The Grand

By Evelyn Chartres

(Nom de plume)

Copyright 2019

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Toronto, Ontario

ABOUT

You will find The Grand nestled atop a cliff that overlooks a cursed valley. Surrounded by foreboding mountains, this ritzy French palatial-style hotel is a place where a roaring party’s success is measured by its body count. This hotel does not cater to the rich or famous. Instead, its staff and facilities serve a clientele with a more discerning palate.

The Grand is a collection of Gothic fantasy stories with an overarching storyline that incorporates supernatural themes. The Roaring Twenties serves as a rich historical, linguistic, and cultural backdrop.

Centred on the victims, each story brings a unique perspective to the hotel, the staff, and their esteemed guests. At The Grand, it is best to remember: Even things that go bump in the night need a place to unwind.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

NOTE

THE GRAND

PROLOGUE - ONE SMALL STEP

JUNE 16TH 1920

JULY 28TH 1969

CHAPTER 1 - THE MAN AND THE SEA

MARCH 24TH 1948

CHAPTER 2 - PENNY DREADFUL

MAY 3RD 1948

MAY 4TH 1948

CHAPTER 3 - HADRIAN’S LEGACY

JULY 15TH 1948

JUNE 5TH 1917

JULY 15TH 1948

CHAPTER 4 - OLD SOUL

AUGUST 22ND 1922

AUGUST 16TH 1948

CHAPTER 5 - THE CHESHIRE CAT’S GRIN

MAY 1ST 1927

MAY 30TH 1927

MAY 31ST 1927

JUNE 7TH 1927

AUGUST 19TH 1948

CHAPTER 6 - THE MAD HATTER’S MIRROR

JULY 11TH 1928

AUGUST 17TH 1948

CHAPTER 7 - ONE FLIGHT OVER

OCTOBER 29TH 1929

OCTOBER 30TH 1929

AUGUST 26TH 1948

CHAPTER 8 - THE VIRGIN GODDESS OF THE HUNT

SEPTEMBER 19TH 1948

AUGUST 7TH 1926

AUGUST 8TH 1926

SEPTEMBER 19TH 1948

CHAPTER 9 - INTO THE FIRE

JUNE 9TH 1922

SEPTEMBER 8TH 1948

CHAPTER 10 - CHARIOTS OF THUNDER

MAY 21ST 1919

MAY 24TH 1919

MAY 21ST 1921

MAY 30TH 1921

SEPTEMBER 9TH 1948

CHAPTER 11 - SIAMESE DREAMS

JULY 16TH 1925

SEPTEMBER 14TH 1948

CHAPTER 12 - THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

SEPTEMBER 2ND 1929

SEPTEMBER 13TH 1929

OCTOBER 3RD 1948

CHAPTER 13 - ETHEREAL NIGHTS

JUNE 8TH 1927

OCTOBER 25TH 1948

CHAPTER 14 - JOURNEY THROUGH THE RIVER OF BELIEF

NOVEMBER 10TH 1948

NOVEMBER 11TH 1948

NOVEMBER 11TH 1943

NOVEMBER 11TH 2003

EPILOGUE - GHOUL HUNTERS

JULY 16TH 2015

JULY 21ST 2015

DECEMBER 14TH 2015

LEXICON

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO, FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank those who helped make this novel a reality, specifically, those who were integral in helping this project come to fruition.

I would like to thank R.E. Moran for the key role she played in the cover design. Without her artistic style, flair and valuable advice, the cover would probably still feature stick figures.

Thank you Tina E. Williams, who painstakingly scoured the manuscript to bring about a bit of coherence. Her diligence also permitted me to gauge the effectiveness of my editing process.

Lastly, I wish to thank Selenie Ichijo and Peggy MacPhie, two brave souls who read through the novel while still a work in progress. These are my beacons in the night; proof that I am not navigating these dark seas alone.

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de Plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

http://evelynchartres.com

NOTE

The Grand uses slang from the Roaring Twenties to reflect the era. For your convenience, a Lexicon has been added at the end of the book.

A copy is also available online. Either click on or scan the QR Code, or type in the link below:

http://bit.ly/3XBXrFd

THE GRAND

PROLOGUE

ONE SMALL STEP

June 16th 1920

Madame, your room number is three-twenty-five,” Max said. He then paused before absentmindedly adding, “To your left in the West wing.”

The hotel’s layout had been committed to memory long ago, along with this particular speech. Max often wondered if he would one day be replaced by a phonograph.

“Our valets are on the way with your bags and a lobby boy will show you to your room,” Max said.

Behind the guest, he saw a young man in his early teens formed up smartly in military fashion. Their uniforms rivalled those of the British Royal Family’s staff and that was precisely what their clients expected.

Max looked over to the boy, then noticed how this dame did not acknowledge his presence. As judged from the jade cigarette holder, corset, and long dress that accentuated her bust, this was not some liberated flapper here with her daddy, but someone of old stock. That kind of culture came only through proper breeding and careful grooming at the finest finishing schools in Europe.

“Will that be all, madame?” Max asked with an accent that carried a hint of Latin.

In fact, it was Latin, since his full name was Maximus. Although this one would never pick up on it. That was easy to guess, what with her beating heart and decaying body; all the signs he recognised for those afflicted with life.

Nonetheless, this mistress Gundy took her key and walked off as though she owned this joint. One had to respect that. To think she waltzed off without a care in the world, a trait that demanded respect in this line of work.

“All for the best,” Max thought, before looking out to see traces of the sun’s final passing.

It reminded him of a campfire as its burning embers glowed crimson red moments before they turned to ash. Soon the true goddess of the night, the moon, would appear to claim her dominion over the heavens. The stars would then follow by piercing through the veil, a sign that led him to question this world’s uniqueness amongst creation.

Max spotted a group of flappers heading down to one of the many lounges in the hotel. They were being chaperoned by some dapper, one who appeared to be perpetually bored. With this fire extinguisher casting his shadow wherever they went, he doubted these ladies would be invited to any petting parties.

The concierge heard the blower ring. Not the normal ring that originated from the East or West wing, since those overlooked the valley floor and were reserved for the living. This one came from the South wing which featured suites carved into the cliffside.

For the uninitiated, these were identical sounds. To those with heightened hearing, there was a difference, though it appeared to be nothing more than an anomaly brought on by stray voltage. For those capable of perceiving the heartbeat of any living creature, these rings were quite distinct.

He picked up the phone mechanically, still fixated on a particular dame. Max was in awe at how her knee duster, loose fitting top, short bobbed raven black hair and feathered hat managed to stir up feelings he forgot existed. Her entire body seemed to flow like satin in the wind. While those curves and tight breasts were concealed as required by this latest fashion craze, those freshly shaved gams were visible and enticing. What a shame that she’s a feather.

“Front Desk,” Max said while his eyes followed the girl until she disappeared behind the fountain.

“Operator, please hold while I connect you,” Mavis said with her distinctive musical tones.

A shame her perky demeanour could drive him up the wall. Luckily, she was lightning fast when it came to routing calls.

“We have a problem,” Cecil said. After a pause, he added, “Molly managed to get into the South wing.”

Max froze, his mind struggling to find a scenario where that was possible. Normally the day staff were unable to perceive the existence of this wing. For them it appeared to be a ballroom, a lounge or spa under perpetual construction. Whatever their imaginations found most believable formed the basis for this deception. A simple trick of the eye perhaps, but over the years it proved to be highly effective.

Molly was a bit of a dumb Dora. With the chassis she had, who cares? However, that meant she did not possess the mental faculty necessary to dispel the illusion.

“How?” Max asked.

Max made sure to keep calm to avoid alarming the guests. It was poor form to point out The Grand being less than the utopia they advertised it to be.

Cecil hesitated, leaving Max to wonder if the line had gone dead until he answered, “No one has a clue. We do know that she opened the door to room four-fourteen.”

The door marked four-fourteen did not lead to a suite. Instead, it served as a passageway connecting The Grand to other destinations. Guests could use it to travel instantly to London for high tea and get back to enjoy a dip in their Turkish baths.

The problem associated with most Georgian constructs was that they were somewhat unpredictable. He had seen some rather peculiar results in the past and dared not consider the condition she was in after she reached her destination.

“Where?” Max asked while remaining sceptical of getting an acceptable answer since the doorway typically left no trace of its use.

“Well, let’s just say the Earth looks like a little blue marble from where she is,” Cecil said.

Cecil had said all of this without any inflection or change in tone so this was not a load of baloney. Staff at The Grand rarely played games, given how stiff the repercussions were if the Boss caught wind of it. This is ludicrous!

Max asked, “The moon, says you?”

“Ab-so-lute-ly,” Cecil responded with the same steady voice. “We found one of her heels wedged in the doorway. That somehow kept the gate open and by some miracle this Jane made it twenty-paces before collapsing. None of us wants to get near that body.” Cecil paused to steady his voice and failed, “That includes me! I may be a stiff, but I still have half a mind!”

The concierge mulled over the situation. It seems that Molly managed to tie up the loose ends nicely.

With that in mind, Max said, “That’s fine. No one’s going to find her up there, least of all the sheriff and his bulls. So close that door and forget what you saw.”

“Got it,” Cecil said.

Max tapped on the switch hook three times then heard, “Operator, how may I direct your call?”

The concierge did not mince words, “Mavis, patch me through to Administration.”

“One moment,” Mavis said.

While Mavis patched him through, Max looked over to the fountain serving as the centrepiece to The Grand’s lobby. It seemed as though it were taken straight out from a palace or château. What with its chubby cherubs feeding the waters below and their vases filled with an inexhaustible supply of water. On either side, there was a curved marble staircase which framed the fountain and gave the joint that ritzy look guests came to expect from a hotel of its calibre.

“Administration, this is Thelma,” Max heard on the line.

The mere mention of that name was enough to get his proverbial heart racing. Too bad Thelma always spurned his advances since she was not interested in younger men. This was a tidbit of information she let slip during the Elizabethan Era. Perhaps her views of me will soften in a couple of centuries?

“Thelma, this is Max,” he said while trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

Why should I let her in on the fact that I’m still stuck on her? Who am I kidding? Thelma already knew and there were bigger fish to fry today.

“Molly was taken for a ride, so we need to plaster ads at every train station from here to the city for new maids and staff. Oh, and put up some advertisement in the local rag,” Max said.

Perhaps a few Janes would present themselves for the job. They might even get lucky and have a local apply. While most had the heebie jeebies, with good reason, The Grand did offer a lot of dough to attract staff.

“Will do, Max,” Thelma said in her normally assertive tone. “Now quit being goofy!”

Her final words left him certain of two things. For one, the ads would be in the morning’s papers. Secondly, she knew that he was hopelessly infatuated.

“I wonder what she’ll be doing next century,” Max said while returning his gaze towards the heavens.

There he found that Selene had set the night aglow with her silvery light. It seemed that the lonely goddess had company tonight though he doubted Molly was up for any conversation.

July 28th 1969

Ben looked out over the silver wasteland to find a scene awash in craters, regolith and rocks. Tonnes and tonnes of rocks. His step felt light, even with the weighted boots. This was nothing less than paradise. How sad that he would only get a taste of this forbidden fruit, for soon he would be expelled to the blue world on his left. He turned to the rover and saw Joe looking over a map.

This mission was a dream come true since Congress had NASA’s balls in a vice these days. If it had not been for Apollo 13 and the headlines they drew while limping back to Earth, the program would have died then. That incident had reinvigorated the program until Apollo 17. By then, America was more interested in ‘The Godfather’ than astronauts leaving the cradle of civilisation.

Apollo 18 did not make headlines because they made no attempt at having the mission televised. It seemed that people were more interested in ‘The Godfather Part II’ than to watch him bob around on the moon. Regardless, he hugged his daughter goodbye and took off in a controlled explosion that hurtled him towards the moon. With Joe’s piloting skills, the landing module set down safely in a foreign world.

For now, he was busy collecting samples near the landing site. Nothing difficult per se. A task that would have been tedious and monotonous if it were not for the fact he was doing it on the freaking moon! A few yards away, he spotted something black and oddly shaped.

Curious, he hopped over while speaking into the microphone, “Collecting a geological sample near what appears to be a—”

“Say again?” Eugene asked from the relative solitude of the orbiter.

Perhaps the message had been cut off due to a glitch. Then again, it may have been a legitimate reason to worry.

“A shoe?” Ben’s words came in loud and clear though they made no sense.

“A shoe?” the question was asked by both Joe and Eugene.

From a distance, Joe saw Ben holding something at the end of his callipers. The black leather contrasted the background of silver, highlighting an object almost four-hundred-thousand miles out of place. Curious, he decided to move in closer to investigate.

“A shoe covered in a thin layer of dust,” Ben said over the comms.

At this point, Houston chimed in, “This is Houston. We copy your last. Confirm you said, shoe?”

Chances were that the higher ups were about to be woken up. I wonder how that conversation will go…

Ben responded, “I just picked up a size six ladies shoe, black in colour. It’s made of leather with a two-inch heel.”

Ben could not believe his eyes! Joe, now at Ben’s side, would have looked dumbstruck if his visor were up.

Joe chimed in, “Houston this is Liberty, I confirm what Captain Roy described. We have no doubt this item is a ladies shoe—”

He stopped transmitting the moment he noticed that Ben was heading towards the crater. His partner was dangerously close to the crater’s shadow. In that zone, the temperature in his suit would drop to freezing fast.

“A body,” Ben said.

At this point, both Joe and Ben ignored calls from the orbiter, Freedom, and the ground station, Houston. Just at the edge of the crater, there was an arm protruding from the shadow. The skin was grey and mummified but the manicured nails of a woman’s hand were clearly visible.

“Are you seeing this, Joe?” Ben asked.

Before Ben got an answer, a beam of light appeared, emanating from the crater’s centre. This sliver of light grew wider and wider until it took on a rectangular shape. The light then stretched out, forming a path that ended at the body laying at their feet.

The mummified body was clearly feminine, with a black and white uniform, blonde hair cut short and bobbed. If her skin did not have the consistency of ash, he may have found her attractive. Attached to the uniform, there was a silver nametape upon which Molly was inscribed. Joe stood there bewildered then snapped out of it long enough to radio back.

“Houston, we found a body, female, in her early twenties with a name tape that identifies her as Molly. Do you copy?” Joe said.

He sounded confused and even through the S-Band channels and cosmic interference, Houston and Freedom had no problem picking up on it. For the first time, the comms were silent.

Ben, still mesmerised by the light, moved towards the source. The closer he got, the more detail he saw through the threshold. This was not a solid beam of white light as he originally suspected. Was that a door on the other side? Were the numbers four-one-four affixed?

If he were not on the moon, he might have assumed he was caught up in some bizarre rerun of a ‘Twilight Zone’ episode. In fact, it was easier to assume he was going crazy than accept this as truth. That is, until he saw a long shadow, which concealed the light and sent a chill down his spine. Before he could react, a hand reached out, grabbed his body camera then pulled him in…

CHAPTER 1

THE MAN AND THE SEA

March 24th 1948

John hated the sea. He loathed every aspect of it. From the taste of brine lingering in the air to how the blues, greens and whites mixed together when the waves washed onto the beach.

He hated the cold and dreaded bobbing around like a cork during a storm. John detested being constantly in fear of drowning or worse, freezing to death while clinging onto some scrap of flotsam. It gnawed at him while on patrol and festered during shore leave. How can I get away from the sea?

Is this penance for something I’ve done in life? John had endured the cold of the North Atlantic seeping into his bones. He even ate the same swill served day-in and day-out. For what? The privilege of standing bridge watches for hours on end? All the while, he wondered if there was a threat lurking beneath the waves. One that would rise like the Kraken and send them to their watery graves. At the end of his watch, he would often hide from the world in his bunk, staring up at the deckhead and wonder what level of hell he was on.

Fortune had favoured the crew thus far, although scars remained of the horrors they witnessed. John would never forget the odour of burning bunker oil on the ocean. Nor could he forget the sound of a ship’s keel buckling after a torpedo found its mark.

Worse were the sounds of seamen pleading for help when John knew there was nothing to be done. The risks were great and their never-ending thirst for revenge meant they could never resist dropping one more depth-charge. Perhaps we’ve been lucky and punished those Krauts for the lives they reaped…

John felt a chill move up his spine when he remembered how the plumes of water erupted from the sea, those which left him invariably drenched.

The sea gave no quarter; it stole the lives of anyone who failed to respect her. When victory was finally declared, he did not celebrate. Instead, John mourned those taken by this Angel of Death.

After the war, John returned home, feeling both defeated and dejected. It was not until the Nuremberg trials began that he found his true calling.

He watched all the footage he could find and read any related article. He discovered a new type of weapon being deployed against the enemy. John learned how words and a gavel sentenced men to death more readily than the hundreds of depth charges they dropped during the war.

The soldiers who led the charge were not sea captains, infantry advancing on a trench with bayonets affixed, nor pilots flying a bombing run over Berlin, but prosecutors. Not everyone was sentenced to death. Some were locked up for life while others were acquitted. I wonder if their sentences could have been death had I been the one leading the case?

So John earned a degree in law and passed the Bar. As a barrister, he would walk the righteous path of sending the guilty to the gallows or perhaps defend those in need no matter their guilt. However, the idea of living off the avails of setting the guilty free made his skin crawl.

Even sinners deserve to be represented, but could I live with myself? John mused.

So without much thought, John accepted a post as a prosecutor, even if he could not find this place on the map. It was nestled somewhere along a main railway line, hidden away in a valley surrounded by tall foreboding mountains. The man he spoke with, a Clerk of the Court, also mentioned the solace, the intrinsic beauty found amongst the fauna and flora.

All John could think of, was how far removed he would be from the sea. Even if it rained forty days and forty nights, the waters would be well out of reach! Is there a better way to describe paradise?

CHAPTER 2

PENNY DREADFUL

May 3rd 1948

John felt a rush of steam once the locomotive started down the line. The mechanical mammoth clinked and clanked, pulling the myriad of boxcars with it. With apprehension, he eyed the mechanical wonder until its lights were consumed by the night.

For a split second, he questioned his decision to come here. No one else had gotten off, which said a great deal about the importance of this outpost. It certainly made him wonder what to expect once he reached town.

Even in early May, a bitter wind blew through his coat. The chill in the air was easily explained by the sight of a silvery glow emanating from the snow-covered peaks. The sheer difference in scale made him feel small and insignificant. He had been in cities where buildings were over a hundred stories high, but here such buildings would appear diminutive and insignificant. At this elevation, trees could not grow near the peaks, instead they were barren as they pierced the heavens.

“Mister Cabot? John Cabot?” Joshua asked.

John turned around to find a lone figure approaching from the station. While well-dressed, the man appeared pale and sickly. He probably never even served in the war. It took all that he had to conceal his disdain for someone who never heeded the call of the piper.

He mulled over the cable he received a few days back and said, “Yes, I am. And you must be Joshua?”

Joshua relaxed visibly, leaving John to conclude that his nervousness was out of place for someone living far away from the big city and its inherently big problems. Joshua worked for the municipality, land deeds and holdings, which made his choice to dabble in real estate awkward. He assumed that in a town of five to ten-thousand people there were bound to be some who wore more than one hat. Will I find out that the barber also dabbles in dentistry?

“That’s me. My car’s parked out front. So if you’ll please follow me,” Joshua said without making an offer to help with his luggage.

The barrister picked up his duffel bag. It may not be as professional or high-class as matching luggage, but this contained all he needed.

Once caught up, John said, “I see that you got my cable to meet tonight. Thank you for being here.”

“De nada,” Joshua replied while his words quivered with a hint of nervousness.

What’s the source of this fear? After all, John was not dressed like a thug, rather the opposite. Although, John noticed how Joshua’s words became more confident as he approached the car.

“The paperwork’s ready for you to sign in the morning,” Joshua said. “I took the liberty of booking you a room at the local Inn. They know to expect a late arrival.”

“Thank you,” John said before reaching the passenger side door.

Once the door was unlocked, the barrister then crammed his duffle bag into the back. Why would someone lock their doors in this town? He sat down then watched the headlights shine a swath of light over the road.

His driver was not interested in small talk, so John let it pass. There were other things to worry about and questions might send this nervous Nellie over the precipice. John would need to wait for an opportunity before getting Joshua to cough up some answers.

* * * *

They pulled up along a multi-storey stone structure, which had a few bright windows lighting up the night. He figured they had arrived when he noticed the couple waiting in the first-floor foyer get up to greet them.

Before he had the chance to read the establishment’s name, Joshua spoke, “Here we are. “Here we are. So, pick you up at eight o’clock?”

John thought it over and agreed, “That sounds good. I’ll meet outside the main door in the morning. Thanks again.”

Without hesitation, John grabbed his bag and stepped out of the car. When he swung the heavy car door shut, John learned just how determined Joshua was to get out of here. The car sped off into the night and its lights disappeared the moment the car turned a sharp corner. Now that was decidedly bizarre behaviour for this old salt. I wonder if Joshua sleeps with one eye open.

“Well, there we have it,” John said as he opened the inn’s door.

The couple waiting for him were friendly. In fact, he rather enjoyed how they fawned over him as though he were someone important; even their best room had been prepared for him.

John brought up his duffel bag, sat on the bed and felt at ease. After spending a week on the train, he was sure a good night’s sleep was in order.

Once ready for bed, he slipped in under the clean linen and noticed it had a faint smell of soap. The odour conjured up memories of home which further eased his mind. Unfortunately, sleep would not come, so he tossed and turned for an hour until he gave up.

“Why bother?” John mused while deciding to do something useful with his free time.

When he donned a housecoat, John snuck down to the foyer and found there was still a small fire burning in the fireplace. He tossed in an additional log, perused the titles on the shelf and found a book that stood out amongst all others. This one was new, despite the leather binding and gold lettering. The rather beautifully bound tome was titled, ‘The Diary of Frederick Samuels.’

Once he cracked open the book, the parchment felt rough under his fingertips. This was not some pulp fiction novel found in shops around the dockyards. Now that his curiosity was sufficiently piqued, he sat down next to the warm fire and began to read.

* * * *

May 18th 1891

I arrived after a long and arduous journey across the ocean then overland until we reached the foot of a mountain chain. This is the city where William’s letter was postmarked. Though applying such a label to the likes of this, is an affront to proper bastions of civilisation. This place is nothing like London, Paris, or even New York where civilised people can be found.

It seems that the farther away we move from what were known as the colonies, the more colloquial the language becomes. When I walked into a local saloon, it was clear that my brother had visited. The barman told me of a blowhard going by the name of Samuels, who got in a fight during a card game. Turns out that some four-flusher tried to cheat him, and after a blow to the man’s smeller, ended up in the hoosegow… colourful. I was unsure of what he said until he pointed out the wanted poster.

When I spoke with the local constabulary, who subscribed to the quaint moniker of Sheriff, he informed me that William had been released shortly after the fight and appeared to have been in good spirits. The man he bested may have been a well-known knave, but he did have a mining claim, which William won before it came to fisticuffs.

My brother wasted no time in securing his claim. Nor did he spare any expense in getting a crew together before heading down the line. The dates matched up with his last letter, so my decision to come to this city was justified.

When I asked why my brother had been released if he remained a wanted man, the matter became more complicated. Apparently, the man he assaulted, ended up dying from wounds incurred from the quarrel.

“Around here, we take them concerns real serious like,” the sheriff told me.

To put it mildly, there are some rather quaint dialects to be found in this region.

June 12th 1891

My team stumbled onto the remains of an encampment located at the foot of a mountainous valley. The area corresponds nicely with the description provided by the Sheriff.

No words could adequately describe the scene before us. Tents were ripped to shreds, equipment smashed beyond recognition, and the bodies… There were corpses everywhere and their blood polluted the ground as though it were dyed red. Even through a thick wall of flies, it was obvious no one had died of natural causes.

Never before have I witnessed such a grisly sight. Considering the carnage I have seen at Tel el-Kebir, that battle paled in comparison to the devastation wrought within this camp.

Most disturbing was the eerie silence hanging over us. Where were the horses and livestock? Even the wind seemed to fear this place and provided no relief to the lingering stench of death.

One man asked if dirty injuns, what a charming fellow, were responsible for this grievous act. Even through the carnage, there were no signs that this had been brought on by the hand of man. The wounds and method of attack were too vicious and primal to have been caused by men. It reminded me of the wounds inflicted on foxes when the hounds were given the order to kill.

When I told the men of this, they seemed sceptical. So I raised their individual shares and made sure to post sentries throughout the night.

