The Haunted Halls (3 page)

Chapter Four

November, 1983.

“Christina, you get your ass back here right fucking now!”

“No,” she cried. Her mother had finally pushed her too far.

“I said get back here. Maria!”

Christina LaRoza, with tears streaming down her reddened cheeks, ran along Woodlawn Street as hard and fast as she could, refusing to look back as her mother screamed out for her at the end of their driveway.
Her
driveway.
Not mine, not anymore.
She rounded the corner and made for the tree line of Brenner's Woods. She didn't want to be on the road. She did not want to be seen. The last thing she needed was for the cops to see her hauling ass down the road looking like
this
. She could taste the blood from her split lip, and knew she had at least one black eye. Not to mention she thought she might have a broken knuckle.

Her mom had never been much of a parent. Her father died when she was three, and in her thirteen years of existence since, her mother had been with more men than she could count, and had staggered through more inebriated days than sober ones. Their relationship consisted of Christina doing pretty much all of the cooking, all of the household chores, which of course entailed cleaning up after her drunken mother’s shamble of a life: vomit from the carpets, tending to Mother’s cuts and bruises (as well as her own), from one scumbag boyfriend or another, and most of the driving even though she had neither a license or a driver’s permit.

Somewhere over the last couple of months, their relationship had managed to sour further. Most of the time, Christina no longer wanted to be at home. She believed her mother, sensing this, began trying to put her foot down. A missed dinner was met with a slap. Any and all back talk was met with a barrage of the scrawny woman’s bony fists. And if Christina dared stay out for the night, she would be ducking empty bottles and random, crappy ceramic trinkets purchased from her mother’s weekly pilgrimages to Packard’s Flea Market. This afternoon’s full-out brawl was the last straw.

Now, as she hurdled through the densest part of Brenner's Woods, pine tree branches whipped her sore face, stung, scratched, and clawed at her, but she wasn't about to let anything slow her down. She knew where the trails started out here, and understood that the path to her future waited on the far side of Berry’s field. She would run to the field, and then catch her breath. It was a plan, and so far, outside of leaving, it was the only one she had. It would have to do.

Present day

“Hey Jeff,” Kurt said, grinning from ear to ear.

Jeff Braun walked behind the front desk carrying his messenger bag filled with graphic novels, mostly
The Walking Dead
series, and the first few books of
30 Days of Night
. He was short, with floppy brown hair, and was often mistaken for a high school student by guests, even though he was thirty-five. His eyes were a near-permanent bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his shoulders were constantly slumped forward–a look worn more often by awkward pre-teen girls and Wal-Mart employees.

“Hey, man. What the hell are you all smiles about?” Jeff asked, placing his bag upon the waist-high side counter.

“I did it, man. I finally did it,” Kurt said.

“Okay, I give. Did what?”

“Guess who’s taking Rhiannon to see the new Quentin Tarantino movie?”

Jeff cocked his head as he rubbed at his stubble-covered chin, feigning a look of deep consideration before answering, “Kenneth McGowan, in 219?”

“What? No, dude. Me. I’m taking Rhiannon to see
Django Unchained
. Can you believe it?”

“Good for you,” Jeff said, “’bout time you stop living this romance in your mind, and actually put yourself out there.”

“Yup, but I gotta run, man. I think I have a new tune brewing in my head.” Kurt grabbed his turquoise sunglasses off from the desk and threw them on.

“All right, Rock Star, go write your dream girl another song,” Jeff said as he set to logging in on the front desk computer. “And you might wanna use your high beams if you’re gonna be wearin’ those shades–it tends to be pretty dark after midnight.”

“Haven’t you ever heard that Cory Hart song?” Kurt said. Backing toward the lobby doors, he sang out,
“I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can, so I can…”
. Before Jeff could answer, Kurt was on his way out the door and into the night.

Without averting his eyes from the log in screen before him, Jeff said, “Goodnight, Rock Star.” 

He scanned the in-house list looking for any of the usual suspects. The Bruton Inn only had a few regulars, but he liked to check, regardless. It was an old habit developed from his years working the front desk at the Hampton Inn in Augusta. He’d worked there for five and a half years–three on the four-to-midnight shift, the last two and a half doing the overnight audit. He liked the audit, preferred it–more time to read. The apartment he rented with his old college buddy, lovingly referred to as Scotty Pluto for all the time he spent smoking pot, was in a constant state of chaos. Scotty’s gaming buddies and co-workers were constantly getting high and shouting at each other (or their online competitors) in the small living room next to his bedroom. It was too loud most of the time to concentrate. He now did most of his reading at work, or at the
Barnes and Noble
in Hollis Oaks.

Scanning the in-house list, Jeff found that the inn was almost full. It
was
late summer. August in Maine could be sweltering, especially with the humidity, and The Bruton Inn was within driving distance of Emerson Lake. Maybe there was something going on in town he hadn't heard about. Whatever the case, he only recognized two names from the list: the aforementioned Kenneth McGowan in 219, and Meghan Murphy.

