Benton snatched up the white-corded phone that sat on the nightstand and stabbed its red button with gritted teeth.
“Front desk, how may we help you?” came a young man’s voice.
“Well, you could start by finding me another room,” Benton snarled.
There was a momentary pause followed by a girl’s giggle in the background, before the youthful voice returned. Benton imagined the boy making a face to one of his pretty co-workers. “I’m sorry, sir. Is something wrong with your room?”
“Is something wrong? Yes, I’d say there is. It smells like something died in here! Would that qualify as something being wrong to you?”
Another pause followed by more giggles. “I’ll be up to check it out, sir,” he offered.
“You’d better,” Benton replied before slamming the phone back into its cradle. He hated dealing with anyone under 30 years old. They lacked professionalism and respect. When he was growing up, it was different. You were taught to listen to those with more experience than yourself. When did all that fall from society? These thoughts cycled through Benton’s mind as he walked across the faded tan carpet to pull open the room’s drapes. He was on the fourth floor, looking down on a small, tree-lined lake. The sky was filled with thick, gray clouds. A lone figure wearing a hooded raincoat sat beside the water with his back to Benton’s window. Surely it was a man. No woman he had ever met would go fishing alone so late in the evening, particularly with such a dire threat of rain on the horizon.
A knock at the door pulled Benton to the door. He answered it to find a man in his early twenties awaiting him. A nametag proclaimed him Mark. His head held only blonde stubble, and his dress shirt appeared to be a few sizes too small. In his hand the youth held a can of air freshener. “I’m sorry Mr. Harskill, but we can’t give you another room without you having to pay for an upgrade. All the other singles are filled. There’s a convention in town. We’ll take care of the smell for you, though,” he said holding the can aloft with a crooked grin.
“That is unacceptable,” Benton growled. “I paid for a room free of undesirable smells, and if the only way your hotel can manage that is to give me a slightly bigger room, then they should absorb the extra cost in order to keep their customer happy!”
Mark smirked at him. “Sorry, sir, but this is the best you’re gonna get. You can try another hotel if you like, but you aren’t likely to find a room cheaper than this anywhere nearby.”
Rage tore through Benton’s mind, but he held it in check. “Fine, just see to it that the smell is completely gone before you leave!” He said before storming off to the bathroom and slamming the door shut.
He did not need to use the facilities, but if he remained in the room with the insolent youth, he was afraid he would do something he would regret. He sat on the closed toilet lid listening to the spray of the air freshener. Afterwards the boy told him he was done and to “call if you think you smell something else.” As if he had imagined the horrid stench.
Benton exited the bathroom after hearing the door click shut. The smell of death remained, though not as strong, and now mingled with a powerful pine scent that caused him to choke on his first breath. It took several minutes and a few prescription pills to slow his surging blood pressure. He slumped into the room’s lone cushion chair. Despite needing to go over the notes for his presentation, he decided to take a nap.
When he awoke he glanced up at the wall clock. It read, 11:59.
“Nearly midnight, I shouldn’t have slept so long,” he grumbled, picking up his notes from the end table. He cleared his throat and began to recite his speech for the following day. “Thank you all for coming,” he said aloud, trying to weed the remnants of drowsiness from his voice. “I want to talk to you today about an exciting opportunity to get in on the ground floor of…” He stopped when a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him. Setting down his notes he looked around the room. Everything blurred and became hazy as though viewed in a steamed up bathroom mirror. The irregular golden designs on the wallpaper seemed to shift and crawl across its scarlet landscape. The brass wall clock spun at an incredible rate. The muted moonlight from the window darkened until it winked out of existence. The room started to spin before him. He got up and tried to move towards the phone. As he stumbled closer to the bed, he saw a white shape taking form upon its mattress. Lurching away from it caused him to fall, tumbling hard to the floor. His head connected with something solid just before everything went black.