June 14th 1891

After the second day of searching the ruined camp, we managed to account for everyone save one. Where could my brother be? Did he run and hide before they were attacked? Was he absconded by whatever forces wreaked havoc on the camp? Perhaps his men desired a bigger profit share?

Based on what we pieced together, breakfast was being prepared while the men were still in their ground sheets. The attack caught them completely unawares since there were no spent casings found. Not one blade, knife or axe showed signs of having drawn blood.

We also located the mine shaft and my men confirmed the existence of a profitable vein of copper within. Just outside the shaft we found a store of dynamite. Odd, considering the savagery of the attack on the main camp that this area should remain untouched.

I dispatched some men to a nearby missionary and took the precaution of doubling the guards. I then ordered the men to dig graves. That should prevent their idle minds from conjuring up more reasons to fear this place. I hope there will be no surprises tonight and pray that God will protect us from the fate that befell these poor souls.

June 21st 1891

The men have returned with a Jesuit priest accompanied by some Blackfoots. While the priest was warm and enlightened, those he travelled with were decidedly not. They refused to set foot in the valley. Instead, they set up camp at the passage from the North. Even from this distance, I can see them keeping a watchful eye, careful to never turn their backs on the valley for long. What are they afraid of?

When I questioned the Jesuit as to why his party refused to descend, the man became evasive. It was obvious he respected his hosts’ customs while not adhering to their superstitions. So that night on a lark, I brought out my best stock of whiskey and drank with him until he forgot his morals. While it took the better part of a bottle to loosen his tongue, my endeavour proved successful.

What he revealed turned out to be nothing more than a load of bollocks! How can a rational man accept something as childish as a curse? Not a curse on a man, but one set upon an entire valley. Balderdash!

According to their myths, evil spirits were said to haunt this valley. The legend itself was hard to decipher because the priest slurred his words and frequently changed subjects. Curiously, he proved to be less than forthcoming when it came to the fate of those who trespassed.

Before retiring for the evening, I looked up towards their encampment and saw their fires burning brightly. As their silhouettes stretched out into the valley, I wondered how these people could be so superstitious.

June 22nd 1891

Awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of a wolf’s howl in the distance. Never have I heard such a woeful sound; however I took this to be a good omen. Now that animals were returning, the threat must have moved on.

While staring at the celestial veil on this moonless night I heard some rustling to my left. When I turned to investigate, I saw this heavenly creature, a woman dressed in a long flowing white robe and hair as black as onyx. She did not say anything though I swear she looked right at me before she smiled.

I was about to say something, but was distracted by someone’s flatulence. That single moment of inattention was enough for her to vanish.

In the morning, no one spoke of seeing a lady during the night and the Jesuit said there were no women amongst his group. Alas, it was likely nothing more than a dream. Perhaps it was more of a case of undigested beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato…

* * * *

John was on the cusp of sleep when a burning log crackled. The sound startled him and he shot straight up in his chair. Lovely! Now I’m wide awake!

Perhaps fortune had smiled upon him after all. I wonder how bad the kink in my neck would have been after a night in that chair.

Resigned that he would be up for a while, the barrister dropped another log into the fire. For a while the diary continued on with the nitty gritty of daily life. It mostly rambled on about the logistics of getting men on site, establishing a work camp, and resuming mining operations.

With time, questions surrounding his brother’s whereabouts became an anomaly. Would memories of the war fade as well?

* * * *

Sep 5th 1895

Yields have been poor lately though no one can enlighten me as to why. The foreman spins yarns about the rock fighting the miners. This man was clearly trying to spoon feed me this horseshit in an attempt to distract me from his shortcomings.

The drop in production also meant an increase in accidents, since the men are jumpy and itching for a fight. The doctor has been running off his feet, too busy tending to the sick and injured. This will surely cut into my profits.

Perhaps I should bring in fresh workers and use them to open up a new shaft-line deeper into the cliff. While this vein is quite rich, there is no harm in increasing production.

Feb 9th 1896

For the past few weeks, the nights have been filled with the woeful howl of wolves. When was the last time I had a good night’s sleep? To think I considered their howls a blessing when I first arrived. The men have been ordered to shoot any beast on sight. That should drive the pack away.

Feb 12th 1896

Four men failed to return from their shift. Since the foreman insisted that his crew had reported for work this morning, I organised the men into search parties and had them fan out for a thorough search. To think, a full day of production was lost on this endeavour.

Since the men are spooked and unwilling to work, I placed armed guards at the mine’s entrance to alleviate their fears. With luck, this will get them back to work.

Feb 16th 1896

A crew reported hearing voices down an old line. While investigating they encountered something that shocked them. I have never seen men so white before; it was as though they had set eyes on Lucifer playing his fiddle.

While I am sceptical of their story, I lead a search party to investigate. What they described paled in comparison to the horror before me. The stone was drenched in blood while the bodies were torn to shreds. Their remains were so badly mangled that we could not identify nor confirm the number of victims. The scene was reminiscent of one of father’s slaughterhouses.

Amongst all of this blood and gore, my eyes fixated on a speck of white in the distance. Curiosity drew me towards the proverbial beacon while my men kept their rifles at the ready. All those precautions proved for naught as it turned out to be a handkerchief wrapped up into a bundle. To think that William’s gold watch was there, the one our father presented to him prior to commencing his search for riches and adventure.

How is this possible?

Feb…

Dear lord, he lives! Tore off his flesh… dire wolf… ran away… locked in… door splintering… please save—

May 4th 1948

After a few hours of sleep, John awoke to the sun beaming through the window. It was bright and vibrant, the hallmarks of a great day, more so when John was presented with a hot breakfast that sealed the deal.

During his meal, he sipped on a cup of hot coffee, and ate his steak and eggs while reading what passed for a newspaper around here. Given time, would he adjust to this anorexic daily? Do they deliver the city newspaper this far out?

No matter. Soon enough, his days would be spent looking into police reports and coroner inquests, all to decide on the best course of action to get a conviction. To read up on the news every morning would become a luxury. In other words, he was rather looking forward to getting some work done.

Ten minutes before the agreed upon time, the barrister walked out of the hotel. This provided him with the opportunity to get a feel for the town. It seemed that last night’s observations were correct, the mountain tops were indeed covered in glacial snow, though below the forest line, snow was sporadic at best. Trees nearer to the peaks were predominantly coniferous. John supposed the trees were dwarf-like in size.

There were plenty of deciduous trees and shrubs to be found. What struck him as odd was that there were no leaves on those trees. They still sported the skeletal remnants of a harsh winter. On his way here, every stop had been filled with the sight of leafing trees or were covered in vibrant foliage. It’s odd that the altitude plays such a large role in spring’s arrival.

“Not till late May,” John heard someone say.

When he turned around, he noticed a woman in her mid-twenties. The lady was bundled up in a cream coat with long flowing raven hair and eyes darker than a moonless night. As judged by her hair, John assumed she was of native descent, which was not uncommon in this region. That was fine and all, but it was eerie that she had an answer to a question he never asked.

“Pardon me, miss?” John asked as he reached out for a handshake.

She did not respond in kind and instead shirked away as though contact with his hand would set her aflame. In the back of his mind, he began to wonder if this valley and its surrounding mountains provided a natural barrier that prevented the local lunatics from escaping.

“Eleanor,” she replied meekly. Once John pulled his hand away, she regained a bit of composure, at least enough to add, “Eleanor Green. I grew up on a reserve to the East, but moved here for work.”

Once again, this woman showed some sort of insight on his thoughts. Should he test this hypothesis by thinking back to his worst days at sea? Perhaps it was more appropriate to think of something funny like a scene from Girl Crazy. Of course, undressing her with his mind’s eye might be a lot more pleasant.

Her giggling distracted him before he could conjure up any images. This left him a bit irked though he hid it well.

John decided it was time to break the ice, “I just arrived here. I’m looking to buy the place at the end of Victoria Street.”

“Nice place…” Eleanor said.

What is it with the locals? John found it frustrating how they were so tight-lipped. The barrister had seen hardened criminals who were more talkative.

“Joshua is about to turn the corner. Since I have errands to run, I bid you a good day.” Eleanor then winked, and said, “Sometimes doors are locked for a reason.”

Before John could ask how she knew of Joshua’s arrival he heard a car horn blaring. His ride had just turned the corner, just like Eleanor foretold.

John looked over his shoulder and found that Eleanor was well down High Street. He may have found that odd if he had not been mesmerised by her dark hair flowing in the light wind. Why am I so disappointed at missing the opportunity to undress her with my eyes?

“Too bad,” John said nonchalantly before entering the car.

* * * *

“Sorry about last night,” Joshua said while he took a sharp turn around the corner. “I don’t like driving out in the dark. There are large animals like elk and grizzlies out here. So, I get edgy when driving after sunset.”

This drive was taking him straight through the heart of town. John wondered if Eleanor would be walking along this route, but saw no sign of her. Why am I so disappointed that she’s not here?

While Joshua apologised, John sensed from his tone that it was not genuine. His words masked a secret that he was either unwilling or too fearful to share. No matter. Given his position, it paid dividends to play along.

“We tended to do the same back home. I grew up in a bad neighbourhood,” John said. “Mind you, the wild animals around the dockyards tended to be the two-legged variety…”

His attempt at humour backfired. What an odd duck this one turned out to be. It’s time to change the subject.

John said, “I came across an odd book last night, The Diary of Frederick Samuels.”

The realtor turned to him momentarily before he took another hard turn onto Victoria Street. Once the car straightened out in the lane, he said, “Jimmy sold you a copy, did he?”

“No, I found it in the foyer last night,” came John’s reply. “Why would he try to peddle the book?”

“It’s Jim’s little brainchild. He’s got a storeroom filled with them,” Joshua said.

The realtor left out how Jimmy insisted the diary was found in the ruins of some abandoned mining camp near here.

“They thought it would generate interest in the area. What with plans of extending the national highway system through town,” Joshua said.

“Did the plans fall through?” John asked.

All the while, houses were growing sparse as they progressed down the street. Where are we going exactly?

“Publishers wanted nothing to do with that book, so he made a deal with the local newspaper to have it printed and bound. Unfortunately, they were right. No one was interested, and it even spooked some of the guests,” Joshua explained.

John was not easily driven off by fear, considering he carried on for years on a ship dreading every moment. Still this additional tidbit of information filled him with a powerful desire to book the next available train back East. His theories on this being an asylum were gaining credence.

Nonetheless, Joshua continued, “It left them both tapped, so it’s been tough for a while.”

“That explains the sparse paper then,” John said.

John felt as though they were driving off into the boondocks. Once they reached the end of the street, well out of sight of any neighbours, they pulled into the driveway of an old but distinguished house.

On the outside, it was a tall white structure covered with wood slats and high peaked roofs that gave it the appearance of an alpine chalet. The place reminded him of Viennese houses he saw on ‘MovieTone News.’ Surprisingly, the home appeared to be in good repair. That’s impressive, considering no one has lived here since the twenties.

“Well, there you have it, the old Locke house,” Josh said over the engine’s purr. “I thought you’d want to look over the property before coughing up the moolah.”

When John stepped out of the car to get a better look, he was overwhelmed by the immensity of the home and attached property. What’s considered a house around here would be a mansion back home! Despite all of the wacky things he dealt with to get here, things were definitely looking up.

“The house is furnished, if you don’t mind the pieces being a bit dated,” Joshua said.

John had not considered getting any furniture until now. Chances were that anything new needed to be shipped by train or locally sourced at a high price. His mind wandered until he imagined Eleanor Green in a wedding dress. Wait! What?

“Since this property is remote, you’ll want a car to get around.” Joshua paused then added, “I happen to have a cousin who owns the dealership in town.”

“Really? I never would’ve guessed,” John said while keeping his eyes focused on the house.

In the back of his mind, the barrister wondered what he would find within. A place this large and dignified is bound to have its share of secrets.

CHAPTER 3

HADRIAN’S LEGACY

July 15th 1948

John’s mind was made up the moment he saw the Locke house. Joshua introduced him to an elderly couple hired on as caretakers by the estate. It seemed that the previous owner had been committed for close to three decades and recently passed away.

During the twenties, this man had been a prominent figure within the community. Despite the power and prestige, one day, he went bonkers. The reasons were never revealed since the family had no desire to tarnish their good name.

Elmer and Ida Bell did not add to the story Joshua weaved. It seemed that they found idle gossip to be uncouth. This was a trait the barrister admired, so he hired them on. Given his busy schedule and their propensity for discretion, he was sure their paths would rarely cross, an arrangement that suited both parties.

A routine was soon established. John woke up around six, did his toiletries, and then ate a light breakfast of toast and jam with a cup of strong coffee to wash it down. Once his belly was full and his face smooth, he headed off for the office and arrived before seven-thirty in the morning.

Lunch and supper were spent in town and John returned home around seven. This gave him the opportunity to review any pending cases before he called it a night.

The process would begin anew the next day. While not extravagant nor exciting, it gave his life purpose. Better yet, it kept his mind busy.

The oddities he noticed surrounding the town and its people faded from memory. Either they had been a figment of his imagination or he simply grew accustomed to the local quirks of the community, with the exception of the local newspaper. People here were welcoming enough, except for those he faced in court, but that was to be expected.

During a particularly warm and muggy night in July, he woke up to the sound of thunder. John moved over to the window with eyes heavy from sleep. He opened his eyes just as a bolt of lightning forked many times over the horizon. He counted down the seconds after the strike, but was unprepared for the reverberations. The valley and its surrounding mountains amplified the sound considerably, which temporarily left him both deaf and blind.

A drop of rain made contact with the roof, followed by another and another until it sounded as though an audience were applauding. Rain pounded the house, leaving John thankful he was inside and not out at sea.

The vivid association brought about a flashback, one that put him back on the bridge of his ship while waves and rain were beating down on the deck. When a wave washed over the brim of his cap, John struggled to keep his eyes open. With stinging eyes and blurred vision, he struggled to follow the silhouettes of ships ahead. It was almost impossible to see these vessels as they moved up and down with the waves…

Another flash of light brought him back to the present. Wait! Is that someone’s silhouette? Thinking it was a trick of the mind, he rubbed his eyes and felt his forehead to rule out a fever. Is this a case of delirium? But when another bolt lit up the lands, the woman’s silhouette reappeared, one that seemed familiar.

“Eleanor,” John said while she turned north and headed towards the back of the property.

Bewildered, John pinched himself to make sure he was not dreaming. The expected sensation of pain washed over him, enough to reassure him before going toward the back door. In the distance, through the torrential rain, he saw her outline moving deeper into the trees. He hesitated before grabbing a trench coat to face the storm.

The rain soaked him instantly, but John remained unfazed. This was far too bizarre for him to ignore, so the barrister pushed through his property and ventured into the woods. Since it was night, the occasional bolt of lightning not only left him blinded, but robbed him of precious night vision. Nonetheless, he pushed on as the bitter rain chilled him to the bone.

The deeper in, the more certain he became that he was headed in the right direction and then it hit him! More appropriately, he hit it: a large and foreboding wall of granite that stood a good fifteen feet tall.

“God dammit!” John yelled.

June 5th 1917

Max stood behind a large crate that was located roughly where the concierge’s desk ought to be. The chaos of construction surrounded him; wooden scaffolding littered the walls while carpenters, painters, electricians, plumbers, glaziers and masons worked on their projects. Some were busy working on mouldings, while others were plastering or dropping in slabs of marble that would complete the staircases. The entire scene reminded him of ants, busy working on their little colony.

In the centre of the Grand Hall, Max saw a large pit with pipes protruding every which way. Soon the centrepiece would be installed: a large fountain of majestic proportions rivalling those found at Versailles. For now, it was more of a hazard, since more than a few workers had fallen into the pit. Fortunately, they had a transient workforce, so no alarms were raised when people disappeared after visiting the doctor, an office which was conveniently located by the kitchens.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a large metal structure. In time, it would be fitted with lead crystal glass and grant patrons an unrivalled view over the valley floor without ever receiving direct sunlight. For now, it’s covered by burlap tarps so we could heat the place.

Normally, windows would have been installed before work began. Unfortunately, that part of the project was well behind schedule. A delay he could deal with, but the Boss had caught wind of it. He was reminded of an expression he heard recently about how shit flows downhill. How true it turned out to be when the workers took the brunt of his frustration.

It’s hard to believe this project is taking shape! With the death of Queen Victoria, it became apparent that her extended family would not hold together for much longer. Backup plans were considered in case the powder keg finally blew. Max ended up being assigned to this little project nestled away in the mountains.

It took over a year to blast enough rock to build the East and West wings. They needed another year to expand and reinforce the South wing; that part of the project was done in secrecy to account for the needs of their most esteemed guests.

The size of the mechanical room alone was astronomical! It required a substantial amount of engineering to keep the equivalent of a crypt warm and dry. Fortunately, there were engineering firms who designed systems without question. Ethics have a bad habit of interfering with profits.

“Wait a minute! Did that worker have long hair?” Max wondered.

“Sir?” a boy said and caught Max off guard.

While the voice had come from behind, Max never took his eyes off the work. He had a feeling he knew what this was about and hoped the boy would just leave.

“Sir,” the boy repeated, this time in a questioning tone.

Whoever they sent this time was not going to back down. A pity, Max thought, thinking this one ought to be transferred to the night staff. They always needed people who could be trusted to achieve their task no matter how unpleasant it turned out to be.

“What is it, boy?” Max asked and made no attempts at disguising the irritation he felt for being interrupted.

Max came face-to-face with a young man in his late teens, dirty blonde hair, blue eyes and a smart step. This was clearly not a worker, since this one wore well pressed clothes, a clean collar and spit shined boots. While the voice had been unfamiliar, one look at the young man told him this was Eugene, one of the indoor aviators who worked nights.

Is indoor aviator the proper slang for an elevator operator? Max sometimes got the colourful lingo confused. Slang was rarely intuitive to those who were not born to it. Unfortunately, they were expected to interact with people from this generation and had to be up to speed on the lingo.

Did that boy speak to me before now? Max remembered barking orders that were eagerly followed, but never got so much as a peep out of him.

Despite the hostile tone in Max’s voice, Eugene did not seem fazed when he replied, “It’s over.”

The concierge smiled, this was the first bout of good news they had in a while. Construction of the hotel was always falling behind and some of the workers even demanded higher wages. A series of well-choreographed accidents had been used to motivate them. Such issues, even as constant irritations, were inconsequential compared to the events unfolding below. For the next twenty-eight nights, they had the opportunity to make up for lost time.

“Excellent,” Max said to the lift operator while heading towards the open bird cage.

The operator followed Max and pressed down on a lever that closed the golden grill before their descent began. Construction varied wildly between floors since each was at various stages of completion and crews were farmed out as necessary. Once they reached the fourth floor, the lift paused until Eugene could twist then push up on the lever to continue going down.

The light from the lift created a ghastly show against the layers of rock before him. They were moving through the pre-existing mine shafts and would soon reach the valley floor.

Max made a note to have the shaft walls finished and lit. Guests using this particular entrance were bound to consider such a view beneath them, which meant the Boss would be less than thrilled with their design choices. To ensure customer satisfaction, he would have a few commissioned pieces placed within carved niches of marble and gold.

Moments before they reached the bottom, the rock walls gave way, leaving the light unable to brighten this pitch-black nightmare. Max imagined that watching their arrival would look like a shooting star falling through the sky. With a loud thump they reached the ground and were immediately confronted by a lone figure.

Eugene slid open the door without being prompted, so Max wasted no time in stepping out. The concierge looked over to find the ashen face of Cecil Clark, the man who kept a tight leash on the workforce down in the valley. Max was not precisely sure as to Cecil’s past or how he came to be employed by the Boss. However, he did have a nagging feeling that this man knew his way around a dungeon.

Even in adequate lighting, the man looked sickly and pale. Cecil squinted as though his eyes had not seen light of this intensity in years. This was probably true since he never saw Cecil on any of the habitable levels of the hotel. His employer trusted him implicitly, so Max had no reason to think otherwise.

“So, good news then?” Max asked, as the lift began its journey home.

Once the last vestiges of light from the birdcage disappeared, Cecil smiled and said, “We lost seventeen men tonight.”

Cecil turned and headed deeper into the heart of darkness with the concierge in tow. Max relied on his guide to get him through the maze of shafts and tunnels on this level.

With his enhanced vision, he could see just enough to avoid tripping or falling into an open pit. Still, Max would have preferred more lighting and made a note to have a series of tunnels properly finished for their more distinguished guests. Others who had a wilder streak and preferred the natural caverns were free to use those entrances.

“It’s better than last month,” Max said in a neutral tone.

The concierge was unsure if Cecil cared about the workers or the effect on deliverables. I’ll need to poke and prod for details.

“Was it thirty-three?” Max asked to keep the other engaged.

“Thirty-nine,” Cecil said nonchalantly. “This time though we gave them a bloody lip.”

“Really?” Max asked, curious how they managed to put a dent in the horde.

This scenario did have some eerie parallels to building Hadrian’s Wall. That too had been built to keep the hordes of ravenous clansmen away from those who could be civilised. Of course, that’s how historians described the situation, since the truth was more horrific than people cared to admit.

“Yes. You’ll see in a minute,” Cecil said.

Once they left the mine shaft, they were bathed in the silvery light of the full moon. While the view from The Grand was obscured due to ongoing work, Max was nonetheless taken aback. Not because of the panoramic view of the sky or how the Milky Way filled it, but because of the carnage on the ground.

Before them was a scene that came straight out of a Middle Ages battlefield: ground soaked in blood, limbs cast about carelessly and bodies that looked more like ground meat then men, women, and children. There were differences of course, such as the limbs being ripped from their hosts and visible bite marks. There were claw marks found along trees, along with several deep gouges in the ground. This was a constant reminder that the average Joe was not the ultimate predator on this earth.

In the distance, he heard the sound of construction and saw the faint glow of electric lights, signs that operations were back to normal. Workers were busy building up the wall, the one which separated them from the beasts.

He looked up to find the moon near its apex. Where are the screams of agony?

“What am I missing here?” Max asked.

Cecil walked out about thirty feet then kicked something out from under some brush. It was large and covered in fur. It was about the size of a mountain lion and when attached to its host, became unimaginably lethal. Max had never been this close to the forearm of one of those beasts and had to fight the urge to leave.

“There was a Georgian here,” Cecil said before spitting on the ground.

Cecil did that every time their names came up, clearly not a fan of whatever they were. Their kind were infrequently contracted by those of his ilk to stack the odds in their favour.

“You know how they are. They have no concept of time, loyalty and they never take sides,” Max said.

Max knew where Cecil was going with this. The Georgians had been contracted almost a year ago to enhance their defences and provide a series of automatons to prevent intrusions. While their intermediary assured them work would begin shortly, there had been no signs of them until now. This time, it looks like their timing was fortuitous.

“This one ignored the attack on the work camp,” Cecil said before he paused long enough to collect his thoughts. “Bodies were being ripped to shreds, men, and women alike, and he did nothing to stop them. That is, until one of the horde caught his scent and charged.”

Max never heard of an encounter between werewolves and a Georgian. While he assumed they used their arcane skills for offence and self-defence, there were no reports of them doing as such. His kind had built a society above that of men and ruled from the shadows. Yet, they were transparent when compared to the likes of the Georgians.

“The Georgian looked unfazed and swiped his staff at the thing,” Cecil said even as the sound of the heavy thump echoed in his mind.

Yet that was nothing compared to the ear-piercing squeal which followed. The memory of that event was enough to make Cecil cringe.

“Just like that, the forearm fell to the ground, and the werewolves withdrew,” Cecil said.

“Even if it survived the dismemberment, the pack will turn on him for being wounded,” Max said.

They had gotten lucky before, but it took a lot of men and resources to throw at the problem. Emperor Hadrian lost an entire legion in an ill-advised attack against a large and particularly vicious pack. That loss led him to build the wall which bore his name.

“Yep…” Cecil said. “Of course, the bastard left, so we still have to complete this wall before we can relax.”

“How much time do we need?” Max asked despite knowing this was a sore point.

The wall should have been completed six months ago, but no one expected the attacks to be so frequent or vicious. Every attack killed or managed to scare off some of the workers. To compensate for shortages, they now employed the workforce that built the nation’s railway. I wonder if their ancestors were employed to build the Great Wall that protected their empire for millennia.

“It’ll take two months if we keep working them night and day. We’ll need a fresh batch of recruits though. It’s unfortunate we have to pay them as much as we do our own,” Cecil said with a sigh.

This project was clearly starting to wear Cecil down. So, labour disputes were starting to look pretty good right now.

“I can only hope our luck holds. The bloody lip they got tonight will hopefully give them pause,” Max said.

