forever."
"And yet the proof is staring you right in the face." Mort reached out and turned the page, displaying a later photo from the 1930s. Just as in the first picture, Linda picked out Al and Audrey standing in front of the building with an assortment of maids, bellhops, and kitchen staff. She turned the pages slowly, running her fingers over each photo: a party in the Rose Lounge in 1932, a posed picture on the first-floor staircase in 1941, a gathering in the main lobby from 1956. In each one, Al and Audrey stared at the camera with the same blank eyes... unchanged.
"What is going on?" Linda asked. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"This is what we're dealing with," Mort said. "Whoever these two really are and wherever they came from, they've been creeping around in the Blackridge since 1922. Whatever is happening there has been going on for nearly a century, and over the years the place has sucked the life from the neighborhood. I've found dozens of missing persons articles," he said as he flipped to the back of the book. "Each one of these people had last been seen or had last taken up residence in the Blackridge, and not one of them has been found since. I wonder what the police would find if they dug up the floor in the cellar."
"The gate," Linda said.
"The gate?"
"There's a gate in the cellar. I saw it when Al took me down there... after the party. The others seemed scared to get too close, but also in awe, as if it had some magical power they feared."
"A gate."
"A gate," Linda repeated.
"That would explain all the disappearances."
"Like hell it would," she snapped. "Where does it go? People can't just walk through some imaginary doorway and vanish from the face of the Earth."
"Maybe that's exactly what they've done. There's more in this world we don't understand than we can possibly comprehend. What if it's a gateway to... somewhere else?"
"That's not..."
"Don't tell me it's not possible, Linda. If you've learned anything, you should know that the Blackridge is much more than it appears, and these people," he said tapping the book with his index finger, "are not human. I'm not sure about many things, but of that I'm positive. They're not human and they have an agenda we can't understand, but rest assured if you poke around, something is going to find you."
"And what happens when it does?"
"Maybe then you'll find the answer to what lies beyond that gate."
Mort stood, tucked the book under his arm, and walked to the door.
"I don't want to know," Linda said. She shivered and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders.
"Then stay away. Go home, talk to your mother, mend your fences. If you haven't checked out by morning, I'll throw you out myself."
"Mort..."
"It's for your own good... and mine. You can keep the clothes and the pizza. Just don't come back here."
Mort turned away, walked outside, and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 18
Linda had been dreaming about her father when she awoke to the sound of heavy banging out front.
Eyes half-closed, she stumbled to the door and peered through the peephole. She had no idea what time it was, but the parking lot was still dark. She smelled smoke and the less pleasant aroma of rotting meat.
"Linda? Goddammit, open the door."
"Mort? What the hell is going on?"
She unlocked the door, unnerved by the sound of panic in his voice. She barely had it open when Mort burst in and closed it behind him, double checking the lock. His hair was a mess and his clothes looked disheveled as if he'd dressed in a hurry. He pulled the curtain aside and peeked through the window; he leaned a shotgun against the wall, thought better of it, and picked it back up. A pistol jutted from the back of his waistband.
"What'
s happening? Why the hell do you have a gun?"
"There's something here," he said, breathing heavily. "It was late, so I figured I'd stay the night and sleep in my office. Twenty minutes ago I awoke to find one of the cars on fire out front. There are four others staying here tonight, but they're sleeping right through it."
"Sleeping through what?"
"There was someone in the office," he explained. "I heard them creeping around before I saw them. It was only a shadow, but I know they were there."
"Like someone broke in?"
Mort grabbed her roughly by the arm and shook her fully awake. "It's them, Linda. I know it is. I can smell them. You don't smell that?"
She wrinkled her nose and said, "I smelled it in the apartment all the time. Sterling said it was raccoons in the walls."
"Raccoons my wrinkled ass! I knew we shouldn't have talked about that place. It's like saying the name lights a goddamn beacon for them to follow. I should have never let you stay here."
"Mort, please..."
"Listen to me," he said while peeking through the curtain again. "Put on shoes and go out the bathroom window. It should be big enough for you to squeeze through. When you get out back, cut through the woods and get as far away from here as possible. It's only a few hundred yards, and it's going to be darker than a dog's asshole, but if you keep in a straight line, you should hit the other side in a few minutes."
"What? You're not coming?"
"Girl, I'm forty-eight years old and smoked two packs a day for thirty years. Even if I wanted to go with you, you'd be carrying me most of the way. Now go! Don't worry about getting dressed or taking anything with you. Just go and run as fast as you can."
"What are you going to do?"
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