Benton awoke on his hotel room floor to the sound of rain pattering against the windowpane. Pulling himself up, he looked over at the bed. It was empty. His head hurt, and he felt a large lump on the back of his skull where he had struck the end table. The injury seemed minor, and the dizziness was gone.
Massaging the lump, Benton moved towards the window. A giant full moon hung in the sky between brakes in the storm clouds. To his surprise, the moonlight revealed that the fisherman remained despite the late hour and damp, chilling rain. Even odder, another one on the opposite side of the lake had joined him. The other fisherman wore an identical, black, all-consuming raincoat with the hood pulled up. It looked like a mirror image of the first man, projected just opposite him. The two did not move. They sat motionless on crates with their backs toward him watching the lake, intent on their task. Even when thunder crackled loud overhead, they did not budge. His attention was diverted by heavy footfalls in the hallway outside that stopped at his door.
“It is customary to knock when you want the attention of someone on the other side of a door,” he said loud enough for the person to hear.
There was no response. Thunder rumbled outside the window. Benton began to stride towards the door when movement inside the room halted him. A small, folded piece of paper lay on the floor. He moved past it to throw wide his door. The hallway was empty. Whoever left the note was gone. He closed it again, retrieved the piece of paper, and unfolded it. It contained a message scrawled in pristine handwriting. It read:
“You do not belong here. Leave before you are noticed.
G.F”
Benton frowned. “Damn kids trying to play a joke on me,” he grumbled, crumpling the paper into a wad. The storm outside was worsening. The clouds moved to darken the moonlight. Thunder crackled followed by brilliant flashes of lightning. Curiosity drew Benton back to the window to see if the fishermen had finally surrendered to the forces of nature and vacated the lake. It was difficult to see through the rain and the darkness, but he was able to make out both figures, still sitting as before. He strained for a better look and could just make out two more identical forms taking spots facing the lake. “Bloody fools,” he mumbled.
The deathlike smell was growing strong again, overwhelming the pine scent from the air freshener. Benton left the window to push the button on the phone. The lights in the room flickered in tune with another crash of thunder. The line crackled with static. It rang several times before being answered.
“Front desk,” came the voice of Mark through the heavy static. He sounded far away.
“The smell is back,” Benton said raising his voice to combat the interference. “I demand a new room immediately!”
“Hello?” Mark said.
“I said I want a new room, and if you won’t get me one, I’ll speak to your manager, or go even higher if I have to!”
The static flared anew, washing away whatever it was the boy said.
“Can you hear me?” Benton asked louder.
“Who – (static) – this?” Mark asked.
“Who do you think it is? It’s Benton Harskill from room 411, and I demand to be from a different room before I have to call your headquarters!”
The static grew worse before clearing. “Front Desk,” came a new voice, this one a woman’s with a British accent.
“Yes, my name is Benton Harskill from room 411, and I demand…” he started before the voice cut him off.
“I’m sorry, sir. What did you say your name was?” The British woman asked.
“Benton… Benton Harskill in room 411, and it smells like death up here. I demand a new room.”
“What are you doing in room 411, sir?” The woman asked, a note of irritation in her voice.
“What? This is the room your desk clerk Mark assigned me. Why else would I be here?”
“You are not Dr. Gregory Fife then?” the woman asked.
“No. For the last time, I’m Benton Harskill,” he answered without trying to mask his annoyance.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, during which the static resumed. Benton could only make out part of the British voice’s reply. “Thank you for bringing – (static) – our attention, Mr. Harskill. You – (static) – not – (static) – here. We – (static) – right up.” Then the phone went dead.
Although difficult to hear, something in the tone of the woman’s voice gave Benton a chill. The sound of footfalls climbing the nearby steps reached his ears. He locked the deadbolt and backed away from the door, listening. The footsteps stopped just outside. No knock or pleasant request for admittance followed. The door handle turned, but the lock held, and did not open. Whoever was on the other side stood there, remaining silent for a full minute before a soft rapping echoed from it.