The concierge did not believe a word of it. If these creatures could be reasoned with, his kind would have domesticated them long ago. Instead, they aimed to push them towards extinction. Until the last of their kind was dead, those like Max would mitigate the damage.

“Yeah, and I’ll end up with a nice tan,” the other said with a smirk.

July 15th 1948

John saw movement, but found nothing more than a foreboding gargoyle standing sentry upon a turret. The shape of this sculpture was silhouetted by the luminescence of the clouds. In that singular moment, he had the feeling of being watched. Odd?

His hand reached for the wall, finding it unexpectedly warm to the touch. There was another flash of lightning which lit up the sky clear as day. Once his eyes were able to focus, John noticed that it was covered with names.

Most of the names he recognised from the Chinatown district. They had been hastily written as though hurriedly carved into the wall when guards looked elsewhere. The process seemed similar to how graffiti appeared in the cells at the local lock-up. He was about to reach for the wall when a beam of light covered the wall with his silhouette.

When he turned around a voice said, “Sir, what are you doing here?”

John recognised the voice as Elmer’s, so he relaxed before saying, “Thought I saw someone, so I followed and ended up face-to-face with this.” He tapped on the wall and said, “All I found was this wall, engraved with names.”

“Names?” Elmer asked, genuinely confused.

When John tried to point out the writing, he noticed the wall was blank. To think that they had been so clear moments ago. Was this part of an elaborate dream? Perhaps it’s a trick of the brain brought on by the flashes of lightning?

“I must have been imagining it” John said while he turned to head home.

Sometimes it was best to hide what was going through one’s mind.

“Very good, sir,” Elmer said.

Elmer fell in beside John so he could light the way home. For the moment, John’s excuse seemed sufficient.

CHAPTER 4

OLD SOUL

August 22nd 1922

Theodore Jones was an old soul, although that was a bit of a misnomer. He had witnessed the rise of countless empires, followed by their inescapable decline to ash. This intrinsically linked cycle always left a path of carnage in its wake. After all, empires were built atop the bones of rulers and their victims alike.

The passage of time, the source of all decline, would grind everything down to a fine dust. I wonder if that served as the premise for the sands of time analogy. The great temples of past-religions were a testament of society’s transformation. These great centres had once been the focal point of communities, the forges which powered empires. Now these marvels of architecture, which had taken generations to build were hollowed out or reduced to rubble.

“Now that’s progress,” he said before adopting a smirk that made all but the surest of men uneasy.

Many empires had collapsed because he played a part in manipulating key events. It was not by accident that weaknesses were incorporated into the Great Wall’s design and subsequently leaked to the Mongols. Nor was it a coincidence that the Mongolian horde later used river boats for their invasion of Japan, a seemingly insignificant risk which cost them the bulk of their fleet when a typhoon hit.

“Divine wind my ass,” he muttered.

He was responsible for the disappearance of the Ninth Legion, a loss that prevented Rome from taking all of Britannia. That particular mishap also bled the empire dry and heralded their decline.

Not all actions needed to include grandiose plans or sinister plots. His greatest achievements had been to load trade ships with plague ridden rats to spread the Black Death. That singular act unleashed a death toll that escalated beyond his wildest dreams, leaving the sweet smell of decay lingering in the air for nearly a decade.

These feats were never done as a means to accumulate wealth. When one lived this long, there was a thirst for entertainment, a desire to live through chaos. What incentives do I have to keep society running like a well-oiled machine?

Even straightforward acts of terror had the potential for a popular uprising and violence. What better way to stimulate the mind than to watch wealthy industrialists dragged into the street so they could be tarred and feathered?

He had been there to sow the seeds of dissent in France and witness the decapitation of every blue blood. That turned out to be one hell of a party.

Of course, such events were nearly impossible to plan with precision. Nothing as complex as the human psyche could be quantified with any real accuracy.

After a few centuries, one got the knack for anticipating the actions of tyrants and despots. They tended to be the simplest to identify since their thirst for power was mixed with an innate distrust of everyone. These were two weaknesses which were easily manipulated to override reason and logic.

Zealots were the real problem, with Joan of Arc being a clear example. To think he inadvertently created that monstrosity by ordering his troops to rape and pillage to their hearts content. This archetype proved difficult to control as the divine path often went against all rational thought.

In the end, all it took was a king-sized greed to have the Maid of Orléans burnt at the stake. The smell of her burning flesh made up for all the trouble she had caused. A shame that the collapse of the French and English empires would have to wait for another time. The world was one big powder keg waiting to go; it just needed the right set of conditions to set it off.

His thoughts were interrupted when another drink appeared before him. As the world came back into focus, his gaze glided over the drink then onto the bartender.

“The dame across the bar felt that you needed another drink, sir,” the bartender said.

Theodore turned to have a better look at the patron and saw a dark-haired woman dressed in the latest fashion. It was as though that Jane’s dark eyes were looking right through him and not at him, a distinction he found oddly disturbing.

“Really, now?” Theodore asked before turning his attention to the drink. He then noticed its distinctive colour and bouquet of vodka within, “A Bloody Mary?”

That particular name brought about quite a few good memories. He rather enjoyed the barbarism of that period; particularly how men discounted and discarded one another as though they were nothing more than filth. Bloody riots, massacres, killing fields filled with impaled heads were some of the greatest works of terror that mankind ever produced.

London prominently featured the heads of those caught circumventing their laws. The state’s warm welcome was a constant reminder of the barbarism that lurked underneath the thin veneer of civilisation.

He turned to face this generous patron, but found the seat empty. Despite his eyes reassuring him that she was gone, he felt as though he was being watched. Whatever the cause, he sensed what appeared to be centuries of blind hatred; so much so that he imagined it burning a hole through his skull.

He caught himself shivering and fought to regain his composure. Whatever this hotel of the damned harbours, I won’t let it win!

In one quick motion, Theodore raised the fresh drink high in the air then toasted, “Cheers!”

His words roused no more than a few drunk patrons up from their stupor. It was fortunate that buying a round really got them going. No one’s going to ruin it for me tonight.

* * * *

Days passed by at The Grand, which provided ample opportunity for Theodore to relax. This hotel was the cornerstone of decadence, the kind Theodore expected from any burgeoning empire and one that would soon need to be culled. He enjoyed their luxuries, the privileges that came with wealth. He had spent countless hours in surroundings that were anything but comfortable, and that more than made up for this hypocrisy.

Besides, better to know one’s enemy, see into the heart of their corrupt society, before his coup de grâce relegated them to footnotes on the tome of human history. Rome and London had burned in the chaos he sewed, but not before he gorged himself on their addictions and debauchery.

While Theodore enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, he looked out over the valley until that awkward sensation washed over him. This time, there was a girl smiling at him as though she were a tuxedo cat about to feast on a canary. The man returned a smile of similar effect, but that did little to ease the sense of dread flooding over him. He had seen this particular girl before, though her clothes were different and this time she was not caked in blood.

“Last I checked you were dead,” Theodore said.

Theodore turned his attention to his steak and eggs, cut off a fresh piece and chewed noisily. His smile grew so wide that bits of food slipped through.

“You’re not exactly on the up and up when it comes to that subject either?” the girl replied in the most peculiar tone.

Peculiar only because a child of her age would never talk to an adult like that. That voice carried the experience of a hundred lifetimes and hinted she would never surrender to his will.

The tone she used with him turned out to be the least of his concerns. Those eyes burned with centuries of experience and more importantly, hatred. Until now, that had been something he only saw reflected in the mirror. To see it in someone so young struck him as disturbing.

Either way, the girl had a point. He should have died long ago when a sworn enemy struck him down in combat. The attack had been devastating considering how the blade pierced his chest and severed his spine.

Theodore remembered how blood stained the surrounding snow and how steam rose from his wound. That was the first time I felt the chill touch of the grave.

Hours later, he woke up in a pit, covered in lime. He was also surrounded by a mass of corpses, friends and foes alike, who had all grown cold. That moment became his genesis, an opportunity to start life anew and repay those who caused him misery.

“No,” Theodore said before taking his time to formulate the words in his mind while details of the girl’s death returned to him. “I suppose not,” he said, hoping that it would throw her off.

When his plan failed, Theodore added, “Thanks for the drink by the by. I must say, you do look much better than the last time I left you.”

He last saw this girl during a spring Viking, a time where rampant violence, rape and pillaging were the staples of a young warrior who worshipped Loki. With every landing came the opportunity to make a name for themselves. The good life came to those who worshipped a god that really knew how to party. Those who were stupid enough to get in my way deserved their fate.

To classify this girl as special would have been a gross misuse of the word; there was nothing noteworthy about her or her nameless village. Settlements and fortifications were nothing more than mere obstacles for their promised booty, which included women and children.

He enjoyed the whimpering, the crying and the bloody mess that followed his encounter. Not a bad night: fine food, drink, and a fresh virgin to top it all off. There was nothing better for the soul than to corrupt another life in the name of eternal boredom.

While he slept off the sex and alcohol, Theodore heard her scurry about. This act of defiance did little to bother him, however her hand sliding along the handle of his axe required a brutal response. He ended up slicing her throat before she could even whimper.

It satisfied him greatly to take another’s life, watch her time run out before it was ordained by some greater power. The stunned look in her eyes, the shock her mind felt when her body ceased to function. Her soul was trapped in a decaying corpse until Death came to claim his prize. This girl had been the same as all the others; even as her pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. He remembered hearing the soft thump she made when she hit the ground like a rag doll.

At the time, he was sure they would never cross paths again, so Theodore kissed her blueing lips longingly. It was this final act of indignity that really made the event memorable. It was not every day he had the pleasure of stripping a victim’s innocence, while denying her a chance for revenge. Ironically, it was a life taken by someone who did not deserve what he had in excess.

If this girl was surprised by his venomous comments, she hid it with the grace of a queen. Instead, she wore a radiant smile that did little to conceal her hatred as though the fires of hell itself were burning close to the surface.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the drink. Rather near and dear to both of us, is it not?” she asked while sitting across from him.

“Really?” Theodore asked since he could not recall having seen her again.

It certainly seemed implausible that she could have followed him all this time without his knowing. Why would she avoid confrontation until now?

While revenge could cross the boundaries between life and death, he made sure his opponents remembered who he was before striking them dead. There was no better high than vengeance, especially when emotions were piqued.

“Oh, you are far too ignorant to see the world you live in,” she leaned forward as though she were about to divulge a secret.

Unable to help himself, he leaned in closer to see what vicious lies she would conjure up. This is going to be good. Will she invoke the will of God?

The girl added, “You raped me, stabbed me, burned me at the stake, betrayed me countless times, left me beaten and bruised after drunken brawls. You even had me executed in the public gardens for an entire city to watch.”

When she spoke of the ways he destroyed her the man recounted all of the events that may have fit such descriptions. To be honest, there were more than a few of each.

Betrayal was a very common tool in his arsenal, rape, an art refined over centuries, and executions were used when sowing the seeds of dissent. There were, however, no other instances he could remember seeing her, other than during her graphic and pleasurable death.

She leaned back, grabbing a piece of bacon from his plate then nibbled on it. People were beginning to stare, something he liked to avoid.

Despite her mouth being full she said, “You have known me as that Bitch Maiden from Orléans. You knew me as Annie Chapman when I worked at Whitechapel.”

The girl winked then said, “You remember Marie Louisa de La Maison de Savoie during La Révolution? That Bloody Mary that I gave you, did it remind you of her blue blood pouring on the cobblestone at La Place de La Concorde?”

She never gave him a chance to talk because she added, “Those are just a few of the times you and I crossed paths.”

“You see,” the girl paused long enough to swallow then tore off another strip of meat. “When one has a soul that crosses the veil or whatever baloney you subscribe to; an angel of death comes to claim your soul. In my case, this angel has never looked kindly on your actions. This time, she intervened directly and rewarded me with a chance to right the wrongs you wrought.”

“Really now,” Theodore said with a smirk since the pieces of this puzzle were falling into place.

So not only did I have the pleasure of destroying her once, but time and time again? Certainly, there was someone up there who looked after his entertainment.

“Not so fast with your fantasies there,” she interrupted before falling into a smile, one which could have chilled the mood at an orgy. “There are conditions to being granted a new life. All who do, shall not recall the last, but experiences shape the soul prior to their next passage.”

Before he could say anything, she cut him off and said, “The odds are astronomical for two people meeting again and yet you managed to show up every time.”

For her, this was the equivalent of small talk. Chatting about the weather came as easily to her as talking about being eviscerated or raped for the hundredth time.

In his mind such topics were to be kept out of polite discussion, especially when crowds formed. Then again, he sensed Freud would have a grand ole time with this one.

“So rules were waived,” the girl added while showing her perfect pearly whites and for a split second she looked like any other child her age. “Now tell me, are you feeling anything right about now?”

The whole time this child was looking at him as though she were waiting for a cake to cool. At first, he considered laughing off the comment, but he did feel off. It was as though something was stirring from the depths of his stomach; bile was building up, bubbling over then forcing its way up past his throat.

“I poisoned your drink,” she said while leaning back to enjoy the show. “Something nice and slow that required a reactive agent commonly found in the eggs you’re eating.”

The feeling pushed onwards until he upchucked. Instead of the familiar yellow followed by an acrid odour, Theodore saw chunks of flesh rush out past his lips. It was his own, he realised. This marked the moment this little bitch had chosen to set things right in the world.

With a skilled jump, she easily evaded the mess then waited for a brief reprieve before saying, “The Georgians tripped over themselves to provide me with this particularly potent poison. It seems they want your body for study.”

She moved in close then ran a hand over his trousers before fondling his groyne. This was her way of informing him that he would no longer have any control over her body or his.

The girl said, “When you wake up, I will be sure to enjoy watching you die over and over again during their experiments.”

Before another wave of nausea could wash over him, the world grew dim. The girl with no name turned about and then walked away like the Queen she once was. All the while, the breakfast crowd was cheering her on, even as waiters approached to deal with the mess.

* * * *

Max was not having a good shift. There were complaints in the South wing of beds shaking and walls sweating blood. He would have to put out some feelers to make sure no one was practising dark incantations within the hotel.

The Grand prided itself on catering to all of the needs of their clients. There were places dedicated to such matters. Sacrificial altars, torture chambers, and other rooms dedicated to needs so ghastly that he dared not dwell on them. All of these were, of course, hidden beneath the hotel.

Without much notice, a lobby boy ran out of the elevator and headed straight for the front desk. The concierge sighed, knowing that anyone from the evening shift acting in such an impulsive manner meant trouble.

“What now?” Max asked to dispense with formalities. “Did one of our guests leave a mess?”

The boy paused looking wild eyed. Great. That meant things were about to get worse.

Just then, a girl no more than ten came by the desk from the same lift. She looked at him with piercing blue eyes that contained no youthful innocence, yet her heart beat as regularly as any other daytime guest. The concierge furrowed his brow and noted the lobby boy shaking like a leaf when she got close. Once she passed, the girl looked up at Max before her smile grew warm and welcoming.

“Maximus!” the girl exclaimed with the slightly shrill tones of a child’s voice. “You really knew how to neck back in the day.”

The girl then headed towards one of their gin joints. This caught the concierge off guard as very few people knew his real name, let alone implied they had been lovers.

“Georgian,” the boy spat out just before he collapsed.

Given the girl’s bizarre behaviour and how the students of arcane magic and technology were present at the hotel, it was clear there was a mess left for him to deal with. I’m going to be busy tidying up loose ends.

Without saying a word, staff converged on the boy, they would look out for him. For now, he needed to get on the blower and resolve this before the day staff took over. When Max saw how the sun’s rays were at the far end of the valley, he knew there was little time.

August 16th 1948

It had been a little over a month since John ran into the wall surrounding the abandoned hotel. The wall he swore contained names of its victims. The list had been so clear in his mind, but after Elmer spoke those markings were gone. Repeated visits to the site proved fruitless.

It was odd that he discovered the existence of The Grand only after contact with that wall. How did I miss the existence of this structure built into the cliffside? Did I have blinders on?

To feed his curiosity, John made attempts to find Eleanor, the woman who led him to the wall. But she never seemed to be at work or in town when he made inquiries.

Whenever he asked for her whereabouts, people got evasive, providing him with vague responses. Some of the townsfolk seemed to be genuinely confused by his questions, so much so that he began to question his sanity.

One evening, while exhausted from trying to get to the bottom of this vision, he slid into a deep sleep. It was rare for John to give into sleep so easily since he normally needed to wage war with the sandman before his mind capitulated for the night.

Tonight, was different. He saw a vision of Eleanor entering his mind, walking about in a long flowing dress which differed greatly from the one she wore when they first met.

The world surrounding her seemed ethereal, lacking any real substance. It helped him focus on her. Why is it that I never get around to undressing her with my eyes?

In his dream, her motions were slow and deliberate, witnessing every piece of her dress being discarded until all that was left were her unmentionables. Of course, those would not stay on for long. It would take no more than a moment for her to cast them away. Eleanor would soon be left with nothing more than her angelic body glistening in the ghostly light.

Before his dream turned into a fantasy, she winked then said, “Suddenly, I knew that the sound was not in my ears, it was not just inside my head. At that moment, I must have become quite white. I talked still faster and louder. And the sound, too, became louder. It was a quick, low, soft sound, like the sound of a clock heard through a wall, a sound I knew well.”

Startled awake John quickly learned just how much of an effect his body had on certain particularities of the dream.

“Dang nabbit,” the barrister exclaimed, growing tired of that woman finding ways to frustrate him, even in his dreams. “That’s got to be a first,” he said before he slid off the bed.

Why would anyone quote something from Edgar Allen Poe? Never in his life did he come across a situation where the words from a morbid poet intersected with his fantasies. Either there were some unresolved childhood issues at work or something else was at play.

Then he heard something, at first John thought it was his imagination running wild. That made sense given the context of that bizarre dream but the sound did not fade away. In the distance, just barely audible he heard the muffled sound reminding him of a deranged clock. Whatever it is, the sound is coming from down the hall.

He flicked a switch and was temporarily blinded from the white light. John pried his eyes open, forcing them to adjust prior to venturing into the hall. With every step, the sound became sharper and more pronounced.

“Surely Elmer and Ida would have picked up on such a sound in their years of working here?” John asked.

Then he realised how that statement also applied to him. This was the first time he had been aware of this rhythmic beat.

Once he reached the end of the hall, John realised the sound did not originate from either of the side-rooms. No, this sound clearly originates from dead ahead, but there’s a wall.

“Great. That’s nothing a sledgehammer couldn’t resolve,” John said. “I wonder if we have one in the tool shed?”

His question for the moment remained unanswered. Since the long shadows from his bedroom exaggerated details on the wall. John saw how the corners were not seamless. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to hide this particular door.

“Why?” John asked, though he could not help but remember what Eleanor said the first time they met.

“Sometimes doors are locked for a reason,” Eleanor warned.

Fortunately, this door was merely hidden and not locked. With a firm push against the wall, the panel opened to reveal what looked to be an old storage closet. Within, there was a three-drawer filing cabinet and as judged by the dust it had not been disturbed for a very long time. The sound originated from the middle drawer.

“Swell,” John said sarcastically. “I must still be dreaming up a scene from that story,”

John opened the drawer, but unbeknownst to him the contents were well above his pay grade. The object looked like an aquarium with thick iron edges and rivets to keep its liquid contents from spilling. It was small even for a fish bowl, but something moved and pulsated within.

The barrister was not a qualified medical doctor though he felt capable of identifying this anomaly as a human heart. Unfortunately, that was not the most startling aspect of the discovery. Within, the organ continued to beat out rhythmically as though it were attached to its host body.

While his mind sought to rationalise what was taking place, John searched the drawer and found a slip of paper tucked away in the back. The barrister noticed that it was an evidence record sheet. Inside were details on how this particular object had been retrieved from The Grand a month or so before Black Tuesday in 1929.

“The Grand,” John said while wondering how anything like this could be found in an abandoned hotel.

If this is what Edward Locke had found then it may explain why he embraced madness. A cursory glance of the bottom drawer showed that it was empty, or at least it was now. From what he could tell moths had found their way into that drawer, then feasted on the contents. If it were not for the fact that there were mothballs in the middle and top drawers, those documents would have suffered the same fate.

As for the top, he found an old key and a journal. The tome caught his eye as it was leather-bound and filled with words written in precise penmanship.

Just what he needed to get his mind off of Eleanor for this evening. Nothing better than the journal from a raving lunatic to keep any fantasies at bay. What a shame that my dream veered so far off course.

CHAPTER 5

THE CHESHIRE CAT’S GRIN

May 1st 1927

The news split the town in twain. No matter one’s opinion, the invite was on the tip of every tongue, an undercurrent to every conversation. The town had become charged and vibrant, imbued with either a sense of excitement or dread. Some claimed it heralds the beginning of the apocalypse…

The Grand, the local mystery and source of malignant fear, printed a notice in the local newspaper. Within, people learned how the hotel would open its doors to the public for one night only, to celebrate the upcoming black moon.

Billed as a grand ball, people were invited to indulge in food, drink and dance. Most of the younger folk were curious and wanted to attend, but that meant risking the wrath of their parents.

Lillian wanted nothing more than to revisit The Grand and set her eyes on the spectacular settings within. Images of the lavish settings were etched in her mind, vivid as the day she first laid eyes upon them. Years ago, those scenes had sowed the seeds of creativity… I used to imagine that I was a princess and The Grand was my castle.

Of course, those who lived within the town’s limits were rarely guests of the hotel. They catered to a select clientele which was reflected in their nightly rate. It was out of character for this establishment to open their doors to the public. While black moons were rare, this invitation made such an occasion doubly so. The most they saw of The Grand was its lights illuminating the valley floor. To many, their glow served as a haunting reminder of what lurked in the shadows.

Lillian waved away such thoughts while looking over her room. It was a sparsely decorated one-room affair with a hot plate that served as the kitchen. It suited her needs, allowing her to save up enough to move away, since this town did little to encourage her dreams of being a flapper. I need to get out of here and find my way to the city!

A flapper: now that was something to strive for and she envied anyone who lived the lifestyle. The freedom to pursue her own path while evading the golden rules her mother had preached.

Lillian was not one to hang onto the words of a man. People tended to see her as a bit of a flat tyre, but Lillian believed that such behaviour only served to build up the walls of her cell. What’s life without joy? Could she be happy knowing that her station in life had been chosen based on societal norms?

For now, she had to settle for a night at The Grand. Would she find adventure, fame and fortune? A shame that such hopes and aspirations were the product worthy of the silver screen or worse pulp fiction.

May 30th 1927

Lillian soon discovered that this event had not been confined to a ballroom or wing. Everywhere she turned, the parties roared. The Grand’s differing venues gave this event a worldly atmosphere. Some places conjured up memories of her local pub while others were better suited for royalty.

As she migrated from party to party, Lillian realised how little she knew of the world. At one venue, the men and women seemed to be her age, but the music had little resemblance to that played on the radio. It was dark, sombre and incorporated a tribal beat. The movements of those who danced were feral and their chants were predatory. Lillian likened them to a pack of wolves feasting upon a fresh kill. Suffice to say, she did not linger there for long.

Lillian ended up at a clip-joint, listening to this evening’s entertainment. She loved this room for its art déco style and jazz music suitable for dancing. All I need is a dance partner!

The music and the hoofers were lively. Cigarette girls circled around the crowd, selling their wares, waiters busily moved among the tables and booths. All in all, this was what she imagined big cities to have. In fact, I could…

“Care to dance?” a man asked.

Lillian was taken aback at the abruptness of it all. She turned to see who spoke, her eyes scanning over the scene. To her left there was a tall and well-dressed man who sported a waxed moustache and dark hair.

Lillian noticed the man was facing some blonde who had it. She won’t even acknowledge his existence!

“How rude!” Lillian exclaimed.

The gentleman stood there patiently, like an orphan waiting for his ration of porridge. Fat chance! This was probably the blonde’s way of dealing with a mustard plaster, albeit an apparently ineffective one.

Patience could only stretch out so far and once his waned the man looked about and caught sight of Lillian. When their eyes met, his smile grew exponentially which left her unexpectedly flustered.

“Well good evening… I’m Jack,” he said, as those words glided off his silver tongue.

In that moment, her heart skipped a beat. What? How did he have such an effect on her? It was not like she had lived in a nunnery or been isolated from the opposite sex all her life.

She knew people who were airtight and never lost it like this. Did he cast a spell on me? How does he get his charm to ooze out of his every pore?

“Lillian,” she replied while her mind sought a root cause.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” Jack said.