Kenneth McGowan was the kid of some rich family in Avalon who appeared to be afraid of his own shadow.  According to his license, he was twenty-four, but he looked and acted more like a twelve-year-old. He’d been staying at the inn since late July courtesy of his parents and called at least every other night with some crazy complaint, or another. Usually he griped in his meek, nasally voice about hearing people in the next room “making it,” or whispering obscenities that were directed at him from the hallway. The funny thing was that he rarely had anyone in the room next to him. The room next to his was a handicap accessible room, the only one on property. Only some old Vietnam vet, named Roger, or Roland, Jeff couldn’t quite remember which, had stayed there at the beginning of the month, and then again for a couple days last week. That guy had been in a wheel chair, so he was not “making it” with
anyone
in
any
room. Kenneth McGowan was a weirdo, and a nut-job. Meghan Murphy on the other hand was something else altogether.

She checked in last night shortly after 1 am, smiling behind gorgeous brown eyes,  her long dark hair pulled back, wearing a knee-length pleather skirt and an Alkaline Trio t-shirt.  He wasn't Brad Pitt by any stretch, but he had, from time to time, been able to use his affable charm and vast knowledge of books to counter his lack of strong-jawed good looks.

He and Meghan had seamlessly slipped into a conversion about things that go bump in the night. Jeff had been somewhat amazed and eternally grateful when she decided to grab a cup of the inn’s complimentary coffee and stick around to continue their discussion on all things horror. Turned out she was a big fan of the
30 Days of Night
series, as well as Joe Hill’s
Locke and Key
. She didn't care much for zombies, telling him that she preferred ghosts and goblins. After twenty minutes and another cup of coffee, she finished her drink, wished him a good night, and had disappeared off to her room.

Now, staring at her name on the screen before him, he found himself praying she would make an appearance on his shift tonight. He was also elated to find she had extended her stay from the two nights he had put her in for, to twice that.

Ring, Ring, Ring.

“Front Desk.”

“Hello, this is Kenneth McGowan in room 219.”

“Hi, Mr. McGowan, what can I do for you tonight?” he said, managing to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“There’s someone that keeps talking to me from the room next door.”

Jeff rolled his eyes, pulling up his Facebook page. “Are they bothering you, Mr. McGowan? Are they keeping you awake?”

“They–” Kenneth started.

The line went dead.

“Hello?” Jeff asked. “Mr. McGowan?”

Nothing.

“Fucking weirdo,” Jeff spoke aloud to the empty lobby.

Kenneth was certainly the strangest resident at the inn. He would probably fit in a little better at an asylum. After a few minutes of checking his Facebook updates, Jeff moved on to his actual duties.

While he was finishing up the rest of his nightly checklist, Meghan Murphy showed up at the coffee station by the desk, barely registering his existence. All he got was a simple nod as she averted her eyes, crossed the lobby and took her coffee into the guest computer room. No hello, no smile. He was confused and disappointed with the 180 in her behavior. He thought they’d hit it off last night, maybe he was wrong. He’d never been great at reading women–Stephen King was much more his speed. Maybe it was something else altogether. Maybe she just woke up, or maybe she just didn't want to give him the wrong idea. Still, whatever magic he thought had been there last night seemed smothered by the cold blanket of rejection.

A tall guy with short dark hair stepped up to the desk.

“Hey, sorry to bug you. I locked myself outta my room. Any chance I can get another key?”

“Sure. Happens all the time. What’s the last name on the room?”

“It’s under Gentry or Curren.”

“Yep, got it.”

Jeff punched in a new key and handed it over. “Nice
Evil Dead
shirt. You see the re-make?”

“Cool, thanks. Yeah, I thought it was pretty rad. Wish Bruce Campbell would’ve been in there somewhere, but it was still okay.”

“I agree. Ash should have made a cameo.”

“Well, thanks, man. Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

Jeff waited until the tall guy disappeared down the hallway and then, doing his best to shrug off Meghan’s withdrawal, dug the latest Ronald Malfi novel from his bag and returned to a warmer, more comforting place of refuge.

Chapter Five

Knock-knock

Kenneth McGowan stood frozen, gooseflesh dressing his skin as he stood clinging to the door frame of the hotel room’s bathroom. In the darkness, he sat in perfect silence listening to the first of the thing’s little visits.

No doubt about it, The Bruton Inn was haunted.  But it was not nearly as haunted as his family. The voices, the sounds, the little visits presented by whatever was hanging around this place were all preferable to the alternative. Shivering, despite the eighty plus degree reading on the room’s thermometer, his mind faded away from the knocking in this present time to a few months ago at his step-father’s estate…

“
Kenny
, it’s me. It’s Uncle Wes.”