Benton first realized he was holding his breath when he started to speak. “I’m fine, now.” He said, too quiet at first, forcing him to repeat it.
There was no reply.
“Listen, everything is fine. The smell is gone. I don’t need any help. Sorry for the trouble,” he stammered continuing to back away.
He listened intently, and thought he could make out deep breathing through the wooden portal. The strong stench of mange and animal musk wafted in from the crevasse beneath the door.
Another knock came.
“You… You can go now. Everything is fine here,” Benton struggled to say.
The third knock was so hard the entire wall shook with its force. The sound of heavy, animalistic breathing emanated from the locked door. Then it changed to something else, which sounded like long, serrated claws being raked slowly against the wood paneling.
Benton could not move or speak. He just stood staring at the door with eyes stretched as wide as they would go.
Several minutes passed before he heard footsteps again, receding down the hall.
He took another step backwards until he felt something cold and slick against his arms. He spun around to face the window. The storm had abated, and the moon re-emerged. He was able to see the lake with its denizens. Their numbers had multiplied again. There were now at least ten identical, black-cloaked figures surrounding the lake. Its water was crystal clear. He could see what looked like buildings, houses and streets beneath its surface. He had heard of small towns being evacuated and sunk to create reservoirs, but the lake seemed too small for that, and the buildings looked to be in good shape. Every now and then he noticed movement among the submerged structures, which he took to be very large fish.
Dizziness returned, and Benton retreated from the window. He fell when his legs hit the bed.
As he lay there looking up at the ceiling, the room started to spin again, whirling faster and faster until he screamed, sliding to the floor with his hands grasping the sides of his head, eyes clamped shut. The clock whirled like a child’s wind-up toy. He heard countless footfalls all around him as though he were about to be trampled by a thousand bodiless legs.
“STOP IT! STOP!” Benton screamed over the torturous noises that assailed him, and all at once everything went silent.
Gradually, he reopened his eyes. All was still. He stood up and looked around until his eyes fell upon the bed. Laying there in full repose was the bald corpse of a finely dressed man, laid out as for his own funeral. A twinkling silver haze poured out from the body, encompassing it.
Benton forgot about the duplicating fishermen outside his window. He forgot about the strange phone conversation and the hideous thing trying to enter his room as he stared at the bizarre, shimmering corpse before him. He reached out his hand and touched the silver haze. An electric tingle surged through his hand into his body. He snatched his arm back as the current touched his brain. His head started to throb, forcing him to close his eyes. A wave of images cascaded through his thoughts.
He saw the reposed-man entering the room, alive and healthy. The scene shifted.
The man lay upon the bed with his eyes shut. An ethereal version of him emerged from the body to hover above it. Across from the silver man an amorphous, green, blob-like shape began to form, hovering several feet in the air. It morphed, twisting itself into a huge face the size of a massive boulder. There was no body attached to it. It had a large beak of a nose set between a pair of cruel, beady eyes. In Benton’s mind he witnessed a battle between the two non-corporeal entities. Multi-colored energy sparked around each of them as stress, concentration and pain splayed across their features. After several minutes of intense conflict, an explosion of the strange energy knocked them both backwards. At the spot where the explosion occurred, a strange aperture appeared, hovering in midair. A green vapor seeped out of it into the room. The body of the man on the bed began to spasm, before stopping abruptly to remain still. The ghostly duplicate that hovered above the body screamed without sound as the giant green face smiled with triumphant malice. The scene shifted again.
The Green Face was gone. The bald man’s body was being placed inside a large, zippered, black bag. The men moving him apparently did not notice the floating hole that should not exist, or the smoke pouring out of it. The insubstantial man tried to communicate with the men without success. He tried to follow his body as it was removed through the door, but something prevented him from leaving. The visions faded as the man dropped his face into his transparent hands.
When Benton reopened his eyes, he noticed the room had changed. The wallpaper was vibrant. A stack of magazines lay in a disorganized pile on the end table. The clock on the wall pointed straight up to a number thirteen. Outside the sky was a dark purple, with ominous, rolling, orange clouds overhead. He went to the window and looked down towards the lake.