A line so common that it was in every drugstore cowboy’s playbook. Instead of a loud guffaw followed by the sound of her walking away, Lillian held her breath as though Shakespeare himself had recited his finest sonnet.

A tiny voice in her mind urged her to run. Not walk away while keeping her head up high, but bolt from this hotel and never come back. So, why do I want to spend the night in his arms?

“Oh, I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” Lillian said before giggling.

How strange. Why’s this blonde giving me such a peculiar look? Before she could react, the sound of a drink sliding down the bar jolted her out of her fixation. Lillian noticed the bartender had a stern look painted on his face. She could have sworn he was warning Jack to expect a bum’s rush.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Lillian said.

When Lillian looked towards Jack, she noticed his seat was empty. Her eyes darted about the party in search of him, but found no signs of the man with a waxed moustache.

Her heart sank while that tiny voice retreated from whence it came. Lillian finished her drink in nice long gulps. The amber liquid burned while it travelled towards her gullet. Odd, it fills me with a sense of comfort.

May 31st 1927

The evening air had changed to a cool pre-dawn wind by the time Lillian left The Grand. The evening had been, for lack of a better word, grand. She was content, regardless of Jack’s whereabouts, because her eyes had been opened and her heart was filled with a desire to explore that great big world out there.

“I’m sorry Lillian,” Jack said from behind while she was walking towards a waiting bus. “Cecil and I have a history. It would’ve been ugly had I stayed.”

Lillian turned to find that mesmerising smile and waxed moustache. The world faded away, leaving only his image to focus on.

A part of Lillian’s mind was desperate to tell him the bank was closed, yet, she could not resist his advances. She desired to neck and might even be up for a bit of barneymugging. Why? Jack took her hand, and she followed.

Cecil looked over the scene from a distance, but a quick glance at the sky told him that daybreak would soon be upon them.

“Damn,” Cecil said just as the sun forced him to turn away.

June 7th 1927

Lillian woke up and found herself in bed, surrounded by comfortable sheets. She took a deep breath and sighed contentedly as memories from last night’s party rushed back into her mind. The excitement and energy from last night left her with enough vigour to leap out of the bed.

Once on her feet, her body hesitated as though her mind and body were estranged. Vertigo overtook her, Lillian grabbed a hold of the nightstand until her sense of balance was restored.

Once she felt better, Lillian ventured towards the water closet. At first she was numb, unable to feel the tips of her fingers, like her body had been asleep for days or even weeks.

The first thing she felt was her growling stomach and was soon aware that she was parched. Lillian, however, was unprepared when every single muscle in her body screamed out in pain as though they were on the edge of exhaustion.

When electric light flooded the room, her mind linked these sensations to the cause. Had she not been staring in a mirror; Lillian would have never recognised the person reflected back. Her face was gaunt, devoid of a healthy glow; her eyes bulged out while her lips were cracked and bleeding.

When she looked down, Lillian realised this horror was not restricted to her face. Her stomach was rounded out while her breasts had contracted by several sizes. Every rib protruded from her skin while veins bulged from her leathery hide. What’s going on? There’s no way this happened over an evening…

During all this confusion, her last remaining sense returned, one powerful enough to force her to her knees. The putrid odours made Lillian wretch in pain and brought forth bile from her empty stomach.

During a lull, Lillian saw Jack’s reflection flickering in and out. She saw this man smile at her with that alluring grin. Why’s he looking at me like that?

“You were great baby, but you’re old game now,” the reflection said nonchalantly before fading out.

The last thing that remained from the reflection was the vestige of his haunting smile. His words somehow shattered the barriers in her mind and brought forth memories from the past week. At first, they were like a dream: the blissful lovemaking fuelled by endless desire.

Alas, all journeys had an end, and every moment spent in that bed brought her closer to death. Lillian could think of nothing else while in the throes of passion, not sleep, nourishment, water or to use the loo. Everything was ignored so Jack could feast upon her passions.

Lillian looked over the room, seeing the mess of shit and sweat that covered the bed. Her body wretched in response but there was nothing left to bring up. The pain was unbearable, so much so, that she tried to cry, but she was too dehydrated to do so.

Just as she hoped the pain would end, she saw him again. He looked at her through the mirror with disgust and once he vanished, every glass surface in the room shattered along with her heart. Lillian collapsed, dead before she hit the floor.

August 19th 1948

John headed towards his study with notebook in hand when he heard something fall onto the ground. Curious, the barrister turned around to find a picture that had worked its way out from the rest of the pages. He reached down, picked up the photograph, then headed to his study to get a better look.

This was an old and faded picture, with cracks and creases created over the years of handling. Unfortunately, the shot had none of the hallmarks of a family photograph. Featured on the photo was the scene from some party. Featured on the photo was the scene from some party and as judged by the fashion, it had been taken near the end of the twenties.

The picture was centred on two women at a bar. Both had their backs turned to the photographer and they may not have been aware of his presence. In the distance, John made out a somewhat foreboding face on the bartender. Why?

What was most peculiar to this shot was the shadowy spectre located between the rather beautiful blonde and a flapper in the foreground. At first, he dismissed it as being a trick of the eye due to lighting or faulty development. It was eerie that the bartender appeared to be staring right at this apparition. Does this explain the look of disdain on his face?

By looking at the image, John assumed this was a low-light picture taken without a flash. Chances were, the exposure had been long and someone had moved. Then why are there no blurred faces or hands anywhere else in the shot?

John shrugged. With nothing else to go on, he opened the journal to the page he was on. For now, it would serve him well as a bookmark.

CHAPTER 6

THE MAD HATTER’S MIRROR

July 11th 1928

Aww nerts,” the lady exclaimed.

Up until that moment, Franklin had been minding his own business while nursing his endless glass of whiskey. He could just feel that edge and was happy for it. It certainly helped to dull his mood soured from dealing with a…

“Flat tyre,” the woman said, which complimented his thoughts perfectly. “A dead hoofer to boot,” she added and finished with a deep, woeful sigh.

This prompted him to abandon his crystal lover in exchange for a glimpse of this dame. She was a bit of a face stretcher, but he could honestly see this rock of ages’ inherent beauty.

“Imagine her with a hat and broomstick,” a voice rattling through Franklin’s head said.

Just great, Franklin thought.

Up to that point, he figured the whiskey drowned her out. If only I was so lucky!

“It seems a shame,” Franklin said with a booming voice.

He sounded like a man who was hard of hearing. In truth, Franklin was trying to talk over the infernal voice originating from the depths of his mind.

The older woman looked surprised, unaware that she had an audience. A blush flushed through her cheeks, and then a smile broke out between the two of them. Clearly, they had both indulged in too much giggle water and likely for the same reasons.

“You think so?” the dame asked once she managed to regain her composure.

Once her smile faded, it left her with a curiously harsh-looking exterior. Perhaps the crack about this one being a witch wasn’t too far off the mark.

Franklin’s eyes drifted to her knee-duster then shifted onto her lovely gams. They seemed smooth, warm and welcoming, so much so that he could not take his eyes off them. I wonder if her berry patch is bare…

In time, Franklin managed a coherent reply, “In a place like this, two people disappointed by their dates constitutes a calamity. Franklin’s the name, at least that’s what my father calls me.”

He left it open for her to shorten it up and most did, preferring to use Frank or Franky instead. He had no preference on the matter, but to be fair, the jury was still deliberating.

A smile returned to the face stretcher. It was particularly infectious, strong enough to bring one to Franklin’s own lips. If I keep this up for much longer my cheeks are going to get sore…

Alas, before she could reply, a passing waitress tripped spilling a pitcher of ice-cold water all over her. The dame had shock and horror etched on her face, not surprising considering everyone else shared the same look.

The room went silent as a tomb; even the band stopped playing. Franklin considered covering her with his jacket and then escorting her to her room. Who knows, she might need assistance in getting out of those wet clothes and require an immediate dose of body heat. Mind you, that melting skin’s a bit of a turn off. Wait! What?

By the time Franklin realised what was happening, a puddle had already formed beneath her stool. He likened it to a wax figure being exposed to an open flame. First, her skin turned to liquid, pooling beneath her chair, followed by muscle, sinew, fat and finally, bone matter, albeit each at a slower rate.

When one included the constant sound of frying eggs and a shrill scream, it did not paint a pretty picture. Who’s screaming like that? Probably some poufter. Wait! That’s me?

“I told you she was a witch,” exclaimed the voice from his subconscious mind.

* * * *

“Then there was light,” said the voice from the deepest corners of his mind.

The words thundered throughout, coinciding neatly with a bright flash of light. Normally, he would react to such stimuli by squinting or turning away, but this time he could not. Perplexed, Franklin wondered where it came from and why it was only in his left eye.

The light shifted to his right eye, blinding that side before it vanished. Franklin was left seeing streaks of dark blues and purples. It took a while before he saw what lay beyond.

In the beginning, there was little detail, which imbued his surroundings with an ethereal aura. Where did that particular vocabulary come from? I bet you it was Anna. She preferred to use that one word which perfectly described a situation whereas he liked to keep things simple.

When his eyes were able to focus, he noticed his reflection in a large full-length mirror. On one side there were beakers, flasks and other laboratory equipment that dredged up memories of chemistry class back in school. Differences soon became apparent, however. For one, it was larger in scale and yet meticulously organised.

On the other side of the room, Franklin saw an open window that blew in cool mountain air from the valley. So, I must still be at The Grand? Why would they have a room fitted with this equipment?

His attention drifted back to his reflection, noticing that he was held down using thick leather straps over a riveted iron chair. It reminded him of something found in an industrial setting.

His head was braced to the chair’s elongated back using a heavy gauge iron ring that fit snugly around his skull. He became aware that his eyelids were forced open using a series of wires sewn into his flesh.

It was a matter of time before his eyes watered and blurred his vision. For now, that mattered little since a man wearing a long flowing lab coat came out from the periphery and blocked his view.

He could not focus on the man’s face, yet he imagined him to have a grotesque appearance. Did he rank amongst the most gruesome of creatures? Did it approach that of the ghouls and goblins mentioned in folklore?

In truth, the man was airtight, the centre of attention at both clip-joints and gin mills alike. Such elements were a universal truth for all Georgians since appearances were a carefully calculated illusion.

Behind him, Franklin heard a heavy object being disturbed followed by mechanical whirring. The sound conjured up images of saws cutting through hundred-year-old logs as easily as it did flesh. For a moment, the sound seemed out of place. That is, until he heard something being cut open.

Franklin’s anxiety grew by the moment, until he saw it pass along his forehead. Whoever this man was, he seemed intent on removing the top portion of his skull. Wait! What?

Once Mister Lab Coat disappeared from view, Franklin saw a thick red line on his forehead located midway between the bridge of his nose and his hairline. Meanwhile, the man in the reflection paid no heed to what was being witnessed. Why should he? Franklin was never meant to be conscious for this part of the procedure.

The mechanical blade came to a stop before it was plopped onto an iron table. Mister Lab Coat then picked up something resembling a crowbar and inserted it into the newly made fissure. The sound evoked memories of a warm ice cream scoop running through a tub of creamy goodness.

Franklin was curious how the process seemed so easy. Now that the top portion of his skull was out of the picture, he had a clear view of his brain.

The crowbar was dropped onto the table, resulting in a loud clang which reverberated throughout his mind like a gong. It was probably just his imagination running wild, although, with what he had just seen, it might have been accurate. Mister Lab Coat then pulled out a series of long pins attached to copper cables that ran into a central trunk. Wait! Why’s that trunk line running into the back of the mirror?

After what seemed to be an hour, his head looked like a porcupine. With all of these pins protruding from the soft pinkish flesh, Mister Lab Coat calmly walked to the mirror then tapped on its surface. Franklin’s reflection shimmered out and was replaced with an image showcasing the inner workings of his brain. Odd, why’s it not grey? Where did that particular vernacular come from? Franklin was annoyed that Anna’s influence managed to seep through.

Franklin managed to see through his tearing eyes and observed how Lab Coat was somehow able to interact with the image. With a tap on the silvery surface, colours overlaid the background image with some areas appearing in blue while others were bright red.

“What a mess in there,” Mister Lab Coat said.

“You’re telling me,” Franklin heard himself say.

The words caught everyone in the room by surprise. Mister Lab Coat froze, looking as though he had just seen a ghost.

“Why don’t you be a gentleman and let me out of this chair?” Franklin’s voice added.

“Who said that?” Franklin asked but his voice echoed within the confines of his brain.

* * * *

“You know the answer,” Anna said from behind a raised structure.

Atop her pedestal, Anna wore a black robe with a white powdered wig, likely in an attempt to appear distinguished. Franklin ignored her, then looked around to find he was in some sort of makeshift court.

Of course, she was perched atop the bench while he was suspiciously shackled to the witness box. It was also unfortunate for him that the chains holding the shackles had been threaded through an iron eye to prevent any escape.

“It could have been me,” came a voice which originated from the defendant’s table.

The speaker was a spitting image of Franklin though he had a crooked smile and blank stare. The way he spoke sounded more like a me-too response than an attempt to outflank the judge.

“Overruled!” Anna exclaimed. “On account of the defence being an off-time jive and a half wit.”

All the while, Anna stared down at the defence with a look that could turn someone to stone. In this case, it did precisely that. Franklin witnessed how his alter ego sat down then turned ashen grey. That’s the last time we’ll hear from him.

“He’s right!” Some man exclaimed from the pulpits behind the defence.

In the crowd, people were, for the most, part literally faceless, although a few others bore some of Franklin’s traits. Anna stood from the bench then threw the gavel with such force that it glowed. Like a meteorite, the impact produced a flash of blinding light that left behind several charred remains.

* * * *

“What do you mean he spoke?” A male voice asked.

The world was a blur, and it was impossible to focus. A shame, I would’ve loved to have a better view.

“We gave him enough sedative to knock out an elephant,” the same man said.

“You see that activity? That’s not normal for their kind,” Mister Lab Coat said. “This type of activity is beyond what’s expected for people who are conscious. Whatever’s going on in there, it’s one heck of a party!”

“Baloney,” the other exclaimed in disbelief. “Are you saying that this one’s not human?”

Those words sent Franklin’s heart down to the pit of his stomach. How could I be less than human? Wait! Does that imply this bunch is anything but?

Lab Coat shook his head, “I have no doubt that he is physiologically human. But the voice had distinctly feminine overtones and seemed happy to see me.”

* * * *

“The witness will answer,” Anna said from the bench.

Anna glared at Franklin, dredging up that memory of her unleashing Thor’s gavel. The smell of charred wood and burnt flesh lingered in the air. It’s odd that my senses are alive, even though I’m dreaming.

“What’s that last question?” Franklin asked half-expecting to be struck down.

“How do you plead to the charges of trespassing upon my mind?” Anna asked.

Franklin’s eyes bugged out as though genuinely surprised. Her mind? It was Anna who trespassed on mine!

“Not guilty,” Franklin replied in a firm voice, though given his shackles and her apparent control over his body, he was far from confident.

“Your honour, I move for immediate dismissal,” the prosecutor said.

Franklin glimpsed at the prosecutor’s desk and saw a baby vamp variant of Anna who looked like she just left the hen coop. Until now he had always dealt with Anna exclusively and found the appearance of another version troubling. Anna’s persona was nothing more than an annoyance, but this one was the polar opposite.

“On account that this man’s a liar,” the prosecutor continued.

“Motion carried,” Anna said so loud that it echoed back from multiple directions.

She then slammed her gavel hard enough that the ground shook. Before his very eyes, the shockwave caused parts of the courthouse to disintegrate.

* * * *

“Fourteen,” Mister Lab Coat said to his counterpart.

Franklin was taken aback by the number even though he had no clue of its significance. Fourteen what?

“Distinct personalities?” his partner asked.

There are fourteen other people shared in my head? That was absurd, he knew of Anna and others in the court, however he never interacted with so many.

“Yes,” Mister Lab Coat said. “It looks like his brain is purging other personalities,” he added. He pointed out various locations in the brain that had gone dark then said, “These areas were bright minutes ago and are now dormant. I’ll need to go in to take out necrotising tissue.”

“Seven,” a feminine voice said, coinciding with the sound of an opening door.

“Six now,” Mister Lab Coat corrected. “What do you have for us?”

Clearly these two were awaiting results. The woman touched the mirror and brought forth a structure reminiscent of a spiralling ladder. That meant nothing to Franklin, but Mister Lab Coat and his partner gasped as though someone had sworn in church.

“There are manipulations visible here and here,” she said in a cold and clinical tone. “These were deliberately done after birth.”

The woman then handed over some sort of scrolled document.

“That must have hurt,” Mister Lab Coat said while unfurling the scroll.

Franklin was not sure what type of document this was. However, Anna’s name was inscribed in large letters.

“Ab-so-lute-ly. We’ll be able to spend years studying the data from this one alone,” she said with a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Hey now! This is my find,” Mister Lab Coat exclaimed, not comfortable with the idea of another encroaching on this discovery. “Don’t you have that beating heart to research?” he asked as a way to rub some salt in an old wound.

“It’s a beating heart in a jar. It has been beating without fault for three years now,” the woman said, ignoring his jab. “Even the girl got bored seeing that man die over and over. She left a year or so back when her hormones kicked it up a notch”

Was that a hint of sorrow Franklin detected? Had those two bonded during the experiments? Wait! Why would I care?

* * * *

Franklin felt a sharp stab at the round of his back. He yelped in pain and turned around to find Anna dressed as an officer of the Royal Navy serving under Lord Nelson’s command. Of course, she had taken a few liberties to allow room for her tits and feminine form. Her hat also appeared to be a bit smaller than regulations would have called for.

“Number One,” Anna said in an authoritative voice while her sabre was drawn inches from him. “If he makes any attempt to board my ship, shoot him.”

“Aye, captain,” the number one said.

Franklin recognised the young Lieutenant as being the baby vamp from before. The woman drew her pistol, cocked back the hammer and kept a steady aim even as the ship heaved and hawed with the rolling waves.

“Step off Franklin,” the captain said.

As more of the crowd took on Anna’s attributes, the more they cheered. Franklin looked below, seeing a swirling whirlpool with a black heart. He was certain that a leap would result in another dead zone, just like the ones he witnessed moments ago.

“No,” Franklin said defiantly to which the crew collectively gasped.

Baby vamp’s jaw clenched, and he saw her finger tighten around the trigger. That Lieutenant won’t tolerate any more insolence from me!

So Franklin added, “Why are you doing this?”

“Why!” Anna exclaimed.

Anna took a swipe at him, her blade coming within a hair of his skin. He felt the breeze as it flew past his throat and knew this was a warning.

“It was never your mind nor your body. It was mine from the start,” Anna said.

Franklin sensed she was exasperated from explaining why. Oh, how the tables have turned!

“But I’m a man,” Franklin barely managed to blurt out.

“Ah, but you only became a boy a couple of years after birth,” Anna interrupted him with her tall tale. “Father made a deal to have his first born altered. It seems he desired to have an heir above all else.”

Anna gave him just enough of a reprieve so that he could take in what she had to say.

“A boy who dresses like a girl and plays with dolls was less than desirable. They created your personality then attempted to eradicate mine in the process,” Anna smiled as though a delicious secret remained on her lips.

“Clearly, they failed,” Franklin said.

Franklin saw this as his chance to reverse course. However, she was not phased in the slightest.

“They fractured my mind. It took years to gather enough pieces to become coherent. You never realised the horror on mother’s face when you mentioned your imaginary friend, Anna, did you?” Anna asked.

For a second, Franklin thought over the matter, trying to remember that particular event but could not. Am I becoming unhinged? No matter, the delay had been a ruse. Anna had used this diversion as an opportunity to slice through flesh and tendon before reaching bone.

“You’ve not been in complete control of your body for years. The nights were mine, and I was free to roam and explore my surroundings. That’s when I learned of The Grand and the wonders within. After that, it was a simple matter of luring you here,” Anna said as blood flowed freely from the wound.

With the plank slippery from blood and his tendons severed, no amount of willpower could prevent him from falling.

“I knew you’d eventually witness something so traumatic that your mind would shatter,” Anna said and left Franklin to figure out the rest of the narrative.

Once his mind shattered, it became a game of divide and conquer, destroying what remained of his personality until she was the only one remaining. Franklin knew there was no escape, so he let the ship’s motion cast him away into oblivion.

* * * *

Lewis looked on while a stream of courtiers carted away trunks and luggage from the West wing of the hotel. Whoever was checking out had amassed a hoard during their stay. Odd, no one’s scheduled to leave.

Once the lift’s doors opened, they revealed a woman dressed in a stunning red outfit and he knew exactly who it was. It’s a shame this one’s leaving.

He would miss her, and thoroughly enjoyed the barneymugging. She was wild in bed, knew how to take control of the situation and yet every experience seemed new and exhilarating.

He could not describe her in words, but there was something about her ample bust and curves that seemed sculpted. Odd that she was both taller and stronger than most women. That made it interesting!

Anna Hunter approached the concierge’s desk with a warm smile. Lewis looked into her eyes and believed that even now she was ready for another round.

A bit of a quiff, Lewis thought, although that was a new development.

No matter, her attempts at self-discovery had been beneficial for him. His ego certainly took a boost when he heard her greeting.

“Ah Lewis! It’s been a pleasure,” Anna said then gave him a quick peck on the lips.

For a moment, Lewis felt as though an electric shock had passed from her sweet lips straight down to his trousers. I’ll be spending the rest of this shift hoping for the chance to take a cold shower!

“Unfortunately, it’s time for me to leave,” Anna said with a wink. “Please be sure to thank room service for me. They‘ve been exemplary!”

Her smile grew exponentially, and that left him wondering if she were talking about the night shift. People rarely praised the day shift, despite their exemplary service record.

“I will make sure to relay your compliments to the staff then,” Lewis replied in a formal tone because another guest was nearby.

Once that person cleared the area, he winked and beamed a warm smile. Anna giggled, it was warm, honest and made her entire face come alive.

“A shame that I have to return home and declare my independence from father,” Anna said as her tone turned dark.

The concierge did not say a word. No need. It’s unprofessional to acknowledge I suspect her of planning a patricide.

“He’s going to be in for quite a surprise,” Anna said before she walked away.

Her hips swayed alluringly with every step, leaving Lewis certain that however things turned out for Anna, she would be making the headlines.

August 17th 1948

John thumbed through the journal of Edward Locke while the heart beat on faithfully. A shame the thing makes such a racket, make’s it a bitch to concentrate.

He was not worried about what was written since it was encoded and he needed to get a feel for the structure and flow. It took no time at all for him to determine that the journal contained evidence. In one case, he found a series of photographs followed by a missing poster. Upon closer examination John determined they were related to a Franklin Hunter, the son of a wealthy industrialist who had gone missing.

The photographs pasted on the page showed the young man at the entrance to The Grand. A guess, true, but there were no other places in town that had such a luxurious decor or architecture.

Franklin was not a particularly tall man, in his twenties. He was dressed in the finest fashions of the time, including a thin moustache to warm his upper lip. The missing poster was dated a few weeks after this particular photograph. Albeit others indicated he had been at the hotel well after he was reported missing. The last two shots were more of a mystery.

One picture focused on a simply dressed lady with boyish looks. Even for a flapper. John initially assumed this was a shot of the young man, but with certain indications, it was not. For one, John could see some cleavage and a curvature in her hips, which would have been hard to conceal. No self-respecting flapper would be caught dead with hair that short.

The second shot showed this woman two months later. A real knockout with shoulder length hair, ample cups and a beautifully sculpted body to boot. Without looking at the before and after pictures, John would never have guessed they were the same. They looked more like siblings…

The picture was followed by a newspaper clipping from some outfit he never heard of. It appeared that the father had been killed in some gruesome accident. This event took place at one of his mills during a wildcat strike.

While lacking in detail, it was easy to see Edward’s theory. His predecessor had linked the son’s disappearance with his eventual return to stage this accident. Apparently, death and murder aren’t exclusive to The Grand.

John thumbed through a few more pages and found a map. At first, he could not recognise the layout of the structure. John noted that it was a basement, since it lacked living spaces, workspaces or outside doors. Funny. Why does it seem so familiar?

It took moments for him to realise he was looking at the building which housed his office. Upon closer inspection, John noticed there was something amiss, an element he never noticed before.

Wait? There are two record rooms? Why was it that he only remembered one? How could he miss the door leading to the second? The fact that this detail had evaded him for so long left John annoyed. Not as much as the sound of that beating heart!

Irked at an artefact stemming from the depths of a morbid poet’s nightmare, the barrister dropped the journal into the drawer then closed the door. Tomorrow night, he would move the heart to a new hiding place. At least, that’ll give me time to plan a break-in.

