Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (24 page)

“Suit yourself,” he said. I watched the taillights of the wrecker disappear into the night. I took my suitcases and surveyed the hotel. It felt odd to be back at the hotel I had passed two hours ago. A step backwards for my trip.

It was a single-story edifice, made of cinder block painted cheerily with a cream color. The building was oriented north to south, and the snow covered roof hung over a railed walkway in front of the doors to the rooms. Each door had a brass number, and on the north end of the hotel, a two story lodge had a lit sign that said ‘office’.

              Scattered around the lodge were carved bears. I approached slowly, and stared at the wood version of the animals. The proportions of the critters was off a bit, the arms a little too human, the snouts a little too short and upturned. The faces also seemed just a little to man-like, and their eyes followed me. The proportions were unnatural and unsettled me oddly.

              A nervous feeling suddenly hit the pit of my stomach as I looked at the dozens of carved totems. They all stared back at me: inhuman visages of malformed ursi.

              I snorted. My fear quickly turned to anger. Michael and his stories had me spooked. I walked across the lot and stood under the overhang, then pushed open the glass door. A chime rang as I pulled the door to the office shut behind me.

              The office was a plain hotel lobby. A counter sat to my left, a rack of tourist flyers to my right, another door into a hallway to the south. There was a door behind the counter. A television flickered in the corner, the reception less than impressive. I hope I would have better in my room.

              A dark haired woman, probably in her early thirties with red lipstick came through the door behind the counter. She stared oddly and never blinked. “Can I help you?” she said emotionlessly.

              “I need a room. I had a car accident, and don’t have a reservation,” I said, and then pulled out my wallet.

              “Yes. Hit the deer. I heard about it. I need a credit card for incidentals and deposit, and sign this,” she said. Her perfectly manicured nails pushed forward forms and she ran the credit card.

              “Anywhere I can get something to eat?”

              She pointed to the door across the room. “Vending machines in the hallway. A little bar, two blocks east then two blocks south, towards the river. They have bar food: wings, stuff like that. Pretty quiet place, especially on a weeknight. Especially with weather like this.”

              “Thanks. This isn’t how I planned on spending my Tuesday. I was trying to get to Calgary tonight.”

              “Safe to say, that’s not going to happen,” she said as she sat a room key on the counter. “Room sixteen. If you need anything else, let me know. East side of the building.”

              “Thanks,” I said and took the key. I walked to my room, past more wood bears that leered uncomfortably at me. My room was dark and chill, so I turned on lights and turned up the thermostat.

              The room was a pleasant surprise. It was clean and tidy, with the looks of a recent remodel. Clean cream-colored paint adorned the cinder block walls. A brown carpet showed no wear, and a flat-panel television was on a stand. The bed was made up with a soft tan spread and a thick fuzzy blanket.

              I sat on the bed, made several calls to my coworkers and the insurance company. After I explained my encounter with the deer multiple times, I wandered to the vending machines and realized a dinner of chips and candy did not appeal. Hot food sounded good, so against the advice of my tow-truck driver I bundled up and headed out the door.

              Once again I passed the leering visages of the bears. I set out through the snow. It had continued to fall while I warmed my room and made calls, and was two inches deep. I turned and could see my tracks across the parking lot of the hotel, then noticed a faint breeze had kicked up from the west.

              I walked cautiously. Away from the lights of the hotel, the town seemed very dark. An occasional light filtered through drawn shades and curtains. Every house had a chimney that belched smoke. It seemed odd that with the exception of a single streetlight over the highway, there were no porch lights.

              In the darkness, two mangy dogs rooted through the trash of a tipped can. I warily watched the curs as they scavenged. They, too, watched me as I passed.

              They were almost skeletal in visage, starved, tails between their legs. Their fur was mangy and matted. No doubt a few too many beatings from local children kept them skittish. I was startled at the sound of shouts from inside a house. Although the words were undecipherable, the anger was understandable.

              I adjusted my scarf and continued to walk. For some reason, it felt like eyes were upon me, but I stopped and surveyed to no avail. Superstitious talk made me jumpy, and I grumbled quiet curses at Michael for the paranoia. Dogs barked in the distance, then howled. A scream echoed. I picked up the pace until I could see the lights of the bar.

It was a squattly construct, made of rough brick with a flat roof. A neon sign glowed ‘OPEN’, and lights from inside dirty windows fell upon the fresh snow. Four run-down trucks were parked in the lot and footprints led from all of them to the door of the establishment. I followed the tracks and listened at the dark pine door.

Noise from inside was muffled, but I could hear a television. I could smell something frying, the scent carried on the breeze from unseen vents. I tugged at the door and it creaked open. A bell above the doorway rang. Inside the smoky place, a bartender leaned against the counter. He watched a basketball game. The television flickered occasionally, a burst of static, no doubt from the weather. After I wiped my feet, I meandered up to the bar.

The bar was dark stained wood. A row of liquor bottles were against a mirror on the wall. Rough tables were scattered through the room. Dingy blinds hung in front of dirty windows, and a dated sixties-era linoleum covered the floor. An archway beside the bar led into a kitchen.

“Whaddya drink?” he said, eyes still fixed on the television. He was in his sixties, a short squat man with eyes that leered and a gap where a front tooth should have been.

“Probably whatever is on tap,” I said. “You serving food tonight?”

He snorted. “Not much call for it tonight, but the fryer oil is hot. If I can dump it in the fryer, I will cook it for you. If you can eat it raw, you can have anything on the menu.”

The menu was a single page. I scanned the options. “Bite size steak with fries,” I said.

“How do ya want those done?” the bartender asked, his eyes still on the TV. “I like mine rare. Bloody in the middle.”