Outside everything was saturated in tumultuous orange and purple hues, cast from the strange skies above. Rain poured down upon a congregation of thirty or more black rain-coated figures as they stood surrounding the lake, their faces still hidden from him. Something large broke the surface of the still water as one of the fishermen struggled to pull it up. He had caught something. The other fishermen paid no heed to his struggles. When the catch emerged from the water, it screamed. An organic form lurched upwards. It looked human in shape as it wobbled about, throwing itself to and fro in a vain attempt to pull free. Once the form landed ashore, screaming all the while, the surrounding fishermen massed it. What they were doing was unclear, but they seemed to be feasting on some glowing substance they pulled out of it. The screams continued until the fishermen moved away. Afterwards, one of them lifted the pale, unmoving body and threw it back into the water where it sunk lifelessly downwards before vanishing into one of the submerged structures. Once finished, the fishermen returned to the water to cast their strange, shimmering line back into the lake.
Benton shook his head. “I must be dreaming,” he whispered. Continuing to watch, he noticed two figures emerge from the hotel and walk towards the collective of fishermen. One woman with long, curly, dark hair wore a tuxedo, complete with tails and a top hat. The other wore a bellhop’s uniform. He walked hunched over in an animalistic manner. The woman in the tuxedo spoke to the fishermen. Benton could not make out what was being said. Whatever it was, the fishermen all stopped what they were doing to listen. It wasn’t until the tuxedoed woman turned to point towards Benton’s window that he realized what the woman was telling them. The realization hit him too late, as the fishermen turned and looked up at him. Their faces were a bloodless white. They had no nose or mouth, just twisted maggot-flesh where ones should be. Two portals of obsidian darkness took the place of their eyes. He was too stunned to move. The strange figures all raised an arm, pointing towards him in unison.
Benton spun away from the window thrusting his back against the wall. He didn’t know what to do, where to go, or how to begin. When he peeked again, the horde was moving from the lake towards the hotel.
From the lower levels of the building came the sound of several feet moving up the stairs. Benton raced over to the bedside and grasped the hand of the silver-hazed body there. Its energy hummed through him. “What can I do? You have to help me!” He screamed. The head of the corpse turned slowly towards him, but said nothing. Sounds of movement towards his room fought to steal his attention.
“Please,” he cried. “I don’t know what to do. You have to help me!”
The shimmering corpse smiled at him in silence.
“Help me!” he demanded, noticing the corpse start to grow dimmer and more vague.
Benton watched the corpse fade further away, as it did so it lifted its faint arm, and pointed towards the clock. It was on the number thirteen. “What… what are you trying to tell me?” Benton asked.
The corpse smiled at him as it vanished into nothingness. A thunderous explosion rocked the room. The door splintered towards him throwing debris everywhere. Several of the fishermen poured in from the opening. Benton ran towards the window and fought to try and open it.
“No!” he screamed as countless pale, gnarled hands reached for him. Then there was a ticking sound from the direction of the wall clock. The advancing hoard all stopped to look at it, as did Benton. The clock moved off the thirteen. The room began to spin again. Benton felt like he was falling backwards down an endless tunnel of identical hotel windows, ticking clocks, and pallid stretching hands. Vertigo assailed him until he blacked out.
When Benton came to, he found himself on the floor of room 411. No one else was there, and no commotion came from the door which was undamaged. He looked up at the clock. It read 1 AM.
Benton struggled to his feet. He forced himself to look out the window. A light rain fell on the abandoned lake. Benton quickly grabbed his belongings and headed for the door. On his way out, he noticed a magazine on the table. He picked it up as he fled into the hallway. On its cover was the picture of the bald man he had seen lying on the bed in the room. The by-line read, Dr. Gregory Fife: True Psychic or Talented Charlatan?
Copyright © 2009 Matt Cowan. Reprinted with permission.