Wait? What am I getting myself into?

CHAPTER 7

ONE FLIGHT OVER

October 29th 1929

Edward Locke was unsure about a lot of things, but fearing for his life was not one of them. Specifically, fearing the horrors that roamed The Grand. The creatures which roamed The Grand were so grotesque that they formed the fabric of local folklore. So why was Edward unable to feel anything more than apathy? The sad truth is, it’s probably a side effect of my complicity…

It was four years ago that his guilt began to gnaw at him. It was one thing to accept the bribes and privileges that came with keeping The Grand a secret. It turned out to be another matter altogether to live with the consequences. The faces of those unfortunate souls were etched in his mind. Their contorted bodies and glassy eyes, pleading for help…

He supposed that if he were certain of an afterlife, then he might have been able to manage his guilt. Alas, with what he witnessed over the years, the concept of heaven and hell proved to be fluid constructs indeed.

“Perhaps this is purgatory,” Edward said.

Elmer cocked his head. “Is he waiting for instructions? Elmer was hard of hearing and with the engine’s roar Edward was not surprised that he had been misunderstood.

Thankful he did not have to talk his way out of it this time, the barrister said, “How much longer?”

“Not too long, sir. Should be there in a couple of minutes,” Elmer replied.

Edward knew this road and terrain well enough to not require his answer, but he was thankful that he managed to avoid any idle chit chat. Based on Elmer’s estimate, the upper wall would soon appear, which was more stylistic and welcoming than the valley wall. The lower barrier had been built to instil fear, a desirable effect when one wanted to hide what lay behind them.

Sure enough, the glowing eyes of a gargoyle caught his attention. Elmer once said that he thought they were being followed and sadly, he was right. Alas, Edward needed to keep the true nature of these automatons a secret. It’s ghastly to know first-hand what they’re capable of…

He wanted to avoid thinking about it, but failed. His mind conjured up imagery so intense that he shivered. While the act had taken no more than a moment, every detail was burned in his mind. Edward remembered how the fur was stretched out so far that its skin became visible. He saw how the flesh went white prior to tearing and witnessed the disembowelment and exposition of internal organs.

The memory tended to dwell on this point in time. It created the illusion of this creature’s organs being suspended in mid-air. Unfortunately, the laws of physics were absolute and drenched the area in viscera.

The barrister nearly convulsed, but he bit the inside of his cheek to feel something. Edward hoped the surge of pain would disrupt the memory, but it was unsuccessful. The image of that creature changing back into a man was horrifying. With ease, he could dismiss the death of a monster, of the bogeyman or any other mythical creature spawned in the depths of hell. It’s another matter to witness the monstrosity within the human element.

“Welcome to The Grand, Master Locke,” a courtier said when he opened the door.

Edward was momentarily dazed as the memory faded, even while the taste of blood lingered in his mouth. No matter, it was nothing that a stiff drink would not cure…at least that’s the plan.

The barrister exited the car then walked away. He dared not turn around to watch Elmer leave. Somehow, he could not bear the thought of his salvation driving away. However, such behaviour, when overt, would arouse suspicion.

“Sir,” two courtiers said simultaneously while they kept open the main doors.

He never tired of the view from the Grand Hall’s observation deck, which was flanked by arching staircases leading below. Edward was at a loss of words to explain how this amalgamation of architectural and artistic genius was possible. This is the perfect example of how the road to hell is beautiful…

“Master Locke,” Max said while handing over a key to his suite.

Edward took the key nonchalantly. One of the perks of the hotel was having a permanently assigned room…or is it a cage? Max was one of them, though Edward remained unsure as to what they called themselves. Had Bram Stoker been correct in calling them vampires? Or was it a wild guess?

The barrister was a bit of an expert on how to spot one in a crowd. Those like Max were seasoned manipulators and knew that hiding from within the flock maintained their hunting grounds. When he looked hard enough, inconsistencies appeared in their breathing. Every so often Edward noticed their faces would distort and shimmer, a sign that they moved quicker than his eyes perceived.

These occurrences were rare and nothing more than a moment of inattentiveness on their part. By knowing what to look for, it made their movements easier to catch.

Edward also assumed they had always been here in some fashion. People simply chose to dismiss the supernatural as a trick of the mind, a bit like a quick glance at the clock and becoming confused as to why the seconds hand was frozen in time.

“Max. Pleasure as always,” Edward said to complete the fib.

Someone who could not manage a convincing lie, did not survive for very long when facing opponents in court. Edward ranked well amongst the best and yet his skills were juvenile when compared to The Grand’s staff. The concierge, for example, was far older than he let on and that was based solely on his accent and height.

“Is anyone else at the Hotel tonight?” Edward asked.

“The mayor is in the Artemis suite for a private engagement, sir,” Max answered.

It was not much to go on, but enough to know he was not invited. Not that he cared to visit that particular suite. Those venues were linked to the South wing which he explored previously to get a better idea of what lurked within.

Edward half-expected to find torture chambers filled with rows and rows of bodies being drained. There were probably rooms that served such purposes, but the South wing contained luxury suites with no windows.

That is, except for room four-fourteen which led to God knows where. There were rumours that a maid once found her way in to that wing and just walked through without a care of what lay beyond. Fortunately for the barrister, he knew well enough to avoid going anywhere near that door.

“Ah yes. I expect the mayor will be rather exhausted from that particular engagement,” Edward said with a hint of sarcasm.

He did not expect Max to answer or outwardly acknowledge his statement. That would have been a serious lapse in professionalism, not unlike his own faux pas. Still, it was nice to speak the truth even when filtered through a veil of sarcasm.

Edward looked about for something to do. Management arranged for collaborators to stay at the hotel on occasion. During those evenings, Edward was a welcomed guest, free to enjoy the luxuries within.

For those less scrupulous, there were plenty of diversions not on the menu. The mayor was probably partaking in some of that entertainment right now. Were there no limits to the depravity of a politician? Are my hands any cleaner?

Tuesday nights were quiet, but by the sound of it, there was plenty of fun to be had in the West wing. That was unfortunate since his favourite restaurant was found there.

Disappointed, the barrister headed over to the East wing, passing by the marble pillars, then along a series of ticker tape machines. A crowd had enveloped them, looking at the golden machines encased in a crystal dome. Edward rarely paid those devices any heed, preferring not to gamble on the stock exchanges.

This feeling was not shared by most, however nothing he said would dissuade people from betting on a big pay-out. Nonetheless, Edward found it deplorable to find these men watching the machines chew through rolls of paper so intently. Why not take a breather and catch up at a later time?

He ignored the men even when one said, “Same numbers all day.”

Since his sore cheek was stinging, he thought some gin and tonic would set things right. The barrister wandered until he came across a piano bar and was lured inside by the voice of a siren. The music was enchanting and her voice served as the catalyst that set his curiosity aflame.

He made his way to the bar and Edward recognised the bartender on duty as being one of them. The singer might have been one as well but that was inconsequential to satiating his immediate desires. He turned and saw how the room was for the most part deserted, save for a few others.

“The voice and beauty of an angel,” he said to the bartender.

“Yes, she is quite a dame,” Cecil replied. “What can I get for you, Master Locke?”

Most of the staff knew him by name even if they had never met. Edward knew of this one, although mostly by reputation since he was always around when something had gone off the rails.

“Gin and tonic, please,” Edward replied.

Normally, this part of the hotel did not serve food. However, Edward figured they could be coaxed into bending the rules.

“Do you have any sway with the kitchen? I would love a steak,” Edward said after he palmed a few bills onto the counter.

“I don’t see why not,” Cecil said before asking, “Anything in mind?”

“A brass rail New York cut sirloin,” Edward said while imagining the smell of this precisely prepared meal. “Medium.”

Cecil did not reply. No need. He quickly prepared the Gin and Tonic before getting on the blower.

Edward was more than happy to watch her sing while he waited. With drink in hand, he took a sip and watched as blood washed back into the glass. It looks like I bit too hard…

The singer leaned against The Grand piano with one leg ahead of the other to showcase her silky-smooth legs.

All part of the show, Edward thought and found it difficult to keep from getting slack jawed.

Edward wondered how they could stare at you and make a hardened criminal’s heart melt. He witnessed this behaviour before and assumed this singer was toning it down tonight. Still, it was nice to just sit back and enjoy the show, a bit like finding his way into an opium den to kick the gong around.

In the distance, Edward heard a loud crash and figured it was the sound of a vase shattering. He would have paid no heed if the singer’s face had not flickered. Without interrupting her song, the creature’s head had turned to investigate then returned to its original position. Edward wondered if she heard sounds more acutely than he did. A pity that making a query out loud was out of the question…

“That takes talent,” Edward said in between sips; by now the drink had taken on a pink hue.

“Yes, she is a spectacular performer, sir.” Cecil said.

Edward knew the bartender was playing coy, but would not push the matter further. In the background, the cacophony grew in intensity. The barrister was unsure on what was going on, but it sounded like a riot. People were shouting, and that was accompanied by the sounds of furniture being smashed. Is my imagination running wild on me? The fact that even this siren missed a note in reaction to the commotion outside meant it was likely not the case.

“What is going on out there?” Edward asked the bartender.

“Whatever do you mean, sir?” Cecil asked as the chaos intensified.

Whatever’s riling up the guests must be a doozie! Edward wondered why the staff were not interested in all this commotion.

“Don’t play coy with me! I know full well your hearing is more sensitive than mine,” he replied but immediately regretted having done so.

In an instant, the bartender grabbed Edward’s shoulder and pressed his thumb and forefingers together. Unlike the initial movement the pressure increase was gradual and constant, and given time it would crush every bone in his shoulder.

“It looks like your steak has arrived, sir,” Cecil said all calm-like while she continued on with her song.

No one else seemed to care or notice what was going on outside. Edward began to wonder if everyone in this room was one of them. What a dreadful thought!

“Why don’t you enjoy your steak, finish that drink of yours and just relax, hmm?” Cecil asked.

Odd how the searing pain in Edward’s shoulder made it seem more like an order? He took the steak knife into his right hand and fork on the left before cutting at the meat. The steak was beautifully prepared, giving him no more effort than cutting through butter with a hot knife. One bite of his meal was all the bartender needed to relax his grip. The combination of having his taste buds tantalised and the easing pain almost made him shudder in ecstasy. Wait! Why?

There was no time to question matters, since that first bite somehow managed to sap his strength. First, his hands lost their grip, followed closely by his balance. As the world blurred out of existence, he felt weightless then heard a loud thump when he hit the floor.

By then, the siren had stopped singing and Edward could clearly hear a mob outside. Is that all? No, in the distance he heard someone screaming to their death. Did someone throw themselves from a hotel window? That was quite a drop with plenty of time to change their mind. What’s going on?

October 30th 1929

The world was nothing but a bright haze when Edward came to. He tried to move but gave up after a brief struggle. After a few moments, the barrister discovered that his arms were bound. Nonetheless, he managed to push himself against a wall using it for support until he gained sure footing.

Unfortunately, all it took was a slight shift in balance to send him into back down. While in freefall, he face-planted the wall and bounced off.

Why didn’t that hurt? Edward wondered, thinking that such a violent impact ought to have knocked him out cold.

Edward tried to free his arms but could not loosen his bindings. Numbed, unable to think clearly or arouse any emotion, he gave up in favour of considering the trouble he was in. Have I been drugged?

“Good evening, Master Locke,” Max said.

For a minute, Edward saw through the haze just enough to see he was in a room padded from top to bottom. It did not take one of the greatest minds in human history to figure out where he was now.

Before his vision blurred over, Edward looked up to Max and noticed his change of attire. Gone was his uniform, replaced by something befitting the medical field. Flanking the good doctor, he saw young ladies dressed as nurses. Max leaned closer to the dazed barrister as though proximity would have an effect on comprehension.

“Looks like the stock market crashed and people are calling it Black Tuesday,” Max said with a light chuckle. “Not a very creative lot.”

The memory of those men surrounding the ticker tape machine and their statements hit him like a tonne of bricks. Why did it matter to a place like The Grand? Edward then realised that money was their perceived source of power.

“No clients,” Edward managed to spurt out.

“Surprisingly sharp mind you have there,” Max replied then looked at one of his nurses. “Make sure you up his dosage.”

His treatment served as a deterrent to any escape attempts. Apparently, the staff were now branching out into new territory.

“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse replied.

Wait! The concierge’s a doctor now? For a moment, clarity returned to his mind long enough to recognise her as the siren.

“The Boss has grown tired of relying on the likes of you to keep our little secret,” the concierge said in an entirely new tone of voice.

Max had always been so jovial and professional in their exchanges. For the moment, it appeared the veil had been lifted.

“That little stunt you pulled by relieving the Georgians of the beating heart really annoyed him,” Max said.

Max’s hand hovered over Edward’s body until he came to a point just below his Adam’s apple. There, Max pressed down until it got a visible reaction. Edward saw nothing more than bright flashes of pain flickering through his eyes while he gasped for air.

“Now we have an excuse to pretend to shutter this hotel,” Max said even though Edward could barely concentrate. “The markets have crashed, thousands have leapt from buildings or otherwise killed themselves in response to being destitute.”

Edward had no trouble recognising how much of a golden opportunity this turned out to be for The Grand.

“Planned…” Edward managed to spurt out, though he drooled all over himself in the attempt.

Just then, the nurse returned with a large metallic syringe. Without a second thought she kneeled down beside the barrister, found a vein and planted the large-bore needle into his arm. Clearly she was not interested in making the process painless, rather the opposite. Despite the initial reaction, his mind instantly clouded over. What’s all the bother about again?

“We manipulated the markets and made sure we sheltered the storm,” Max said. “The town will henceforth believe the hotel has been shuttered.” He then leaned down close enough to whisper then said, “Though our honoured guests will remain.”

The concierge got up and headed for the door but stopped next to the nurse siren.

“Start the extraction process as soon as you can,” Max said.

So, Edward would remain a guest of The Grand despite suffering from the human condition. Death would have been far more merciful…but it’s likely what I deserve…

“His family thinks he lost his fortune, went looney and tried to take his own life,” Max said. “They won’t bother us. They wouldn’t want to sully the family name. So, you’re free to be as invasive as desired.”

“What are we looking for?” The siren asked.

How could that woman’s voice still carry those haunting overtones she showcased last night?

“The Boss feels that would be too easy for him,” Max said nonchalantly. “He wants this one to suffer, so take your time in fracturing his mind to get at the information.”

“Why don’t we have the Georgians dissect his brain?” The siren suggested.

Such a direct method would get all the information they needed with minimal fuss. While logical, the look on the concierge’s face answered the question.

“Boss feels that would be too easy for him,” Max said nonchalantly. “He wants this one to suffer, so take your time in fracturing his mind to get the information.”

Both nurses looked at one another then licked their lips. What initially appeared to be a mundane task became an opportunity for sweet, delectable torture. Edward would be in for a world of pain. Since his nurses were immortal, they had all the time in the world.

August 26th 1948

It was time for lunch, so John was naturally found in the town’s diner. He tended to feel a bit of nostalgia when faced with a pre-war setting. The booths were set up along the windows and provided patrons with a view of the street. Opposite the booths, there was a counter lined with stools. In behind, there was serving equipment and a nickel-plated cash register that merged into the background.

The waitresses primarily worked from behind the counter, but occasionally ventured out to serve customers. Stools, benches and the counter were all lined with chrome. The colour palette was on the conservative side, restricted to dark reds and browns. The tiled floor had a nondescript pattern which extended from one side to the other, but somehow complimented the wood-panelled walls.

Above every booth, there was a chrome cylinder-like fixture fitted with a naked bulb glowing within. During the day, it did little but it filled the place in a warm and welcoming light nearer to dusk.

Lunch here was unoriginal but was worth its weight in gold when compared to what they served at sea. The first few days on ship were glorious when fresh food was available. Unfortunately, fresh rations quickly gave way to the same stale swill day in and day out.

Of course, even the crustiest of breads could not withstand the effects of the North Atlantic. Everything ended up a soggy mess which soured the crew’s morale, especially when the sea state was high.

He had been sitting there no more than a minute before a waitress approached him.

“Morning, John,” a waitress named Rose said to break the silence. “What will ya have today?” She asked mechanically.

John looked to Rose and his eyes wandered to the countertop menu for a moment. The plastic lettering planted into the board had been the same since his arrival in town, but he confirmed nonetheless. It was a bit like checking the time on his clock when writing out a log entry, even if he had already amended the ledger moments ago.

“Soup of the day and a steak sandwich, please,” John said.

He looked at the woman a bit more. He had seen her countless times before, yet this time, he had an odd case of déjà vu, even if he was unable to place when and where that might have been. Most of the residents had lived here all their lives, so it was doubtful they met out East.

“Coming right up,” she said before retreating behind the counter.

From there, she yelled something to the cook then grabbed a pot of coffee to refill cups at the counter. All the while, the feeling persisted. With my luck, I’ll end up with a migraine.

“That would be a shame,” Eleanor said.

Seated across from him was the black-haired lady he fantasised about since arriving in town. John never did get over how she seemed to know what he was saying before he could think of it. To be fair, men did have a tendency to think of beautiful women in various stages of undress and he was certainly not guiltless in that domain.

“What would be a shame?” John asked.

“About you getting a headache,” Eleanor said softly.

She waved her hand in the air to catch Rose’s attention. Without as much as a word, the waitress whipped up a milkshake on the spot then plopped it onto the table.

Flabbergasted John said, “I never said I was getting a headache.”

“Sure, you did,” Eleanor replied. She leaned closer to him and added, “You tend to talk to yourself when you think you are alone.”

That might be true, John thought.

People tended to be unaware of nervous ticks they had. Still, that rang as false.

“My apologies then,” John said before adding, “Sorry if I offended you by questioning your powers of perception.”

Eleanor shrugged then smiled once she set her eyes on the strawberry milkshake. For a second, it appeared as though she were a child tasting the delectable substance for the first time.

John noted how Eleanor wore a dainty summer dress, cream in colour with a matching hat that she had thrown against the window upon arrival. To keep the dress tight against her waist, she wore a white belt which made her outfit pop.

A shame that he was not able to see her legs, but at least her arms were bare up to the shoulder. Her sunburned bronze skin was smooth and beckoned—

Eleanor giggled, managing to distract him yet again. This time she had a bit of cream on her lips, to which she licked-off playfully. Now that was sensual… I wonder if she’s teasing me?

“I saw you outside my house last month,” John said as a matter-of-factly.

He focused on the features of Eleanor’s mouth while trying to avoid being entranced by those lips. Would she betray herself once she responded?

“Was I?” Eleanor asked.

Her response came quick as lightning. So fast that he believed it hard to manufacture. Yet John was willing to swear that this lady had been there that night!

“You don’t remember?” John answered her question by injecting one of his own.

“I tend to sleepwalk,” Eleanor said.

John heard stories related to sleepwalkers, even some who opened doors and prepared meals. John lived in the boondocks and it would take hours for her to reach his residence while wandering aimlessly.

“When I came down to see you, you went into the woods heading towards the wall,” John said.

Eleanor sucked on the straw until a loud slurping sound was heard. How she never got the mother-of-all-brain-freezes from that John never knew.

“Are you sure it was me?” Eleanor asked.

Befuddled, John was unable to formulate an answer. Unfortunately, it would be a challenge to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Was it normal to have a person permeate their fantasies and dreams? Eleanor once again giggled, which made the barrister suspicious.

This time, John managed to say, “I’m pretty sure it was you, yes.”

“I told you not to open the door,” Eleanor said out of nowhere.

I’m used to people changing subjects, but this one takes the cake! If she wanted to be cryptic, then he may as well follow her lead.

“I never opened a door,” John replied.

“No,” Eleanor said.

Just then Rose appeared at the table with his order. He looked at the hot steaming soup and his steak grilled to perfection.

“At least, not yet,” Eleanor said but was gone before John looked up.

John scanned from one side of the diner to the other but saw nothing more than the door swinging shut. Eleanor could certainly move with a sense of purpose. She also had no qualms about leaving him on the hook for the bill.

CHAPTER 8

THE VIRGIN GODDESS OF THE HUNT

September 19th 1948

John spent weeks planning the intricacies of this operation. It may not have been an impregnable fortress or a high security facility manned by armed guards. Nor would he find any barbed wire, twelve-foot-high fences or moats to traverse. In fact, his plan involved little more than leaving a window unlocked before he left work.

Security was not a concern; however John did not want to be spotted during the raid. In a small city or town, people had no greater pleasure than to spread rumours. He guessed this had something to do with the lack of television, meagre newspapers, non-existent high arts and having a grand ole choice of one radio station. Is there a better way to relieve the day’s monotony than airing someone else’s dirty laundry?

After supper, he drove midway along Victoria Street before stashing the car behind some shrubs. John waited till dusk then grabbed a bag from the trunk. As he watched the vestiges of light fade from the land, the warmth of the sun gave way to a cold and hostile evening.

Last night had been a new moon, so John found it difficult to make anything out. He relied mostly on memory and the sound of crushed gravel to lead the way. Once nearer to town, lights from the residences allowed him to make out the outlines of their properties, so he skirted along them like a cat burglar on the prowl.

The town was silent as a tomb, in stark contrast to the nightlife he encountered in the big cities. While moving through town, he made use of back alleys and used available cover to conceal his advance.

Every time he saw a silhouette or believed he could be observed, the barrister hid. Were these legitimate fears? Had they been nothing more than a trick of the mind? Had there been more going on than he was led to believe? At the height of the witching hour, he reached for his window, looked about, and used a crowbar to lift it open.

The office was quiet since the boilers were shut down for the summer. Normally, there were the familiar creaks, pings and knocks, all the sounds common to an inhabited building. At the moment, all he could hear was his own shallow breathing, a good sign since that meant he was the only one here, or so he hoped. Nonetheless, he locked the window as a precaution… Better safe than sorry.

John took a moment’s pause to ensure he was not followed. Once satisfied, the barrister slipped on a pair of soft-soled shoes, then used a corner to conceal lighting his blackout lantern. For a moment, the match gave the room a hellish hue before he brought down the assembly to produce a thin filament of light. It was not enough to read by, but enough for him to make out obstacles as he went below.

The basement held records for investigations and court proceedings in the county. He had been in that room frequently and found its records were a bit bizarre but nonetheless innocuous.

Tonight, he wanted to find out what was stored in the adjacent room, the one referenced in Edward Locke’s journal. From the room that was marked ‘Boiler Room’ on the door, however, there were never any sounds. That also doesn’t explain why there are boilers at the other end of the basement.

A door had been painted shut long ago and locked with an old-style key. Last month, John had used a knife to cut through the layers of paint. He wanted to see if disrupting the seal would arouse suspicion. When no one appeared to notice, John knew it was safe to make an attempt.

Fortunately, Edward left him a copy of the key along with the journal. John was thankful he did not need to add a ‘Break and Enter’ charge to his list of crimes. What secrets will I find within?

Sure enough, the lock easily gave way, at least once a liberal dose of oil was poured into the keyhole. John moved inside, closing the door. A moment later he lifted the blackout mechanism which filled the room with light. He already knew there were no windows, which reduced the risk. At first glance, it appeared to be an exact copy of the records room right down to the dimensions and arrangement of its filing cabinets.

John opened one filing cabinet after the other but found nothing. Judging by the state of the file bars and dividers, the records had been removed in haste. In the corner, he found a stove filled with ash. It’s clear someone wanted to destroy the evidence, but why have the room sealed?

Something must have been left behind to require this sort of precaution. So, John searched again. He pulled out every drawer, checking the sides and backs to see if files had been affixed. There was nothing and John was about to lose patience when fortune smiled upon him. John felt something underneath a drawer before he replaced it.

By turning the drawer upside down, he noticed there was about an inch of space between the bottom and the inside surface. Within this little nook, he discovered a folder that had all of the markings of a county police investigation. There were five separate files: Vito Angiulo, Gennaro Agueci, James Valenti, Patrick Weeks, and Paul Barnes.

He quickly thumbed through the files and determined these were victims of foul play. The fact that their time and place of death were the same did not surprise him. It would’ve been more of a surprise to see The Grand not mentioned at all.

He sat on the floor and leaned against a cabinet. John opened the folder for Vito Angiulo and began reading through the particulars.

August 7th 1926

Max was enjoying the evening. A party was roaring in one of the ballrooms; the band was playing it fast and loose, just like the women. Flappers and gentlemen alike were crisscrossing the Grand Hall heading to and from the party. Those who were leaving had the smell of cigarettes, fine booze and sweat. Guests had been hoofing it for hours and would likely continue dancing once they reached their rooms.