The door to his bedroom creaked like Dracula’s casket as the large shadowy figure of his “Uncle” entered
(invaded)
his room. Kenneth awaited his fate. The nightly intrusions from “Uncle” Wes had been occurring like clockwork since the odd man’s arrival last winter. He would knock twice, very quietly, announce his presence, then slip in, close the door behind him, and lock it. He stood six-foot-four, the physique of a professional wrestler. Kenneth had tried to fend him off in the beginning, to attempt to dissuade the man from doing his dirty deeds, but it was no use. Kenneth was much too small to physically protect himself, and the verbal threats Uncle Wes whispered in his ear were enough to scare him into total obedience.

The first couple of weeks, it was just some kissing and light rubbing, but the abuse quickly escalated to oral sex, and then, to the inevitable. He had been raped by the man nearly every night for five months before his mother shipped him off to the inn, hiding him away like
he
had done something wrong.

His step-father was a liar, a cheat, a pedophile, and a known rapist, but he was also the richest man in Avalon. He practically owned the town. And Uncle Wes wasn’t the only rotten soul in his stable, either. Luckily, Kenneth hadn’t been exposed to any of Reni, Tobias, or Hunter’s fun and games. They preferred little girls, namely his cousins Deidre and Holly–their screams could be heard at various times any given day or night. Kenneth watched them both meander through their daily chores, like lifeless pretty things.

His step-father and the man’s collection of Avalon trash, was about a hundred times more frightening and harmful than whatever was living at the Bruton Inn.

As the icy voice began whispering its foul offerings from the other side of the hotel room door, he slouched down on the bathroom floor atop a quilt his grandmother had made for him when he was younger, and shut his eyes tight as if Uncle Wes were with him. The flashbacks struck his consciousness like a wet towel, the shivering intensified as his still recovering rectum clenched in sharp jolts at the phantom memories.

He reached up to the lip of the bath tub, grabbing the little baggy of purple pills he’d appropriated from his mother’s medicine cabinet.  He dry swallowed two of them before lying back down and curling into a fetal position.

As the comforting wave of soft blackness enveloped him, the flashbacks dispersed like worms retreating into the earth. The whispers by his door carried on, but he no longer heard the awful things that they said.

…..

At the end of the otherwise empty corridor, Eric Gentry crept back to his room, new room key in hand,  hoping not awaken his roommate, Jimmy. He slipped the magnetic keycard into the reader, and paused. He thought he heard crying. Placing his ear to the door, the crying ceased. He backed away and listened, glancing down the well-lit hallway decorated with portraits of old steam engine boats from the early 1900s and black and whites of prominent Maine figures. The depiction closest to him resembled Abraham Lincoln sans beard. The name read:
Alfred Greaves Jr.
There was something menacing in the man’s eyes. Unsettling.

There was a tingling in his solar plexus that often accompanied feelings of dread. Being a comic book nerd, he liked to refer to it as his
spidey-sense
. He hadn’t felt it since the night he came home to find his apartment back home in Sausalito, California broken into. Standing six-six and weighing in at a good two hundred and fifty pounds, Eric was big enough to take care of himself in most troublesome situations.

He hadn’t been afraid that night, just uneasy, but ready. This was different.

Butterflies swarmed in his stomach as he left the door to his room and crept down the hall, listening for the cries. Three doors down, he heard the whimpering. He looked at the room number– 211. He placed his hands on the frame and as stealthily as he could, easing his ear to the door. As if aware of his presence, the whimpering slowed. He took a step back. His
spidey-sense
was screaming at him to move on, to go back to his room and lock the door. Against those better senses, he returned his ear to the barrier, this time with more urgency, compelled, having to hear the cries again.

What he heard on the other side was not crying, but a quiet cackle. His chest began thundering so hard he thought he might be having a heart attack at thirty-one. Then he heard her speak:

“Come in, Eric. I’ve been waiting for you,” the icy voice of his new mistress welcomed him. Before he could decide his next course of action the door flung open. He was wrenched inward by a force that snagged his entire frame as if it were that of a ten-year-old.

Behind the door to room 211, Eric Gentry’s screams were snuffed out. His eyes rolled into the back of his head at the sight of
her
true form.

…..

“Guest services, Jeff speaking. How can I help you?”

“Yeah, this is Ben and Gale Thompson in 213. I don’t know what the hell’s going on next door, but it sounds like someone is getting killed over there.”

Jeff’s skin attempted to physically crawl from his body. “Which room did you say?”

He was met with irritation from the other end.

“There’s something fucked up going on next door. Listen, my wife and I are paying good money to stay here. This is fucking ridiculous–Gale, Gale. Get back here.”

“Sir,” Jeff started, “I’m going to ask that you and your wife both stay in your room. I’ll go check on–”

Further from the receiver Jeff heard the man calling to his wife. “Gale, where the hell are you going? Let them take care of this. Gale!”

Jeff hung up the phone and slipped the brass knuckles from his messenger bag into his pants pocket.

As he rounded the corner of the desk, his eyes met Meghan Murphy’s beautiful deep browns. She sat behind the glass window of the computer room, smiling at him, but her eyes looked different,
darker
. He broke her gaze and jogged toward the elevator at the end of the hall.