“Well done would be great,” I said quietly. “Thanks.”

Less chance of food poisoning,
I thought.

He finally budged, filled a beer, and went into the kitchen. I heard voices, and then the pop of something as it was dropped in hot oil. The sizzle competed with the television. I watched the game for a while, then the door rang and I turned.

A woman stood in the doorway. She brushed the snow off of her sleeves, undid her scarf, and hung her coat on a stand by the door. She sashayed towards the bar.

              Her clothes had the feel of someone caught in the early nineties. She was shorter than average. She had straight hair: Clairol 104 Natural Medium Golden Blonde would be my guess. As she came closer she smiled. Her teeth were straight and white. She had a few vanity pounds on her hips, a round rump and makeup thicker than it should have been.

              I turned away as the bartender put a basket of food in front of me. The oily steam rose above the bar. The bite size steak looked perfect.

              “You need anything else?” he said while he set a bottle of ketchup beside the basket. “Another beer?”

              “Beer would be great. Thanks,” I said. The food was typical deep-fried bar food, but it was hot. I poured ketchup on the fries.

              “Beer for me, too,” the woman said, two stools to my left. She looked at me. “How are you?”

              “Tough day. I’ve had better,” I said. “Better, now that I’ve been fed.”

              The bartender set beers in front of both of us. She smiled and laughed: an innocent giggle that put me at ease. I watched her reflection take a drink.

              “How are your kids, Sheila?” the bartender asked.

              “Fine,” she said. “With their dad for a few days. Thought I would get some company rather than stay home alone.”

              I ate quietly and watched the game. Sheila made small talk with the bartender, and glanced at me. I tried to pretend not to notice, but she was not subtle. As I finished a dinner sure to clog my heart. She moved to the stool beside me.

              “So are you here on business?” she asked.

              “Naw. Hit a deer, car is dead. On the way to Calgary on business.”

              “Well, welcome to our humble little town,” she said and laughed. Her cuteness, combined with her proximity soothed my frazzled nerves.

              We made small talk for a while: both of us shared divorce stories, political philosophies, and several crude double entendre. She talked about all the places she had lived as an army brat. I mentioned I was in sales, and as a hobby had sold some stories I had written. She seemed impressed.

              “You are so interesting. I keep discovering new layers. A writer.” Sheila smiled.

              “Writers are people trying to dodge having real jobs,” I said. “It’s not a resume enhancer: it’s an attempt to avoid actual work. Character flaw. Don’t assume anything else.”

              “I think it’s interesting.”

              “I don’t,” I said.

              Slowly she reached out and gently touched my shoulder. “I would love to be a distraction.”

              I looked skeptically at her. “I would rather just have a friend.”

              Sheila laughed again. “I don’t want a husband. Been down that road. Don’t have time for it.”

              “You probably have guys lined up to be with you. I bet they have to take numbers. Now serving number 16. Now serving 20.” I took the last drink of my beer. “Why you would have any interest in me? Traveling salesman, crappy writer, broke from paying alimony. I find this all hard to swallow.”

              “A lady swallows, but never spits,” she said.

I looked wide eyed into the mirror and started to chortle. “Thanks for the laughs. It’s late and I’m tired.” I set a 20 dollar bill on the bar.

“See you around,” she said.

The snow now fell harder. The accumulation was noticeable as I left the bar. Cautiously I walked back the way I came. Once I left the parking lot of the bar I felt observed. The air felt heavy, oppressive, like it tried to weigh me down. I stopped and looked around, but in the darkness could see no one. The night was oddly quiet, except for the breeze that whispered as it passed through the trees.

Several more garbage cans were tipped, and the trash was scattered in the snow. The footpaths of stray dogs crossed my path several times, even following my steps from the hotel. I was a tad unnerved to think of the flea-bitten curs as they stalked me.

The oppressive pressure of being watched continued, and it was a relief to see the lights of the hotel. I warily eyed the porcine-bear figures as they watched me pass, then fumbled my keys nervously. Finally, the key found the hole and I opened the door. I didn’t look backwards for fear of what might be behind me, then slammed and locked the door quickly.

I leaned my back against the door and listened for a minute. Then I laughed: Michael’s stories had really affected me, and my imagination ran wild. I double checked the deadbolt, and then washed up. While I brushed my teeth, I heard a rap on the door.

Slowly I moved to the door. Another tap echoed through the wood jamb.

“I know you’re in there. Just open the door,” Sheila’s voice commanded.

I shook my head in disbelief and opened the door. “What are you doing here?” I said.

She pursed her lips and shut the door behind her. “Being a distraction.”

“How did you find me?” I said.

“There is one hotel in town, and you left tracks in the snow. It didn’t take a world class game hunter to find you here,” she said, then giggled. Sheila stood on her toes and gave me a kiss. “You’re a great kisser.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I guess. You probably tell all the guys that.”

“Just lock the door,” she breathed. I turned and latched the deadbolt: felt a sudden pressure on my head and reality became blackness.

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” I whispered quietly. “Remember.”

“Remember, remember,” Sheila’s voice whispered, and then trailed off. “Remember, George Scott, remember what will transpire here tonight.”

“I don’t understand,” I stammered. “Why you would do this to me?”

“Why?” she cackled, and then stood over me. She was covered in a black, flowing robe, trimmed in red. “Because I can. Because it needs to be fed. It whispers to us, screams to us when it hungers for sentient flesh. We have nurtured it, protected it, and it in turn has shown us dark wonders beyond imagination. Long before us, it was here. Long after us, it will still inhabit this world. You are just a ripple on a pond, a raindrop falling to the earth, a spark rising to be consumed in the smoke of reality.”