He also enjoyed the sight of these berries walking to and fro. While their clothes were not as revealing as they had been when Rome was at the centre of the civilised world, he did enjoy the style. It was far more liberated than previous fashions, especially Victorian, and made unwrapping the dolls easier. Besides, it makes the fire extinguishers livid, and that’s always entertaining.

From the top of the staircase, he saw a group of men appear, five in all. Their expensive suits, hats, trench coats, stiff walk and menacing stares pegged them as organised crime. It was not an unusual occurrence, since their kind needed to traverse the more untamed regions as well, and The Grand was by far the best available.

Only a fool would buy that anyone dressed like that plays the violin for a living. Max could hear cartridges shake within the drum of a Thompson submachine gun, the weapon of choice for their kind. The bulges in their sides told him they were packing heat. One had a particularly stiff walk, so he was likely hiding a shotgun, probably a double-barrelled affair guaranteed to make a mess.

Were these men on the lam, planning a caper, or would they try to hustle their way into the hotel’s ownership? These were questions he needed answered before the hotel staff could mount an appropriate response.

With a big smile, he eyed the lead man while his men hung back. Given how calm his heart was, this was not a man on the run. That meant they were dealing with a seasoned professional.

“Good evening, Sir. Welcome to The Grand!” Max exclaimed. In the same breath, he added, “How may we help you tonight?”

“We wants to see your boss,” Vito said, while Max gave him the once-over.

The suit was clearly tailored and made of the finest wools. That kind of quality would fetch a pretty penny in any major city. Though no amount of tailoring could take away from those dead eyes. Max assumed this man killed for a living and enjoyed every moment of it.

“He’s away on business at the moment,” Max lied.

The boss was always here, though no one would ever set eyes on him. Some of the staff and guests even wondered if Max was really the Boss. That in itself turned out to be a desirable subterfuge.

“However, I’m his duly appointed agent. Do you have any concerns with regard to our service or management?” Max asked in a most cultured voice which was sure to drive this one batty.

“Now look here, bub,” Vito said loud enough that his crew perked up. “We wants to see your boss, cuz we wants a piece of the action for ya hooch, see,” he said with a faint Italian accent mixed with whatever stood for language in Brooklyn.

Max could not believe the man actually used the term hooch to describe their stock. Now was the time to escalate matters; the staff would be ready to deal with either situation.

“Sir, we have no hooch here,” Max said while maintaining a tone of superiority. “Everything is the real McCoy. Imported from the finest distilleries in all of Europe and our beers are locally brewed,” he added to trigger a response.

If this man leaned towards sanity, he would reconsider his position as a supplier and tap into their source. Either that or he would want a piece of the action.

“No hooch?” Vito asked as though this were a foreign concept. “How do ya keep the bulls from sniffing around?”

It was an excellent question. With any luck this will veer him away from his original purpose.

“They get their own supply,” Max said absentmindedly and then smiled. “No one asks questions or bothers us.”

The mobster removed his hat, either to seem more amiable or to signal his men to be ready. Max could not tell, but what he said removed all doubt on which course of action they would take tonight.

Vito said none too subtly, “It would be such a shame if such an arrangement were to be disrupted—”

Max pretended to look confused, not getting the depth of his words. The concierge waited a few moments before ‘the bulb went off.’

“I see,” Max said and gulped melodramatically. He added a nervous stutter to his voice at this point, “Well, we would certainly hate to disrupt our clients’ parties, mister…”

“Angiulo,” the other man said.

The mobster would not let Max in on it being a first or last name. Not that it mattered. The register would read ‘John Smith’ tonight.

“Well Mister Angiulo, I will prepare some of our finest suites for you and your men. Will one for each do?” Max asked as he snapped his fingers.

The sound prompted a lobby boy to appear, ready to carry whatever bags were necessary.

“Why for?” Vito asked, taken aback by this change in plan. “We are here for business, see,” he said in a tone that hinted at displeasure.

“Oh yes sir, we at The Grand are quite aware of your desire for business. However, the night is young and the drinks are on the house,” Max said. “Before you decide how much of a… cut you want, you may as well enjoy the hotel’s amenities to their fullest.”

Just then, a group of berries walked by so Max kept an eye on them. The concierge wore a warm and inviting smile as though nothing illicit was taking place.

Once the ladies were out of sight, Max leaned forward and said, “Shall I reserve you one of our private suites and ensure there is company waiting for you, sir?”

Max was sure this would distract Vito from his immediate plans. After all, what self-respecting psychopath did not like beating a dame around? Not like he’ll get the chance.

“Yeah,” Vito said with a dim glow in his eyes. “You do dat. No pills either. Got it Jeeves?” the man said then threw a dirty look at the lobby boy, who paid them no heed.

Max had to smile. That would be sure to drive the man up the wall. Fortunately, there were plenty of people around. Besides, the idea of women waiting for him mixed with high quality drinks would keep things civil.

“Take them to the Artemis Suite and make sure they have a bartender,” Max said.

The young man clapped his heels together then headed towards the lifts. Now all he had to do was make a few calls before the Goddess got her hunt.

* * * *

Vito was a man people dreaded meeting in a dark alley (or even in broad daylight). Brutality had been the hallmark of his youth and violence came naturally. His father sought to reign him in, even by locking him up when he stepped over the line. Alas, his friends always got him out, even if it took a beating to make it happen.

The day he witnessed a bank robbery marked the moment his behaviour took a turn for the worse. That was the turning point where his family lost all hope of sending him down the right path.

It was beautiful, watching those men waltz into the bank using fear to control the crowd. They operated like a well-oiled machine, followed precise timings, and brutally suppressed any opposition. That day, he learned to show no mercy, because the sheep just fell in line. Spectacular!

Of course, the cops picked him up once they arrived on the scene. Like always, they were too late to catch the thieves. He said nothing to the authorities, took his licks and kept his cool throughout the interrogation. That garnered the attention of a very select group of like-minded individuals.

Where brutality as a youth centred on fights and petty disturbances, his new friends took him to a whole new level. As a young enforcer, he beat a man to death just because he could not cough up the protection money for the week.

Most would have felt remorse or sought absolution from a priest. Instead, he got ossified at a local speakeasy and woke up the next morning with a dead whore. What a glorious night that was!

His actions earned him respect and he was quickly brought into the fold. As a made man, he was given the gruesome assignments, seeing as he enjoyed them. His zeal was unmatched since murder and mayhem were the only times he felt alive. Better to have rage fuelled adrenaline surges than nothing at all.

Despite his fierce loyalty to the family, he eventually formed bonds with Gennaro, James, Patrick, and Paul. These men would follow him through hell and back without ever questioning him.

Given the potential to offset the balance of power, this made the family uneasy. In response, they gave Vito an ultimatum. Either ride out willingly to establish new territory or they would take him for a ride. Of course, the former meant they would get a cut of any future profits. What else is new?

So, without a word, he left the room and took his wiseguys with him. They ventured out West, committing small-time crimes to fund their potential expansion. There was no method to their madness, simply controlled chaos that kept the crew’s skills sharp.

Out of nowhere, a plan formed in his mind that hit him like a bullet to the brainpan. Vito would muscle his way into a racketeering and bootlegging gig. Of course, he needed to aim high to create a stable source of income.

While travelling from city-to-city, Vito came across isolated hotels that catered to a rich clientele. He was certain that their business would suffer if a few of their clients went missing. Unless they switched suppliers or pay their protection money.

When the boy opened the doors leading into the Artemis Suite, Vito was sure that he had just hit the mother lode. Before him, was a swanky room that looked to be a copy of some ritzy Manhattan hotel.

The joint was equipped with a well-stocked bar, booths, tables, dance floor and a statue of some naked tarte holding a bow. In the background, he heard a phonograph playing something nondescript, but he did not pay much attention to the music or the decor. His eyes were fixated on the dozen or so flappers waiting for them.

Before they could step into the room, the ladies swarmed. He could see it in his men’s eyes. How their faces reddened from the attention as they made subtle adjustments to their trousers.

Let them blow off some steam, Vito thought.

They may as well enjoy this party. It had been thrown in their honour, after all, an impressive feat considering how little time they had to prepare. If this is how they ‘made do,’ then what could they pull off if I call ahead?

While his men dispersed, Vito headed over to the bar and sat down on a stool. Before him, there was a man so pale that he looked as though he had been in the hole for years. He looked over the selection of alcohol, but could not make out the fancy labels.

“Whiskey!” Vito yelled. Once his frustration tapered off, he added, “Leave the bottle.”

The bartender eyed Vito drawing out a bottle of ‘Jack’ from the back which set a smile upon the mobster’s lips. Fortunate for the bartender since there was no way he would waste his good stock on them. He dropped down five shot glasses in a row then filled them to the brim before leaving the bottle.

“Thanks,” Vito said.

Vito looked at the shots greedily then downed the first three in quick succession. The alcohol burned his throat on its way down, but for a moment, the numbness was gone.

“Since the hotel is paying tonight, Cecil, could I have a glass of Bordeaux 1899 or 1900, if you please?”

Out of nowhere, there was some Jane placing an order beside him. How did she sneak up on me?

Unlike the other dolls in the room, this one had dark auburn shoulder length hair. She had piercing green eyes and a smile that made him want to violate every part of her. This whore looks like she’d enjoy every minute of it!

“Right away, madam,” Cecil said before walking away to fill her order.

The lady sat down beside Vito and ignored his presence. This one was playing hard to get, and he wondered how to break the silence. Normally women came to him, drawn to money, power or fear. The idea of having to get her attention left him mute.

“You know they say that men should lead in all affairs related to love and war,” Evelyn said before falling into a giggle.

Every word she uttered had musical tones. That, and her giggle was alarmingly infectious.

“That’s just a load of baloney and we both know it,” Evelyn added then presented her hand. “I’m Evelyn, the madam for this evening.”

“Vito,” the mobster replied as he took her hand and kissed it like he had seen in those silent movies. “So you made this possible, huh?”

“Of course, ma chère,” Evelyn said, keeping her gaze fixated on him even as a glass of Bordeaux was poured before her. “The Grand takes their clientele’s needs seriously and I can assure you that you and your men will have the time of their lives here.”

Evelyn then grabbed her glass of wine, swirling the contents expertly around the inside of the glass. Vito got the feeling that this one was not some random harlot and that she knew her way around the luxuries associated with wealth.

“So why don’t I cash in now and take you back to my room?” Vito asked bluntly before downing another shot.

The dame looked at him while taking in the wine’s bouquet. She finally sipped the ambrosia, doing so daintily and deliberately to give her time to respond. Her smile grew, and somehow became more alluring.

“I think a cheque will suffice for now,” Evelyn replied. She placed a hand on his knee and inched it towards his groyne. Now that she had his attention she added, “Don’t worry, you’ll see me in all my glory before the sun rises.”

It was odd how he felt so at ease, even after being told to cool his heels. She seemed to have a bewitching ability, one she employed to distract and redirect.

He did not care about the music in the distance. Heck, he barely noticed how a flapper danced topless on a table to entertain James and Patrick. Nor did he care that Paul was surrounded by a mob of attractive girls or that Genaro was missing. Wait! What?

Deep down, there was something nagging at him though he was not sure what. Perhaps he should lay off the booze, but that was the easy part, since no amount of willpower could break her hold over him.

* * * *

Genaro Agueci loved nothing more than a good party and this juice joint had all the ingredients for one hell of a time. Vito’s lieutenant sat at a booth overlooking the dance floor, watching as the dolls converged on the others. It was something to see, women in nice clothes, vibrant and willing to cast away their sensibilities. They were the picture of health, beauty and best of all they were looking for a roaring party.

In one corner, stood a particularly voluptuous wallflower. His eyes fixed on the dame, eyeing every curve of her chassis and focused exclusively on her overflowing bosom. While she was dressed in the latest fashion, her body-type had fallen out of favour.

Lucky for her, busty women with curves were right up his alley. He got up from the booth intent on getting acquainted with the wallflower just as two flappers approached.

Without so much as a glimpse, he said, “Beat it.”

The ladies clearly got the hint and sat at a booth by themselves. By that point, James, Patrick, and Paul were inundated by women while Vito was at the bar with a stunning brunette.

Despite the brunette’s alluring figure, he kept his eyes on the buxom blonde in the corner. Along the way, he grabbed a bottle of wine and glasses from the bar.

“Some party,” Genaro said as he approached the young wallflower.

He glanced at her just long enough to see a twinkle in her eyes. His eyes dropped down to her bountiful bosom. Where did I learn those words? Since Vito said these women were whores, he felt no shame in being direct. Though in his defence, he rarely cared what they thought, especially when they were entertainment.

“Looks like,” the woman answered with a hint of boredom hanging on every word.

The dame spotted his bottle and in that moment smiled. That had been the first real change in emotion she had shown up to now.

“Why don’t we go for a walk in the lower gardens?” the blonde asked.

The mobster questioned the idea. A walk in the gardens seemed like romancing the gal. Given the other ideas swirling around in his head, he thought this was a middle-aisle type of activity, which did not serve his interests.

“Why would I want to waste my time on that?” Genaro asked while pouring some wine.

The blonde grabbed his glass and gulped it down. Genaro noticed how the wine wetting her lips somehow made them more alluring.

“Well, no one can hear me moaning down there,” she said bluntly.

* * * *

During the long ride down, they filled their time by sipping on wine while staring into one another’s eyes. There was something about her eyes, they seemed older somehow, as though this dame had lived through a lot. Though it did little to keep his eyes from drifting down to her ample and perky tits. Who cares about her eyes when those are on display? No matter. By morning her ass will be covered in welts!

He was surprised by the sheer scale of the lower gardens. She led him along a fifteen-foot stone wall with turrets appearing every hundred yards or so. Atop each was a gargoyle, vile deformed statues that stemmed from the depths of his nightmares… These things make Count Orlock in Nosferatu look like Errol Flynn.

The statues looked out into the wilderness though Genaro could have sworn one was following them with its glowing eyes. The sight chilled him to the bone, but when he blinked the gargoyle was back looking out towards town.

After about ten minutes, they came across a large black wrought-iron gate guarded by two particularly large gargoyles. The blonde took his hand and with a remarkably firm grip led him closer to the gates, lining him up roughly five feet away from the iron bars.

She smiled, drew closer, close enough to hear her breathing, then they began to neck. Her lips are cold as ice! Was it from the chill in the air? Genaro stopped caring the moment her breasts pressed against his chest.

“Man, oh man, this is going to be hot,” Genaro thought.

His arms slid up her waist and onto her breasts. Before he had a chance to grip those beautiful mounds, she broke their kiss. In that moment, he saw something new in her eyes. The twinkle he observed earlier had been replaced by the glow of something primal and twisted, something he observed only in the criminally insane.

Before he could react, she smirked and pushed him. This was not a light shove expected of the lesser sex. This was far more forceful. Enough to send him hurtling through the air leaving him winded once he struck the gate.

Dazed and confused, Genaro looked at the blonde, keeping her distance. Why’s she smiling? What are those two gargoyles doing at her side? Wait! What?

“Enjoy the neighbours. They love fresh meat,” the buxom blonde exclaimed.

His mind was slow to register what was going on. He sensed pressure over the whole of his body followed by searing pain. Genaro would have never believed it possible to experience agony of this intensity. The pain became more manageable once the sound of his tearing flesh and breaking bone subsided. Why am I feeling cool iron grazing my cheeks?

The last he saw was blood smeared across the bars and a trail which led to a mangled body. A shame he never realised the blood was his.

* * * *

“Now you got it,” Evelyn said while dancing to something trendy.

What’s she going on about? Vito then realised that he was on the dance floor alongside the brunette while dancing the Charleston. All around him there were young ladies cheering them on.

I’m what? Vito never danced since it left him far too exposed. Dancing meant he had to get close to others and could not focus on his surroundings. How in the world could this dame lead him onto the dance floor. It goes against all my instincts.

He slowed down, falling out of sync with the music and got a better view beyond the crowd. Overall, everyone seemed to be having a great time, all except for one who seemed intent on witnessing the scene. She was a rather pretty Jane with dark eyes, dark hair and red skin.

For a moment, Vito felt a twinge of guilt for taking his eyes off the Madame. Guilt? What the fucks wrong with me?

In the corner booth, Paul was shirtless and splayed on a table. He also noted the group of women with him who were busy drinking a dark red wine. Pauls’ trousers were also down to his knees with a dame between his legs. She seemed to be busy bobbing her head up and down.

“Atta boy,” Vito said aloud before she pulled back and revealed a dark red liquid on her lips.

Come to think of it, Paul looked rather pale, as though the life were being drained right out of him. Then he saw it, a girl in need of a good manicure sliced open Paul’s wrist to fill her glass.

“Vito, dear,” Evelyn said.

Those two words echoed in his mind, the haunting voice which somehow compelled him to do her bidding. When he looked into her eyes, it was as though the world faded away. Where’s James and Patrick? Wait! What? Where?

* * * *

Because their forefathers were not from Sicily, James and Patrick were not made men and never would be. They were torpedoes, loyal without question, and wanted nothing more than to enjoy the ride. Money, women, and booze were just some of the perks that came with balancing violence and intimidation.

Some days were good, others less so. A low point for them had been when they were run out of town. High points were comparatively frequent, with one happening right now. The Artemis Suite was swell, but the dames really sold it. There were several within this room they would take as their molls without a second thought.

A dainty little flapper took her top off and danced on the table-top. The two men were obviously enthralled by the show, especially the way her tits seemed to defy all of Newton’s laws. There was no doubt in James’ mind that this girl had it.

“This is it right here, eh?” James said as he downed another shot.

“Wha?” Patrick replied, unable to break his gaze from the flapper’s perky tits.

“Hey man, you’re all balled up,” James chuckled at his partner who was practically drooling.

Some Jane then approached from behind and whispered something into James’ ear. Whatever was said brought a smile to his face. So, James grabbed his trench coat concealing a shotgun, and took the topless flapper’s hand. He knew Patrick would follow her no matter where they ended up.

They found their way to room four-twenty-five which sure was swanky. This room was dominated by a large four poster bed and decorations which were reminiscent of expensive hotels in Manhattan. He noted how thick and heavy the curtains were on the opposite end of the room. In no time, Patrick was necking with Topless who seemed very receptive to his overtures.

James sat on the bed while a pair of dolls laid down on either side of him. For a moment, they eyed him with hunger but winked before they necked with each other. This caught him off guard since one would have made a stunning moll. Alas, they were sapphic and obviously more into each other than him.

Frustrated, James turned his back on the women while layers of clothing were shed. He eyed the room, including a large canvas painting that featured some long-forgotten battle involving a broad in armour. There was blood everywhere, body parts strewn about, men bleeding out or cleaved clean in half.

What an off-putting picture to put in a hotel room, James thought.

Bored, his eyes glided over the scene and found Patrick against the wall while Topless made short work of his trousers. Just when he considered looking away out of respect for Patrick’s privacy, James noticed that Topless was reaching to the back of her skirt. When she pulled out a long steel blade, James got the feeling that this was not foreplay.

He grabbed his trench coat, unwrapped the trigger assembly and, quick as lightning, pulled both triggers on his shotgun. There was a loud resounding blast that echoed throughout the room and left him deafened. Despite the ringing in his ears, he cracked open the breech, removed the spent shells then inserted fresh ones.

Once the smoke and shredded remains of his trench coat dissipated, he saw how the buckshot found its mark, though not at his intended target. Patrick stood there with his pants down to his ankles while his shirt was torn to shreds. James had an ample view of the carnage wrought on his body. Patrick then fell to the ground with a loud thump, dead before he knew what hit him.

“Nice shot,” Topless said from behind.

In the blink of an eye, he found her standing by the body of his friend. She reached down and rubbed her index finger through the gaping wound in Patrick’s back.

Topless then licked the blood from her finger before saying, “I prefer it when my victims are fresh. Don’t you agree, girls?”

He glanced behind him and saw that the others were gone, but once he returned to face Patrick, all three women were surrounding the corpse. Faced with dames in various stages of undress, he felt conflicted. If he had not just shot his best friend while trying to kill one, the scene may have seemed oddly sensual. How can they move so fast?

“Now why don’t you quit being a killjoy,” Topless said while the others leered at him.

Clearly, they were in a mood now that their fun had been interrupted. He brought the weapon to bear, his fingers on the individual triggers, lining up the bead square on Topless. I won’t miss that cleavage this time.

“Oh, look girls! He’s giving us the high-hat,” Topless said laughing. “Go on, fire off your peashooter, see how long that head of yours stays attached to your neck.”

James pulled the first trigger and saw the girls fade out of existence and reappear a few feet away from the site of impact. The mobster responded with another shot but aimed for the one who invited him to the room.

The girls again faded out of sight, but this time, there was an earth-shattering shriek. James could not be sure if the shot had been true. Was that blood spray against the wall? Or am I dreaming?

Out of shells, James pulled out his revolver but felt a pair of cool hands grab his head firmly. The twist was so fast, so vicious, that it sounded like a tree branch breaking, a sound he was sure to never forget.

For a moment, he looked into the eyes of Topless who had a small wound to her side. Before he could celebrate, the man also noticed how he had a great view of his ass. Wait! What?

With one quick motion of Topless’ blade, James’ head was cleaved clean off. There was a pause before a jet of blood covered the room and, to celebrate, the girls gorged themselves.

August 8th 1926

Isn’t she beautiful?” Evelyn said.

The words brought him out of his delirium. He looked about and noticed they were the only occupants. A flash of recollection led him to look over to the table where Paul had been. Instead of blood and gore, he found it spotless as though it had been free all evening.

“Who is?” Vito asked in a confused tone.

What’s she yammering on about? Evelyn looked frustrated, but she smiled in a way that made his knees turn to jelly.

“Oh silly! Artemis, the virgin goddess of the hunt,” she replied. Her smile took on sinister overtones before she added, “I carved her to inaugurate the opening of this suite. Pretty, non?”

He looked at the fancy schmancy statue but could barely focus. Still, the mobster saw the curvatures of the goddess’s body, perky titties, and long hair. The sculpture showcased a model with sharp facial features and looked like someone who meant business.

The goddess’s bow was a nice touch, what with the weapon drawn with a bronze-tipped arrow. Why is that arrow pointing at me?

Hold on a second! Am I prey? Prey? Whoa! What’s going on? Vito wondered.

“I made sure The Grand kept some of the larger granite pieces when they blasted the rock face. This was one of the pieces they dug out of this chamber,” Evelyn rambled on.

Vito could not keep up with what was going on. His vision swirled about and left him unable to think, let alone stand.

“Seems she selected you to be next,” Evelyn said.

The words reached down to the deepest part of his mind and dragged him back to his senses.

“What the fuck are you yammering on about?” Vito yelled.

Memories bled through the haze, enabling him to remember how his men disappeared one by one until only he remained, left here all alone, except for this chippy bitch.

Vito reached into his pocket and pulled out his piece demanding, “Where are my boys?”

“Let’s just say that your foxes were not successful in evading the hounds,” Evelyn said.

She showed no concern that he was pointing a weapon at her. In fact, she taunted him with a wink. Then things got really confusing because she began to shed away her clothes until nothing was left at all.

His jaw hit the floor in awe of the beauty of this woman. She was bare and shaved, revealing that even her pits and getaway sticks were silky smooth. After all this, she’s keeping her promise?

“Baloney!” Vito exclaimed.

Despite the bravado, his grip on the revolver was so tight that his fingers were going white.

“Your dames have no chance against my crew!” Vito exclaimed, but his voice cracked in the process.

“And yet here we are, with no one to back you up,” Evelyn said.

The imp giggled and turned around to show off that glorious ass of hers. Evelyn was making it obvious she had no concealed weapons while providing a neat little distraction. Vito saw red. His finger squeezed the trigger and was about to fire a round until she vanished.

Evelyn whispered into his ear, though he could neither see nor feel her, “Now, now. Play by the rules. You can choose your pistol. A Tommy gun or one of your men’s weapons.” Suddenly a distance away she added, “Which you’ll find behind you.”

Vito turned around to find the naked imp in the distance blocking the door. On a table, Vito found a scattergun covered in blood, a pistol bent out of shape, and yet another was scarred from buckshot. Lastly, he saw his Tommy gun with the drum fitted and ready to fire, so Vito helped himself to it after holstering his revolver.

The weapon felt right in his hands as though they were meant for each other. He was fuming, so not even the sight of that glorious smile would be able to distract him now. If this whore thinks she has a chance, then class is in session.

“So predictable,” Evelyn said with a giggle.

Vito fired off a burst of slugs that cratered the wall behind her. None found their mark, so he followed his target and fired off several bursts. Each time, she seemed to move out of the way and laughed. Is this a game to her?

