Cherry Devine stared at the hotel room ceiling. She’d been fucking all day and even though she’d just stepped out of a hot bath, she still felt dirty. Pete Hoden, the director, had taken a liking to her and had been making constant use of her, and even though the pay was pretty damn good, her body felt like it couldn’t stretch another inch. Between takes, she’d had to use alum to tighten up her assets.
She sat up on one elbow, popped a sleeping pill, then washed it down with a sip of water. She wished it were gin, but it was too late at night to mix the two - she had to be back on the set at 7 a.m. and she didn’t want Pete to give her a second warning about being hungover.
Pete was going to arrange a boob job for her, too, but now that she’d met Hugo Todger, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go that route. Hugo was in real estate, and he was rich, with a ranch in Sedona, houses in San Francisco and New York, a summer home on Martha’s Vineyard and even a place on the French Riviera. On the down side, he was a big fan of Nixon, Glenn Miller, and Benny Goodman, all of whom were huge snores as far as Cherry was concerned. He was also about sixty, bald as a potato and chubby, but cute like John Fielder, the actor who voiced Piglet and starred as a Jack-the-Ripper-type alien on Star Trek last December. She’d wangled a job as an extra in that episode, but it had been left on the cutting room floor. Still, she’d met Fielder and found him charming, so between the looks and the fact that Hugo even had that same high-pitched voice, she really couldn’t count his looks as a negative. The fact that he was always chewing on a soggy cigar was a little gross, but she figured that was a small price to pay to have just about everything she’d always wanted.
Hugo was a sweet guy in his own way, generous and quick with his funny, high-pitched laugh. He was a long-time fan and had asked Pete Hoden for an introduction; the three of them went to dinner and had a good time.
The following night, on their first real date, Hugo had proposed, calling her his perfect woman, and promising to give her everything she ever wanted, and that she’d never have to work another day in her life. When he presented a ring with a rock that would make Liz Taylor jealous, she almost said yes. Almost.
She knew she had to play hard to get, so she didn’t take the diamond - it was about the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she told him she had to think about it first. “Take all the time you want, Cherry, dear. This diamond isn’t going anywhere.”
The next evening, he took her to his ranch outside of Sedona. The Spanish-style house was a mansion with an atrium on the first floor that held a pool, a hot tub, and sweet-smelling tropical plants beneath its tall glass ceiling. After a dinner prepared by a uniformed chef, Hugo had taken her to the pool, presented her with a swimming suit and refused to watch her change. The two of them played in the pool for an hour, flirting and kissing, but he wouldn’t let her go further. “Not until we’re married,” he said.
How someone, knowing what she did for a living, could be such an old-fashioned gentleman, Cherry had no idea. But it charmed her like nothing else, and after the swim, when he took her out to the stables to see the horses, she said yes.
Staring at the ceiling, Cherry waited for the sleeping pill to kick in. Despite her elation, she was troubled.
They’d celebrated their engagement with a bottle of champagne and talked - only talked - long into the night before Hugo had his driver take her back to her hotel so she’d be ready for work the next morning.
Just like now. Tonight, she’d returned to his ranch. He’d given her a tour of the whole place, told her she could redecorate the master suite if she wanted, asked her which horse she would like for her own. He showed her photo albums of his other homes and told her about the vacations they’d take, the places they’d visit.
There was just one problem - the problem that was keeping her from sleep now. When he’d told her he didn’t like children, she’d said she didn’t have any use for them either. He asked, shyly, if she had any, and she’d instantly lied. He’d laughed his laugh and looked her straight in the eye. “Good. I’d hate to have to call off the wedding.” She knew he wasn’t joking.
“Sorry, kid,” she murmured as her eyelids grew heavy. “Them’s the breaks.”
Ben Gower, in his apartment above the pharmacy, rolled over fitfully in his sleep as rain gently pattered on the roof.
Pinching Pearl chases him, her freak-strong hands grasping at him, leaving burning pain where her fingertips manage to brush his shirt. He’s a boy again, strong and fast, but it’s that day, the day he’d found everyone in the Clementine Hospital dead.
As H.H. Barrow, tall and broad in a suit as black as his heart, laughs and laughs, Pinching Pearl chases Ben back into the hospital. The dead are still there, but now they stare at him, their faces contorted with anguish, their bodies paralyzed in horrific spasms.
He skitters around a nurse sprawled on the floor and, before him, the elevator creaks open. An inhuman orderly, one with blue scales and coppery lizard eyes, leers at him and crooks a demonic finger. “Going up?” it croaks in a voice from the bowels of Hell.
Ben turns and races up the stairs, Pearl Abbott just inches behind him, her black skirts rustling like rattlesnake warnings, her breath hot on his neck. “Got you, boy! Got you, boy! Got you, boy!” Her laughter shrills, drowning out H.H. Barrow’s.
Ben dodges convulsed bodies - one dead hand grabs his ankle, but he shakes it off. The second floor hall is blocked by a pile of corpses, all staring at him. The same at the third. Ben makes the fourth floor landing, climbs over cold, dead flesh, and enters the corridor. Pearl Abbott isn’t far behind. He races past gowned patients half fallen from their beds, past nurses sprawled over beds or on the floor, past a young orderly fallen backward over his toppled cart, the pills and potions scattered across the floor like marbles. Ben keeps running, making for the stairs at the far end of the hall. Glancing back, he sees Pearl Abbott is farther back now, but he doesn’t slow. Instead, he leaps over a pile of bodies on the landing and starts down, breathing hard, terrified. He makes the third floor, then the second.
But when he arrives at the first, H.H. Barrow - the Beast - massive in his black suit, booms laughter, and blocks Ben’s way. His eyes glitter like a snake’s and the left eye throbs gold. For an instant, the man’s head becomes that of a dragon with eyes as red as blood.
Suddenly awake, Ben Gower shot straight up in bed and reached for the bedside lamp with a trembling hand. He slowed his breathing then rose, turning on every light as he made his way to the living room.
He pushed the curtains aside and stared up at Hospital Hill. For a single instant, he thought he saw a huge winged beast circling the top floors of the hotel.
He shook his head. “You’re losing your mind, old man. You’re losing your mind.”
Ike Chance found his wife standing on the front porch wearing only her thin summer nightgown. Inhaling the scent of falling rain, he opened the creaky screen door and stepped out. She didn’t acknowledge him as he draped her robe over her shoulders, but continued to stare up at the Brimstone Grand. Only the top floors were visible and no lights were lit, leaving the building a huge black mass against the midnight sky.
“It’s happening, Ike.” Addie’s words were soft as silk. “It’s happening.” She turned to him, her eyes searching. “And I don’t know if there’s any way to stop it.”
“You spoke to Delilah,” he offered. “That’s progress, isn’t it?”
Her nod was all but imperceptible. “Yes, it is. But she remembers almost nothing.”
“The way you told it, it might be coming back to her.”
“She was barely more than a baby and it’s been so many years. I don’t hold out much hope.”
He took Addie’s hand and stared at the dark building at the top of the mountain. “Well, hopefully that little girl’s mama will take her back to California soon and everything will settle down.”
“I hope so. I hope so.”
“See that, Addie?” Ike squinted into the drizzly nigh
t. “See that?”
“What do you see, Ike?” The words trembled on her tongue.
“Funny, it’s gone now, but for a second there, I could’ve sworn I saw something flying around the hotel, something like a big old bat. My eyes are playing tricks again.”
She turned to him. “You saw that?”
“Thought I did.” Gooseflesh rose. The drizzle hardened into steady rain.
“You saw the shadow of the Beast. He’s getting stronger.” Addie squeezed Ike’s hand. “Come on, old man. Let’s go inside.”