The mobster screamed, charging at her with the butt of his Thompson but it did not connect. From behind, he heard her laugh, so Vito turned around while firing off a long burst of ammunition. The bullets struck vases, tables, paintings and even caused bottles of booze to burst open in a spectacular show. Still, none of the rounds found their mark.

Now he had had enough, so he pressed down on the trigger and unleashed what remained of the drum. Each and every projectile wreaked havoc on the scene while the odour of gunpowder filled his nostrils. With every appearance, he shifted his aim until a single projectile grazed the statue. For some reason, the sight of that scar caused him to depress the trigger.

“How dare you!” Evelyn exclaimed.

Her smile was gone, replaced by a fiery stare that grew more and more ominous. In the back of his mind, Vito knew he was in trouble.

Why aren’t you shooting? Vito asked himself.

Good question. Why had he stopped? Vito looked at her hands and noticed a mound of shapeless flesh oozing blood everywhere. What was that thing? Once the pain registered, he knew.

“Takes a special kind of bastard to try to ruin something so beautiful,” Evelyn said as she stretched out what remained of his penis in her hands.

Her nails grew in length until they formed claws, which she used to shred the flesh from his member.

“Perhaps now you may learn to feel sympathy for what you did,” Evelyn said.

Vito collapsed to the ground, unable to stand the pain, Evelyn approached and knelt down while continuing to mould the flesh.

“Perhaps this circumcision will convince you to stay away from the things ladies cherish,” Evelyn said.

She then laughed. It was like an intolerable, tingling sweetness of water glasses when played on by a cunning hand.

* * * *

Max picked up the blower after the second ring, “Concierge’s desk.”

While waiting for Cecil to speak, Max looked out to see that the sun was beginning to light up the valley floor. In about twenty minutes, the day shift would take over so he was getting anxious.

“It’s over,” Cecil said since he was not known to mince words. “Room service is dealing with the mess now. Should be done shortly.”

“Excellent,” Max said, knowing that the Boss would be pleased that it had been remedied so quickly.

“How shall we make this problem go away?” Cecil asked.

Staff normally disposed of corpses through various means. Some of their guests loved nothing more than a freshly mangled corpse first thing in the morning. This time, they needed to send a message that The Grand was not to be fucked with.

“Make sure the bulls find them,” Max said then paused.

Law enforcement finding them was one thing, but they wanted to make sure word got back to the family.

“Cecil, they have to be identifiable,” Max said. He thought about how inept the local law enforcement were, so he added, “Leave clues for them to find.”

“Just ducky,” Cecil said sarcastically. “We’ll have a team track down that shag carpet and his late-night snack. They’ll probably have to sift through its scat to recover the bones.”

“Who do you have tagged for that one?” Max asked knowing it would be an unpleasant task.

“Don’t you worry,” Cecil replied in a light tone.

Once disconnected, Max hung up. Now it was time to wait for the day staff. Soon enough he would be in bed thinking about something other than work. That’s the way it should be!

September 19th 1948

John looked at the pictures and found them grotesque. The coroner’s inquest determined that one of the bodies had been partially digested, one was ruled a suicide, and another was shot at point-blank range. The other two were victims of vicious animal attacks. The coroner apparently considered beheading and castration by grizzlies to be the norm.

The barrister could read between the lines and knew this as an ill-conceived cover-up. The devil was in the details and there was plenty missing from these files. These activities had occurred for years, so why were they sweeping evidence under the rug when no one cared? What motivated their actions?

He looked at his watch and figured he had just enough time to do another thorough sweep before it was time to leave. What other secrets will The Grand give up before that sun rises?

CHAPTER 9

INTO THE FIRE

June 9th 1922

Alice knew she was in trouble the moment she broke one of her golden rules. There were three golden rules she grew up with. The first, to obey the Ten Commandments. Wait, does that make it twelve? The second, do not give into the temptation of the Seven Deadly Sins. Great. Now I’m at eighteen? No matter… My most important rule was to never be out at night.

The last rule seemed silly when compared to living by the tenets of God, especially the wrathful incarnation found in the Old Testament. However, Alice was reminded why townspeople followed the last rule religiously when her cousin did not come home. The tears, pleading and wailing were all part of the heart-wrenching reaction she observed. Alice had never witnessed such anguish before, even for a death in the family, which turned out to be frequent.

Alice remembered the look of sheer relief on their faces when she turned up in the morning, tired, cold and hungry, but no worse for wear. That told her all she needed to know. The grounding of a lifetime that followed simply reinforced the concept.

The town did not have much of a local economy, so some were forced to seek employment at The Grand. Given her kids and the deadbeat husband who left a few years back, Alice had no choice.

Despite her initial misgivings, her employers proved to be courteous, professional, and generous with the bonuses. She was often surprised at how nice they were and enjoyed the ability to keep her flivver going. That way, she could get home at a reasonable time or at least before the sun set.

This evening, her normal drive took an unexpected turn for the worse when the car’s engine sputtered out and died. This flivver had always been a bit of a hayburner and this month had been lean. She had to turn down shifts at The Grand to stay home and take care of her sick daughter, Lillian. Alice checked the tank before leaving, but there was obviously less than assumed. Now she was stuck outside just as crepuscular light filled the sky.

“Just ducky,” Alice said then slammed her fist against the steering wheel.

When looking out along the road, the world before her began to change. Shadows were growing longer as the sky changed from a bright blue to purples, reds, and pinks. Soon the moon and stars would make their appearance in the heavens. Meanwhile, she would be alone, in the dark with a broken-down jalopy to keep her company.

“Horsefeathers!” Alice exclaimed then covered her mouth in shame.

Alice laughed realising how absurd it was to be ladylike in a situation like this. She was out at sunset, away from the town but close enough to the lower wall to see those gargoyles who gave her the heebie-jeebies. Why do I have this odd feeling of being watched?

“Now what?” Alice wondered with a sigh.

Should she stay in the car, or try to make it to town on foot? Another look at the sky told Alice all she needed to know. Tiny little pinpricks of light were starting to pierce the celestial veil. There was no way she could reach the town in time. Was she even safe in her car? At least I can deal with the chill of the night.

Will my kids worry? In all likelihood they would, considering she raised them to follow the same golden rules. Would they hug her and cry or be furious that their mother had left them on their own?

“What was that?” Alice exclaimed before she looked out the passenger side.

The moon hung in the sky. It was full tonight so Alice was able to make out details in the tree line. Deep in the woods, she saw trees swaying side to side, one after another. When she rolled down the window, there was no breeze at all; it was as though the air had gone stale. So what causing these trees to move?

The trees’ movement became more pronounced as the phenomenon approached. When her eyes registered fresh movement closer to the road, the sound of something crashing about the forest reached her. Whatever that is, it must be huge!

What kind of animal is capable of this? Alice wondered.

Her question needed no answer once the creature broke through the trees. Before her stood something that crawled out of her worst nightmare. Even from this distance, she saw how this colossal beast reminded her of the Big Bad Wolf from ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’

Channelling Grandma, Alice struggled with the door and slid out ass first onto the road. Alice never felt a thing when she dragged herself along the pavement until she gained her footing. Without a second thought, she ran in a blind panic towards the wall.

From behind, Alice heard footsteps picking up their pace. Whatever it was, it must have caught her scent. Alice did not stop. In the moonlight, she recognised the outline of a gate. Can I squeeze through before that thing catches up?

Fear thankfully rendered her deaf, leaving her unable to hear the creature’s roar or the sounds it made when its claws ran across sheet metal. Alice, however, did feel a breeze as her car flew overhead. It was surreal to see the car sailing over her while flecks of paint and rust were freed from its frame. It was equally bizarre to watch her once dependable car disintegrate as it crashed into the gate.

By the time the dust settled, Alice saw that she was no more than fifteen yards from her car. It made no difference because, at that moment, there was nobody home.

Two sets of glowing eyes appeared; Alice stared in awe while the gargoyles brushed off the dust from their joints. She never realised how large and foreboding those statues were. Once these sentinels stood at their full height, their reason for being became clear.

Reminded of the threat, Alice began a dead run towards her car but noticed the gate’s bars were deformed from the impact. She never looked behind to see if the creature was still pursuing her or what the gargoyles were up to. She was too busy trying to save her own skin to rationalise the situation. Without a moment’s hesitation, she pushed her way on top of the wreck, and dove in head first through the opening.

* * * *

Max was having a lazy night spent staring at the cherubs on the fountain when he heard the special ring. Once he picked up the blower, the concierge waited for a moment for Mavis to connect the call.

“Two of the ‘Goyles just went active,” Cecil said nonchalantly.

“This early in the evening?” Max asked while looking out of the large windows to find Selene hanging in the night sky.

Normally things were quiet until it got closer to the witching hour. Since that was not for several hours, something must have drawn them out. What kind of threat requires the response of two sentries?

“Yeah, they are doing a bum’s rush right now,” Cecil said with a hint of worry.

Max knew the gargoyles never activated in groups unless it was serious. If they had just one of those psychotic shag carpets out there, then it must have been an unusually large specimen or the wall had been breached. The latter would be bad for business, which was bound to make the boss unhappy.

“Send some staff down into the gardens. Better make sure that nothing broke through. You got me?” Max confirmed while wearing his best smile so guests remained unaware.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not the one who balled up, so don’t take it out on me,” he replied before the line went dead.

This left Max alone with his thoughts. Given how things were progressing tonight, this was not what the doctor ordered.

* * * *

Alice did not stick around for the show, so she never witnessed the battle between nature’s wrath and the hotel’s gargoyles. Evidence of the carnage stretched out for miles and left a gargoyle disabled in the middle of the road.

The blood trail led authorities to the scene with a man who had been drawn and quartered. The path had not been hard to follow, considering the splintered trees, claw marks, and blood trail leading the way. The scene was so saturated in blood that investigators were reminded of a slaughterhouse floor. The fact that there was more blood than necessary to fill a human body did not seem to faze them.

Instead, Alice ran. The chambermaid had never been down to the lower gardens before, even though she had seen the well-manicured parks and large labyrinth from the Grand Hall. She often overheard guests speak of the exquisite beauty, but even the idea of a quick visit made her nervous.

Just before her legs gave out, she heard something that stopped her cold. While faint, any mother could recognise the sound. Somewhere in these gardens…there’s a child crying.

Alice took a moment to catch her breath then closed her eyes to focus. Sure enough, the sound could clearly be heard and this time she had a general direction. Without hesitation or fear, the single mother headed off to investigate.

She walked for five minutes, heading away from the lights and well-travelled paths of the garden. At one point, she believed she had seen a dark-haired woman crossing her path. Yet with one blink, the apparition had gone.

Am I being a dumb Dora? To move deeper into the very place that people in town feared to approach? The cries of that little girl in the distance steeled her resolve, telling her she needed to go on.

Alice eventually reached the base of a large grove and at its centre she found a massive evergreen. At the base of that tree, she saw a little girl crying softly into her hands.

“Why are you crying?” Alice asked.

The girl looked up. From the light of the silvery moon, Alice saw that the girl was caught off guard.

Before the girl could bolt deeper into the woods, Alice called out, “Please don’t!”

The child hesitated for a moment, transfixed by the sight of Alice. The chambermaid used this opportunity to approach within a few yards. Now she needed to gain the girl’s trust. After all, being in these woods was enough to spook anyone.

“My name is Alice. What’s yours?” she asked in a calm and soothing tone.

“Emily,” the girl managed to say through her sobbing.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, which left them reddened and raw. She’s been crying here a while.

“Pleased to meet you,” Alice said before kneeling down by the child. “Now why are you out here all by yourself?”

“I came down after supper,” Emily said softly, her tears subsiding. “Mama and Papa told me I could play.”

The memory of her getting lost brought back all of that heartache. She paused and in slow motion her face contorted just before another shower of tears began.

“It’s okay, Emily,” Alice said, wrapping her arms around the child.

The child was so light compared to her youngest. For the life of her, she could not remember the last time she held a child in her arms.

“Everything will be alright. I will take you back to the hotel,” Alice told the child while looking into her eyes.

Emily nodded slowly as tears streamed down her cheeks. The child nuzzled against her chest and for a moment Alice felt like everything that happened up to this point had been part of a dream. What’s better for the soul than helping a child in need?

Alice used the tree as support to stand up. She headed towards the beacon that was the Grand Hall. Hopefully we’ll find someone along the way who can lead us to the hotel itself…

Moments into the walk, the child looked up to Alice with large brown puppy eyes. How was it that a child with such eyes could melt the heart of even the sternest parent?

With a devilish smile, Emily spoke, “I was lying, you know.”

“You were lying?” Alice asked, confused.

The little girl nodded. This time Alice saw two little pearly fangs protruding from between her lips.

“Yes,” Emily said in a tone that seemed far older and experienced than anyone her age should be able to muster. “I was hunting.”

The little girl lunged towards the chambermaid’s exposed neck.

* * * *

“Great,” Max said while looking over Alice Mayweather’s corpse.

Cecil had called to report on the damage and inform him of the discovery. He guessed she was the reason they had one less ‘Goyle on duty tonight. Max made a mental note to get in touch with the Georgians.

“So you’re telling me that she started all this?” Max asked.

The chambermaid was as pale as a ghost and had two little pinpricks on her neck. Odd how she appeared to be at peace. A shame, Max thought, a hard worker and a local. It did not take a fortune teller to forecast that there would be a lot of paperwork and bribes needed to clear up this mess.

“We found her jalopy crashed into the gate,” Cecil said in a grim tone. “That’s what caused the ‘Goyles to activate.”

Cecil sighed, but Max was unsure why. It was out of character for the man to show any emotion. Of course, it could be that he’s exasperated?

“We won’t be able to cover this up easily,” Cecil added.

“No, we won’t,” Max said. “She was a local, and the town tends to point the finger at us when people disappear. Especially if they happened to be in our employ.”

“True,” Cecil said before asking, “So what now?”

Max wished he could indulge in a nice stiff drink and enjoy the effects. Unfortunately, such vices were reserved for the living. What a waste…

“Place the body in her car, then call in the bulls.” Max said. “Her family deserves some closure, considering what a guest did to her husband.”

This seemed to be the best course of action. Unfortunately, Max had no desire to think about the ramifications this would have on the children.

“Was that the drugstore cowboy we found on the grounds a few years back?” Cecil asked as a confirmation.

“Ab-so-lute-ly,” Max said while looking over the maid’s corpse. “One of our guests hunted off the reserve and took him back here for some fun. The worst part, he would have survived the incident if it weren’t for another guest taking offence at being called adorable. At the time, it was easier to let Alice believe that he had left her for another woman.”

While her false assumption had not been the truth, it was plausible and provided a sense of closure for the family.

“Shame,” Cecil said. “Alright, we will get the ball rolling. Are we gonna pay for the funeral?”

Max nodded in agreement, “I’ll see about deducting the charges from Miss Winters’ damage deposit.”

It seemed to be a fair compromise for their guest, but Max felt more needed to be done. Alas, that would certainly get the attention of the child’s parents.

“I will head back. We need to talk to the little lady about sampling the local fauna,” Max added.

“Attaboy,” Cecil said sarcastically.

Cecil was no fool, he knew her parents were old and powerful. Whatever Max said would probably come across as more of a request, one promptly ignored. Sometimes there were some messes that could not be cleaned up satisfactorily.

September 8th 1948

John looked over pictures included with the report of Alice Mayweather’s death. The car was found some fifty yards over rough terrain. Roads that no vehicle could traverse on an empty tank. Heck, there’s no indication those wheels touched the ground at all… If that makes any sense.

Even if he discounted the puncture marks in the vehicle’s skin, her death being attributed to a car crash made no sense. Other than two pin pricks on her neck, the body had no bruises or wounds that were attributable to such a death. That means the coroner’s conclusions are nothing more than a load of malarkey.

That was nothing compared to the stewbum they found. This man had been found at the end of a path of destruction that stretched for miles. The damage was reminiscent of what he had seen caused by a tornado touching down.

The bum’s cause of death was listed simply as a hit and run. That was worth a laugh considering the man walked for several miles while drawn and quartered. If those wounds had been caused by the collision…then how could he live long enough to reach his final resting place?

“Again, a connection to The Grand,” John said while eyeing his watch.

He had enough time to do another search. Despite that fact, there was ample evidence to prove a serious lapse in police work, one spanning decades.

One question lingered in John’s mind, “Why?”

CHAPTER 10

CHARIOTS OF THUNDER

May 21st 1919

Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls!” The ringmaster bellowed out from the centre ring.

Julius James sat on his Indian motorcycle just outside the ring. Despite the ringmaster’s voice reverberating on the walls, the sound barely registered in the rider’s mind. It had been the same spiel every day for the past two years. The man sounded like a phonograph—never a word out of step or any variation in tone. It makes me sick, but the circus goers just lap it up.

God, he was bored! Julius wanted a bit of excitement. One would think that jumping over train cars, through burning rings, or performing the Wall of Death on a motorcycle would make things right as rain. Alas, when one faced death as often as he did, the mind could not help but grow numb. The mind craved for more, yearned for that elusive rush.

Julius took a swig of Jack straight from the bottle. Over the last few months, he had learned to use this coffin varnish to dull his mind. Only in this state could Julius be free to go through the motions.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” some clown asked.

“Quit being such a pill!” Julius exclaimed while glaring at the off-duty clown.

The man cringed and backed away, unwilling to go toe-to-toe with the rider. It might have something to do with his sitting on a purring Indian motorcycle? What was the likelihood of an unfortunate accident happening in this situation? Julius grinned, which made everyone in the room uneasy. No one likes my type of crazy…

“Now for your viewing pleasure, a feat never before attempted,” the ringmaster’s voice faded back into the background.

Julius took another swig from the bottle before he smashed it on the ground. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it before the show began. The orange hue from the burning embers created the impression that he was swimming in the lake of hellfire. Well, that would be a change of pace!

“Julius!” the ringmaster called out.

The blowhard was about done with his speech, so it would soon be his turn to take the stage. From his bike, he scanned the crowd before it became a blur, hoping to find his good luck charm.

In the crowd, he normally saw a pretty young Indian he dreamed of riding longer and harder than the one he performed with. She only had eyes for him, focused on his performance for the duration of the show, but was nowhere to be found once he got backstage. Tonight, she was not there. Should I be worried?

“…and the Ring of Death!” the ringmaster exclaimed, while he stretched out those words for several seconds.

Julius hammered down on the throttle and his Indian roared to life. Just as rocks and dirt were launched rearward, he cast away his lit cigarette and set off a firestorm. May as well give them something to remember me by…

“Fuck!” the stagehand/clown yelled out. What an odd thing for a clown to say!

Julius needed every inch to accelerate. He shifted gears quickly to push the engine to its limits. Once he cleared the gates, two stagehands closed the doors behind him. Ahead he saw a wall; his bike gained speed while barrelling towards it. That was a good sign since it meant everything was going according to plan.

He angled the bike moments before reaching the ramp which sent him moving vertically onto the wall. Round and round he would go from there. The crowd went wild, but all the while he wondered… how can this be so boring?

In the first few rotations, he kept close to the ground so the audience could adjust to the idea of a motorcycle circling so close to them. Once their cheers waned, he pushed up the wall, edging closer and closer to a little wire guardrail that existed only to comfort onlookers.

He loved to skirt that little rail because at this speed he was able to make out the collective look of shock painted on the faces of the first row. For the most part, they were still moving blurs, but those gaping mouths and wide eyes were always a giveaway.

Even through his speed and alcohol induced haze, his eyes somehow focused on a stunning baby vamp. She had short black hair that was curled and held in place with laurel leaves. Her milky-white skin contrasted with her bright blue eyes and a round face. Whoa! Is that a toga?

With every lap, this goddess came back into view and with every pass he got closer to the wire guard. Eventually, a piece of the guard dug into his tyre which brought about a spectacular blowout.

May 24th 1919

Oh yeah, baby. Just like that,” Julius said.

His partner never replied. Instead, he heard a series of slurps and pops. Julius opened his eyes and looked down to find that sweet Indian with long black hair moving up and down over his shaft. She was by far the most skilled he ever encountered.

“Hmmmmmmm,” Julius said in glorious satisfaction.

In the distance, the engine roared to life. Julius knew intimately the sound of his beloved Indian. He spent far too many hours working on her to confuse her with any other machine.

While his thoughts concentrated on the engine’s purr, he began to deflate. His partner responded by gliding her hand down to the base of his shaft while her lips wrapped around his balls. It was the hum that really got his attention, sending that tingling sensation right down to his toes.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Julius said.

The engine of his motorcycle revved once again, and this time was more pronounced. It was bizarre, but Julius started thinking these two were competing for his attention. The one who held his jewels could easily teach him new tricks, while the other was needed to flirt with Death. How could I possibly decide?

The one between his legs did not sit idly by while his loyalties were divided. She once again slid her tongue onto the shaft of his penis and for the first time, he became aware of how cold it was. He was perplexed, but only for a second given how she chose that moment to bite down hard where the head met the shaft.

The pain made him sit up straight as though waking up from a nightmare. In a way it was, since his partner had changed to the toga-wearing baby vamp. In the distance, he still heard his Indian roaring to life. Someone’s messing with my baby!

Despite the low-light conditions, he could see that her lips were covered in thick blood. The baby vamp licked her lips, smiled, and watched as her partner cringed.

“I wanted you to know first-hand what I will do to you if you ever lose,” Thelma said.

Julius looked confused, that is until he looked down and saw what remained of his penis. That little love nibble had gone in rather deep to be sure, and yet he only experienced a twinge of pain. Truthfully, he should have been rolling around on the ground in agony with blood pissing everywhere!

“However, I’d rather wish you’d concentrate on the perks of winning a race,” Thelma said.

This time when Julius looked down, he found no wounds of any kind. Had all that been a dream? Am I still dreaming?

“Race?” Julius asked.

Curious how he should focus on the word race above all others. Most men were more interested in the perks to be had and what they needed to do to get them. Especially when faced with a partner of such skill.

“You’re going to be my charioteer,” Thelma replied.

“What the hell is a charioteer?” Julius asked.

The pale skinned woman had changed. Her cheeks were full of a healthy blush that made her seem more youthful and innocent. Julius was not stupid enough to believe her personality changed to match. Admittedly, he now found it difficult to avoid thinking about those perks.

“How cute,” she said like a mother would say to a silly child. “You’ll be racing in a Roman chariot behind two steel steeds in our recreation of the Circus Maximus.”

In the back of his mind, he remembered hearing something about chariots. Some sort of open canopy cart pulled by horses at great speeds. He did not hear the sounds of horses nearby but rather picked up the sound of his engine being worked on.

“Your steeds will be two equally matched motorcycles. We already have your cherished bike here and fortunately found a matching model,” Thelma said as though answering his question.

Julius pictured being dressed in funny garbs and then getting onto a chariot towed by two powerful Indians. The idea of whipping around a corner with that type of rig electrified the air. This might just be the ticket to leave the boredom behind.

“What if I refuse to race?” Julius asked while trying to conceal his excitement.

Thelma saw right through him; there was no way he would miss out on a chance to try and cheat death. This was not her first time sponsoring a chariot and she knew that a firm hand was needed.

She moved in close to him, close enough that he unconsciously recoiled away. The baby vamp persisted, forcing herself on top of him and pinning his arms down onto the cold floor. There was no way that anyone could be that strong, especially when they looked to be so dainty. Nevertheless, he was pinned down, and could never muster the strength to resist her.

“Do you think fellatio or a circumcision are the best I can do,” Thelma asked.

Her lips brushed against his ear and radiated with warmth. Julius was terrified by the amount of control this one had over him.

“You win and you will have a legion of women fighting to share your bed,” Thelma said in a sensual voice. “You win a thousand races, becoming a miliarius, and I will make you experience pleasures you never thought possible,” she added with her deep and rapturous voice.

Julius had to admit that this was one hell of a perk. If she could do that with her tongue, it was impossible to imagine what the whole of her body was capable of doing. Could he even survive such an experience? She’ll make sure I do.

“If you lose a race or ever cross me,” Thelma said trailing off.

Julius knew that some things were better left to the imagination. If he was unable to comprehend the sheer pleasures she promised, then he was equally incapable of picturing her darker side. Besides, he had already experienced a taste and rather hoped he never had to think of that again.

The baby vamp winked and pulled away, walking with a sway that made him drool. Despite the mind fuck, Julius would win for the chance of pushing the limits with her. How desperate is that?

Once out of sight, the Indian roared to life, and he understood what needed to be done.