Some nights, Steve Cross had trouble staying awake during the long lonely hours in the Grand’s lobby, but tonight wasn’t one of them. He’d been hearing things for the last hour or so; one was distant thunder, creeping ever closer. The other was the elevator. He’d heard it go up and down, not once, but three times, the last time, not even a minute ago. He presumed it was the phantom lift, not the real one, since no one exited. Ever since Holly had seen Pearl Abbott on the elevator, he’d doubted the existence of the ghostly handyman, but now the air filled with the aroma of cherry pipe smoke - allegedly Jack Purdy’s signature greeting. It wasn’t the first time Steve had smelled it, but he’d assumed it was the remnants of a real cigar floating on the breeze. Tonight, though, the entry doors were shut and no one was smoking on the porch. He stood behind the tall desk, hoping for more signs that the long-dead handyman had come to call. It was a comforting thought after the frigid ghost of Pearl Abbott.
“Anybody here?” Steve kept his voice soft, friendly. The sweet smoky odor ebbed and flowed around him. “Jack Purdy? Are you here?”
The cigar scent vanished as lightning lit the desert night. The hotel seemed preternaturally quiet and Steve began counting. Finally, the thunder came, telling him the big storm was still miles away.
Steve lifted the latch and let himself out from behind the desk for the first time since he’d walked Holly and Becky to the Granger house. Uneasy in the heavy silence, he glanced toward the elevator lobby where the cab waited, gently lit, behind the door. Good enough. He turned and crossed to the glass entry doors and watched the rain pattering silently on the cement outside. Unnerved by the continued silence, he pushed open one door and stepped outside.
A cooling breeze plucked at his hair and sent a few raindrops to kiss his cheeks; the wind had picked up in the last hour. Another bolt of lightning revealed an angry, roiling sky; he scented faint ozone for the first time. Thunder rumbled, close enough that he imagined he felt the electric hum of it beneath his feet. Light, steady rain began falling.
Inside, the switchboard began buzzing. Steve toed the doorstop, leaving the door two inches open, then trotted to answer the elderly board. It was room 329. As usual, it was empty. He stared at the blinking light, willing it to stop.
It didn’t. He picked up the headset and put it to his ear before connecting. “Lobby.”
Only static answered. He hung up. Room 329 was rented out only when at capacity. The maids didn’t like cleaning it - they claimed something whispered their names in their ears while they worked. Several times guests in 329 had shown up in the lobby demanding a different room for the same reason. Whispers in their ears.
The switchboard lit up again and he opened and closed the connection without listening. Ordinarily, he loved this electrical anomaly or phone-happy ghost - or whatever it was in 329 that set off the switchboard fairly regularly. It rarely happened on the day shift, but Meredith had experienced it once or twice. One night he trotted up to the room right after a call; it was dark and empty, of course.
The switchboard buzzed a third time - it had never gone off so many times in a row before. There must be a short. Anxiety growing, he ended it again then realized he no longer heard the rain.
He looked up; the rain was pouring now, but it made no sound that he could hear. That’s crazy. He saw lightning flash bright and close, hitting the earth just below Hospital Hill. But he heard no thunder.
The air thickened around him. His arms pricked with gooseflesh. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.
The switchboard buzzed again, loud and clear. Steve grabbed the headset and connected, demanding, “Who’s there!”
Through the static, he thought he heard laughter.
He dropped the headset and returned to the front door, stepping out onto the porch. He could hear the rain again; it came hard now, sheeting sideways, hundreds of tiny sharp pins hitting his face. Lightning crackled and hit a scrawny tree at the edge of the parking lot. The air filled with ozone. The tree blazed then extinguished under the pounding rain. Thunder came immediately, like the mortar fire of the gods. Steve’s hands flew to his ears.
He looked into the storm and thought he saw a dark glittering shape gliding in the night sky. A flash of blue, a blink of red. He squinted up through the pounding rush of water and thought, for an instant, he saw a dragon riding the storm.
It was past two in the morning and the voice in Holly’s head made staying asleep impossible. It wasn’t the deep scratching rumble of the Beast. This voice was an insistent whisper - Go home! Go home! - and as she came fully awake she realized it was her own inner voice trying to tell her something. It did that sometimes.
In the other bed, Becky slept peacefully, probably because she’d worn herself out from talking so much. Holly rose and dressed, her movements covered by the sounds of the storm. It would be foolish to ignore her own voice and stay here; she’d go back to the hotel and hang out with Steve Cross in the lobby. She could even catch a couple hours of sleep behind the desk and go back to the Grangers’ house at dawn. Or not. It suddenly occurred to her that the voice might be warning her not to go camping. That has to be it!
She reluctantly sat down at Becky’s desk and wrote an excuse on a piece of notebook paper by the glow of the unicorn nightlight. Then, filled with the need to leave, she quietly stuffed her pjs and toiletries in her knapsack and let herself out of the bedroom.
She tiptoed down the dark hall, the only sound that of Michael Granger’s soft snores. Downstairs, the house was dark and silent. She paused, catching her breath as she realized she couldn’t hear the rain anymore. Maybe it’s stopped. As she entered the kitchen lightning flashed just outside and thunder followed immediately, but muffled, muted. It was as if the house were wrapped in a thick blanket. Fluffy sat on a kitchen chair, watching her with bright eyes. She patted his head. “Go back to sleep.” He jumped down instead.
She unlocked the back door, stepped onto the porch and stared at the rain. It was plenty loud now that she was outside. It hit the driveway with tiny explosions. I’m going to get soaked.
Lightning flashed again - it hit somewhere near the hotel - and thunder cracked and boomed like a cannon blast. She thought about going back inside, but the voice came again. Go home! It almost never happened when she was wide awake, so she knew it was important to leave. She turned the lock on the knob and pulled it shut behind her.
“One. Two. Three!” Holly raced from the porch and along the long curving driveway, rain-soaked before she was halfway down. She loved going out in the rain in Van Nuys, but it had never rained hard and warm like this - nor had she ever been out at night. She’d expected to have fun running through the rain, but it wasn’t fun at all, just scary.
As she reached the road, another bolt struck the mountain right behind the hotel. Thunder shocked her ears and shook the ground beneath her feet. The rain redoubled, blinding and deafening in its intensity, slanting sideways into her face, but she pressed on, determined, trotting along the gravel road as fast as she dared, almost falling when she imagined she heard great wings flapping above her. It’s just the wind. But she ran faster and made it to the hotel in less than a minute.
Standing under the entryway roof, she set her soggy tote bag on the wrought iron bench and pushed hair from her eyes. She was shaking off like a dog, watching the rain and trying to get a little drier when the door opened behind her.
“Couldn’t stay away?” Steve looked her up
and down. “You’re lucky you didn’t get hit by lightning.”
Delilah dreamed of the Hermit.
The Hermit, surrounded by sagebrush and manzanita, stands beside a tall slender stone swirled with gray and red. He holds a lantern high in one hand and peers into an oddly triangular opening a couple feet off the ground.
Delilah approaches quietly and stands beside him. She’s just tall enough to see into the little cave and what she sees takes her breath away. The walls are covered with primitive art, men holding spears and arrows and bows, all running deeper into the cave. Beside her, the Hermit lifts his glowing lantern higher and now she can see the giant winged snake on the ceiling - a dragon - raining fire down upon the figures, its talons full of bleeding bodies.
Delilah recoils.
“The Beast is on the hunt,” the Hermit tells her. “They can’t stop him.” He looks down at Delilah and she sees his seamed face, realizes he is a native and holds a flaming torch, not a lantern. His robe is buckskin and he has no beard, only long graying braids. His dark face is seamed with the sun and gold dust swirls in his eyes until they shimmer like the sun, holding her, mesmerizing her.
Delilah stares at him, unafraid. “Who are you?”
He looks at her somberly. “I am the one who holds the book for you. You asked me to keep it a very long time ago. Do you remember?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You must remember. It is time for you to take it back.”
Delilah’s eyes opened on darkness. She switched on the lamp as she rose and crossed to the table where she’d left the Tarot cards. Pulling the Hermit from the deck, she peered at the card, thinking of the Indian in the dream. Closing her eyes, she murmured, “Who are you?”
And the answer slammed into her mind. She saw the petroglyphs in the little cave. Her cave. When she hid the book there she’d asked the long-dead artist for a favor: Keep the book hidden. Promise!
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