“Yes. Time to plan an escape,” Julius said.

May 21st 1921

Deal with the body, and I will make sure the family is taken care of,” Max said over the blower.

Just ducky. One of their younger guests had just killed a local. Apparently, the man had commented on how cute and adorable the child was. Alas, this turned out to be a sore point for the five-hundred-year-old child. In five centuries, one would think their guest might have learned a bit of tolerance.

Max pressed on the toggle several times until Mavis spoke, “Operator. How may I direct your call?”

“Administration please, Mavis,” Max said quickly.

Tonight, the concierge had no desire to deal with Thelma from Administration. While she had been the focus of his infatuation for centuries, he was not going to enjoy her games. She enjoyed nothing more than reminding him of how young and inexperienced he was. Of course, her latest winning streak in the games did little to bring out her best qualities.

Thelma managed to find herself a ringer in the races, the competition which took The Grand by storm. Some of the busiest clip-joints turned into ghost towns when the races were on. Understandable, since many of the guests had grown up on those races. This was a flash from the past with the added flair of modern carnage.

These races were faster, more gruelling, and the deaths much more spectacular than times of old. Max should know since he had been a charioteer and was just shy of a thousand victories before being turned. Lifespans were pitifully short; charioteers who lived into their forties were almost unheard of.

“Administration. Thelma speaking,” Max heard on the line which made his stomach queasy.

“Another local bought it tonight,” Max said over the line.

The concierge was certain that their resident snoop, Mavis, was listening. Every so often the peanut gallery would utter a gasp or a giggle, especially when Thelma was in a particularly biting mood.

“Cecil is dealing with the evidence?” Thelma asked since she loved to poke holes in his aura of competence.

“Of course,” Max said in reply, not giving up an inch.

It was hard to imagine how someone like Max could take Thelma’s abuse, yet, he continued to hope that one day she would return his affections. In truth, like all matters of love and war, the answer was nuanced and complex.

There were many truths, and for one, he loved the way she looked. Thelma reminded him of a rendition of Andromeda: her dark curly hair, pale skin, and rounded features. Perhaps it was not in style, but nothing evoked desire in him more readily than she.

“We need to make sure that the family is supported,” Max said in an attempt to dominate the conversation.

“The usual, then,” Thelma said. “Newspaper articles on how the family will miss them while hinting they ran off for greener pastures. Monthly payments made to the spouse to support their bastard children?”

“Make sure the wife lands a job here,” Max said in hopes of catching her off guard.

“You think she’s that desperate?” Thelma asked.

Good question. While there were a few who were desperate, many preferred starvation. Not that Max could blame them, this was another screw up on their part and one that was sure to worsen relations.

“It’s worth a try. If we can keep her gainfully employed it might actually smooth things over,” Max said.

“Not like having the bulk of the town’s public service in our pocket has done much on that account,” she said nonchalantly. Thelma added, “Speaking of pockets, mine should be getting pretty deep soon.”

There it is. Thelma had brought up the races to rub his face in it. Next week, if her charioteer won, he would become a miliarius. The potential winnings alone could easily ensure a comfortable life for the next couple of centuries. Patrons were betting big on this race and a lot of money was riding on that circus freak.

“You must be thrilled,” Max said while the blood in his veins went ice cold.

“Of course, I am. You know what that means?” Themla teased.

Sure enough, Mavis made a muffled gasp, but Max ignored it. Max knew exactly what she meant by that statement. Nothing got under his skin more than the idea of a mere child ending up with his dream gal. Perhaps I should do something to keep that from happening?

“Are you going to leave this one breathing?” Max asked with a chuckle.

Max had been lying to clients for a long time, and it was difficult to catch him faking a laugh. Some of the clients here were very rich and powerful; some even had armies and arsenals that made nation states envious. It served him well to keep a smile, no matter the abuse.

“I just might,” Thelma said and hung up.

Max did not linger on those words. Instead, an idea popped into his mind, one so fiendish that it might actually work.

“Mavis, get me Cecil,” Max said.

In the background, he heard the operator scrambling to disconnect him before attempting to reach Cecil. Clearly, she had been caught off guard, which made him smile.

“You have Cecil on the line,” Mavis said nervously.

“Cecil,” Max said over the line, “I need a favour.”

May 30th 1921

Oh yeah, baby. Just like that,” Julius said while holding back.

His partner never replied. Instead, he heard a series of slurps and pops. Julius opened his eyes and looked down to find a blond sporting a fashionable bob moving up and down over his shaft. He could not help but feel disappointed.

Mind you, if he won the race tonight, he would get to see if his patron was true to her word. She had never told him her name, but the hotel staff referred to her as Thelma. Not a very pretty name, but the things Thelma promised made that easy to overlook.

Julius still longed for that feather who used to attend his shows. He had not seen those dark eyes since his days in the circus and yet he looked out for her at every race.

Sure, the countless notches on his bedpost were a nice touch, but somehow, he felt connected to the feather. They had never met and yet he would gladly give up the wilds Thelma promised just to be with her. How weird is that?

Julius’ breathing quickened and then he grunted. Before the tarte pulled away, he used both of his hands to keep her head down. Tonight, he was not interested in getting any stains on his red uniform, so she swallowed every ounce.

Without another word, the girl left, and he finished getting dressed. The uniform made him feel like a clown but the audience insisted on authenticity. They said he looked like a distinguished Centurion, but Julius thought he would be right at home with a bull chasing him around the ring.

“To each their own,” Julius said.

Before leaving, Julius took a long swig of booze. He had to admit, when they liked you this joint made every attempt to keep you comfortable, fed and entertained. This place sure was ritzy even if he could not leave nor get an outside view. Still, a nice set of tits and ass did more to get a rise out of him then leafy trees or a sunset.

God, I need a change of pace! Last time all of the other racers had each died in horrible ways. One went into the wall early after their first turn and disintegrated along with his chariot. Another poor soul ended up being dragged along the track while his bikes sped into the wall. The only thing left of him was that red streak…

Despite his being in constant danger, his mind was dull. How much adrenaline did he need pumping through his veins to feel alive? What would it take to get that natural high without resorting to coffin varnish? I hope Thelma’s magic fingers are what the doctor ordered…

“Okay, let’s do this,” Julius said.

At that moment, an envelope appeared from under his door. Julius stared at the thing for a while looking dumbfounded. He had been trying for months to get some sort of plan together and the last piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.

It was unbelievably hard to get people to help. Most feared repercussions that came with crossing the hotel’s establishment. Those who were less scrupulous tended to disappear. Over the past few months, he had made contact with someone within the hotel’s staff, one who was able to smuggle in information such as maps and blueprints.

With one practised motion, he tore open the envelope. Inside he found a room service menu, with the roast beef circled. Julius smiled because that was exactly what he ordered.

* * * *

Once his Indian roared to life, everything was right in the world. Times had been tough for the two of them, but as long as her engine purred like a kitten, Julius knew they would make it. When the engine sputtered, momentarily, he felt anxious. I hope my luck holds.

Nonetheless, Julius knew exactly what to say, “Hush now baby.”

A racer from the white faction glared at him. Julius had never seen this one. He did not have the hands associated with those who lived a hard life. He seemed short and stocky and had an air of authority that they normally beat out of you here. Julius could not help but hate the man.

The white rider’s bikes started with a purr, even Julius was impressed by the sheer power those engines put out. Whoever was backing this driver had not spared any expense in having the charioteer kitted-out. The driver’s helmet, armour and even the chariot were new. He’s going to be the one to beat.

Meanwhile, his teammate started up his engines. Julius took one look and saw a youth that could scarcely be called a man. Just then, he experienced a tinge of guilt for what would soon happen.

When the last racer’s engines roared, they immediately sputtered out. A team of mechanics converged on the rig and did just enough to keep the engines going. The man in white was nervous, jittery and on the verge of flying apart at the seams. Julius smiled because this narrowed down his competition considerably.

While he saw the track, there was no opportunity to explore. They had built this recreation of the Circus Maximus within the network of caves. This created the illusion that escape was difficult if not impossible.

The racers were brought in from a birdcage that dropped out from the heavens. Julius guessed long ago that the bikes and spectators came from alternate entrances. His order of roast beef told him that equipment was brought in through an access tunnel.

Julius looked ahead and in the distance saw the stands. People were cheering, while some wore white, the bulk of the audience wore red. It was easy to forget that he was a prisoner here, especially when considering the perks. Heck, my suite is bigger than any home I ever lived in…

In the middle of the stands, his eyes focused on a booth that protruded from the rest. He never got a good look at the man, but knew that he would soon drop a handkerchief and start the race. Julius heard the throttle pickup on his Indian, just as his muscles tensed.

Once the gates flung open, all four racers yanked back hard on the reigns. This opened the throttle to full which caused the rear wheels to spin. Dust and dirt were launched behind them while their wheels gained traction. Suddenly all four racers were out of the gate.

Races like this were beginning to gain traction throughout the country; a craze would soon sweep the nation. Normally, bikes were relegated to one gear and while the racers controlled the throttle, they were limited in acceleration or top speed. However, the grease monkeys here had managed to wire in some sort of automatic shifter. Not only did it permit great acceleration, but it also permitted the bikes to reach ridiculous speeds as well. They could have probably wired in the brakes, but what would be the fun in that?

All four racers converged to the inside lane of the course, flirting with the large concrete barrier in the middle that Julius referred to as the spine. This was prime racing territory and anyone who managed to beat the rest of the group to the inside lane had the advantage. That is, unless they were accidentally thrown into the spine.

Nervous Nellie had somehow managed to get a jump on the rest of them. Julius kept a firm grip on the reins but relaxed on the right. The bike on the right reduced its throttle, slowed down, and drifted slowly in that direction. His Indians quickly overcame the distance between him and the nervous white. Once side-by-side, Julius dropped all tension on the right reign. The change in throttle sent him barrelling towards his opponent’s chariot.

The other driver was inexperienced and did not expect an early attack. The impact sent him directly into the spine which broke the harness holding the bikes together. Free from their shackles, they veered off in separate directions. Given the speed and velocity of the bikes, they remained upright at full throttle. The reins tightened around the man’s waist until it severed his spine.

The crowd went wild as blood shot up into the air along with a plume of dust. Once the dust settled, they could see the carnage of tonight’s first victim. Now it was two-to-one; the odds were not good for his competition.

Julius passed by the egg marker and got ready. The moment his bikes cleared the pillars, he dropped throttle on the right bike while pulling as hard on the left. The bikes resisted the change, but held together in their harness and forced the chariot into a hard turn. He braced himself as the chariot’s wheels skidded across the dirt.

When he was nearly through this turn, Julius felt an impact the force of which sent him into a tailspin that nearly ejected him from the chariot. Had the hit occurred a second before, he would have been six feet under.

The crowd booed and hissed while some threw in caltrops and spiked toys to sabotage the lead chariots. The pressure was mounting and if he lost the race or worse, missed his opportunity to escape there would be hell to pay. These aren’t the kind of people who like losing a bet!

When the world settled, Julius got a better sense of what had happened. Ahead, he saw the remaining white, and his teammate close behind. Julius pulled on the reins and made his bikes charge ahead. He was not going to let that stand… Obviously, Mister White has experience racing chariots.

By the time he reached the dolphin, the other two were already in their turn. His Indian was revving high, but knowing that she could take it, he kept pushing even as he began his turn. Now he was within spitting distance of his teammate and the time was right.

He continued to push the engines, gaining on the other red charioteer. The closer he got, the easier it was to overtake. Once they reached the egg, his two bikes were pushing against the other’s chariot.

Julius saw the young man take his hands off the reins in an attempt to slow down, but Julius was not about to let that happen. He pulled on the reins even as their bikes pushed the hapless charioteer past the marker. Only once they were within fifty feet of the wall did Julius force his chariot into a hard turn.

While Julius moved away from the wall, his teammate collided head-on. On impact, a ball of fire engulfed the rider and bathed the cavernous room in red. The crowd collectively gasped in shock, even as rock and debris washed over them. When the dust settled, there was a gaping hole to freedom.

He continued his hard turn, one that slowed him down considerably. By the time he faced the hole, Mister White was already well past the halfway mark on the spine. With his opportunity so close at hand, Julius revved up both bikes. Now’s the time to thread the needle to freedom!

Fortunately, the blast had been large enough to incinerate most of the potential debris, so Julius was able to avoid the larger wreckage before going through the incision. Just as he crossed the threshold, the headlights came to life, and he saw the remnants of an old mine. Wooden supports blurred past him while he kept the chariot in the centre of the tunnel.

Meanwhile, Julius became aware of the sounds of something approaching. He chanced a moment of inattention to look over his shoulder. Fuck! Mister White is catching up!

Surprised, Julius pulled on both reins as hard as he could, even while his Indian whined in opposition. He knew full well that the old gal had the horsepower, but there were limits to the stresses the engines could handle. Julius considered letting the rider catch up and take his chances, but just ahead, he spotted a woman in a long flowing white dress with raven black hair.

The feather had returned to greet him! With hope renewed, he ignored his Indian’s protests, pushing the bikes harder even as smoke billowed out from the engine’s casing.

From behind, Mister White continued to advance, albeit at a slower pace. Julius’ heart was racing, adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his knuckles went white from gripping his reins. Fuck yeah! That’s exactly what I need!

He was going to make it. Just a quarter-mile more. The Indian’s engine whined loudly while they strained to maintain this speed.

“I know, baby. Just hold on!” Julius exclaimed!

Without realising, Mister White had pulled up alongside Julius. His bikes were nowhere near as strained as his. The man simply smiled, saluted then released his grip on the reins.

Dumbfounded, Julius froze, failing to realise how both his bikes had gone silent. In that moment, Julius was thrown violently from the chariot, sailing over the Indians while tethered to the reins. I placed my faith in the wrong Indian!

Mister White coasted his chariot alongside. Not a word was uttered, but Julius knew he had missed a critical detail when he first pegged the man. This racer carried a falx, a curved knife that charioteers used to cut themselves free from their reins.

His sponsor had mentioned it before. Despite his wins, he was never trusted with a weapon and yet this one wore the blade proudly. It was obvious this was not someone who had been abducted and forced to race. No! This man works at The Grand.

The rest was a blur. First came a flash of steel, then his head hovered even as he heard a loud thump. With the rest of his body freed from the tyranny of his head, it permitted him one last glimpse at his corpse before embracing oblivion.

* * * *

Max dropped his helmet on the counter then placed his gloves overtop. He looked out from the concierge’s desk while people sauntered up from the Circus Maximus below. He saw plenty of disappointed faces tonight and chances were he had something to do with it. No matter. The bartenders will see an uptake in business and that makes the Boss happy.

The special ring on the blower caught his attention. He looked down at the receiver, the black Bakelite marvel of technology that linked him to the various tendrils that bound The Grand. I think I know who it might be…

“Operator,” Mavis said. “I have Cecil on the line for you.”

Max sighed in relief and replied, “Go ahead.”

There was a brief pause while the lines were patched through. Mavis proved herself to be lightning fast when it came to such tasks.

“Hey,” Cecil said. “The clean-up’s under way. We expect the track and walls to be repaired by the end of the week.”

“Excellent,” Max said while keeping his eyes on any passer-by. “Thank you for your quick response on the matter.”

“Anytime,” Cecil replied before the line went dead.

In truth, the response had been quick because it was planned. Max had known about the charioteer’s plans to escape and made sure that the opportunity was made available. Cecil then served as the go-between for months. Initially, he provided the hope of escape while never delivering on the promise.

When Thelma started bragging about this particular rider, he decided to up the ante. Cecil set the plan in motion and kept Max appraised. Meanwhile, Max took the opportunity to brush up on modern chariot racing. There was something to be said about getting her attention this way. She must have lost a hefty sum when he lost his head.

He looked over the Grand Hall and stared at the fountain. Max found the scene serene, a way for him to calm down, that is, until Thelma popped out from behind. This development left him conflicted. For one, there was a stunningly beautiful woman approaching his desk while wearing fashionable Roman garb. That look certainly made him weak in the knees.

However, he had crossed her and women tended to hold a grudge. So why did her smile seem to be warm and genuine? Had she placed a bomb at the front desk and wanted to see the whites of his eyes before detonating? I wouldn’t put it past her, she’s done worse…

“Maximus,” Thelma said.

The concierge looked at his helmet but decided it would do little to protect him from her wrath. Instead, he kept a warm smile on his face, a winner’s smile. After all, if he was going to go, he may as well do it in style.

“You made me a tonne of money,” Thelma said, leaving Max thoroughly confused.

“Did I now?” Max asked.

“Yes, you did,” Thelma confirmed.

Max considered ducking under the counter. Either she was about to plunge a stake through his heart or there was a sharpshooter in the room that was about to take his head clean off. Unless…

“You bet on me winning?” Max asked.

Thelma leaned in closer; her eyes locked onto his before she kissed him on the cheek. The touch of those sensual lips sent an electric shock pulsating throughout his body. Why does she affect me so?

“Good boy,” she said in a purposefully derogatory tone. “You’re finally clued in.”

Now that was the woman he knew and loved! Therefore, Thelma must have caught wind of his plan and saw the writing on the wall. The death of her rider was easily mitigated by betting big on Max.

“So, that makes you a miliarius now,” Thelma stated with a deep and raspy voice.

Max had never considered that, but it was true. He had been one race away from becoming a miliarius when he lived and breathed. However, he had been given the choice of eternal life in exchange for rigging his last race.

His death upset the balance and ultimately propelled the blue and green teams into legend. Someone had made a lot of money on that matter and now Maximus wondered if Thelma, known as Aeliana back then, had been involved.

“I never thought of it, but I believe it does,” Max said slyly.

Thelma leaned in for another kiss, but this time it was straight on the lips. The longer the kiss lasted, the more Max’s inhibitions melted away. Once she pulled away, his eyes were wide and vacant.

She chuckled before saying, “I had my heart set on enjoying a miliarius all morning.”

Thelma slid a key casually over the counter. Max recognised it as being one of the staff suites, which he did not have copies of. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

“I assume you’re up to the challenge?” Thelma confirmed before winking.

Before Max had a chance to reply, she was already on her way down. Maximus looked around, shrugged then followed. The hotel would still be standing by the time they were finished making the bed shake.

September 9th 1948

John accidentally slammed the door on the way out of the records room. The shock shook the stove and dislodged a picture that had partially melted to the top of the stove. While it glided down to the floor, John peeked inside to make sure nothing had been disturbed. It was at that moment he noticed the picture.

Curious, John picked it up and saw something fantastical. In the shot, he saw two Roman chariots pulled by motorcycles during a night-time race. What a bizarre combination, he thought, before flipping over the photograph to find a date inscribed.

“May thirtieth nineteen-twenty-one,” John read aloud.

With nothing more to go on, John shrugged while pocketing the picture. Even if he never found any case files for this event…the shot is pretty snazzy!

CHAPTER 11

SIAMESE DREAMS

July 16th 1925

It was said there was a sucker born every minute. For Morris Little, this expression was a way of life, since people had no trouble pegging him as a sad sap.

Morris was also a bit of a nervous mouse when it came to confrontation. He evaded at every opportunity and was a firm believer that retreat was always the best option. This explained why he sold bibles door-to-door. When selling the word of God, folks saved their most colourful language until after he left.

Morris had to admit it. The last couple of years had been prosperous, though not a challenge when his sales territory included the Bible belt. When entering a new town, he made sure to attend church so the locals would take notice of a fresh face. It turns out people are more willing to open their pocketbooks for one of their own.

Rumours of his methods quickly circulated, and many emulated his strategy. One unscrupulous fellow even went so far as to steal Morris’ itinerary. The man would arrive in town a week before and by the time Morris got there, sales had dried up.

Had Morris confronted the man or lodged a complaint, he might have been able to hold onto the territory. Despite his wife’s advice, he retreated and soon discovered that selling bibles out West was not nearly as rewarding.

This stop had been an unmitigated disaster; people treated him as though he were some sort of leper. Those he encountered would either ignore him or glare. Why the hostility?

Despite the townsfolk’s reception, he was taken aback by this mountain town’s inherent beauty. Right beside City Hall, he came across a bridge which ran over a cheerful little creek filled with beautiful turquoise coloured water. As the water reflected the sun, he imagined it being a jewel of immeasurable wealth. Alas, like any precious stone, he could only afford to look. His wife, who controlled the purse strings, would certainly attest to that.

As sunset approached, one of the locals spoke up from behind him. What was said threw him off guard, not only because he was caught unawares, but because there was a hint of concern in her voice.

“You should probably get a room for the night,” the black-haired woman said.

“Why is that?” Morris asked.

Unfortunately, the speaker was already a half-block away before he managed to reply. Is she late for the train?

Morris took the advice to heart and inquired at a local inn only to discover there were no vacancies. In a rare act of kindness, the owner offered him a ride to an establishment just outside of town. Since he had little choice, it seemed the sensible thing to do.

When he crossed the golden gates and set eyes on those manicured gardens, a sinking feeling set in. This worsened once he saw the French palatial architecture and the swarm of staff with their freshly pressed uniforms. I can’t afford to spend a minute at The Grand, let alone the night!

Once the car pulled in, a courtier opened the door to let Morris out. The salesman stepped out of the jalopy then looked about, taking in his surroundings. He could hear the flurry of activity within and smell delicious food being prepared in the kitchen. His senses came alive and Morris prayed that he would be able to spend the night.

When a courtier tried to open the driver side door, the owner raised his hand in protest then rolled down his window to speak. After a brief exchange of words, the courtier nodded then pulled out Morris’ luggage, including a large steamer trunk filled with bibles. He’s going to expect a tip for that! Meanwhile, Morris was led to the main door and upon crossing the threshold, was immediately taken aback by the commanding view.

At both ends of the balcony, he saw curved staircases that wound down to the marble floor below. Above, he saw a vaulted ceiling, moulded, and painted similarly to The Grand Central Station in New York City. He vividly remembered losing track of time, mesmerised by the artwork there, and worried that he would do so again.

“Sir,” the courtier asked.

Morris followed the man while looking at the fountain and noticed how this structure had wings that led deeper into the hotel. Based on the sounds, it was obvious these led to ballrooms, clip-joints, gin mills and restaurants.

Startled, Morris was drawn by the sound but lost all interest when his eyes fell upon the breathtaking view of the valley. From this vantage point, he witnessed the sunlight retreating from the valley.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Max asked, leaving Morris confused as to how he made it to the front desk.

At the desk, Morris was faced with a smooth-faced man who sported a thin moustache which agreed with the current fashion. Max stood tall. Even in his black and white uniform, Morris was left with the odd impression of seeing an old soldier standing guard. That all changed once a smile fell upon his lips which made his entire face glow.

“It sure is,” Morris said while watching a group of flappers cross the hall.

There was one in particular who caught his eye, but not because of her stunning beauty. There were others who were both more youthful and beautiful. This one had an exotic quality to her that no other had. Her copper skin and makeup were not contemporary but nonetheless alluring. When she winked, Morris’ heart skipped a beat and was soon followed by a tinge of guilt.

“She sure is,” Max said, then chuckled while waiting for the man to recover.

“Sorry. I need a room,” Morris said while thinking about having a cold shower.

That is, if he could afford the time necessary for him to turn on the taps! But rattling around in his brain, Morris heard his grandmother telling him not to take any wooden nickels, a colourful way of saying not to do anything stupid.

Morris hesitated at first but said, “I’m not sure if I can afford the rates.”

The concierge looked him over, letting the smile vanish. A moment later, his smile grew wide and warm. It seemed he had been teasing the poor man.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too worried about that. We have rooms that suit everyone’s needs here at The Grand,” the man said.

Morris doubted that very much, so he said, “No need for anything fancy.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” Max said while retrieving a key from behind the desk.

“Here you go. Room three-twenty-seven, in the East wing. That is to your left, but this lobby boy will show you to your room,” the concierge recited.

As though by magic, a young man appeared, stood at attention then headed towards Morris’ room. Morris followed the young man and hoped he had enough dough to cover the tab. What’s the worst they could do to me? Kick me out?

* * * *

The bed was comfortable. There was plenty of room and it had a splendid view of the valley floor. It was better than what was offered in town, but one had to expect class when dealing with hotels of this calibre. Why’d they let me in?

Thoughts soon turned to that flapper he saw earlier. He could not explain the hold she had over him, nor how her dark skin and piercing eyes melted away his every inhibition. Morris was not sure why his wife of many years meant nothing to him at this moment. At least, not when compared to this exotic creature.

What is wrong with me, Morris wondered.

His infatuation left him feeling intoxicated. Was he on the precipice of insanity? What was a man to do? Should I run for a priest? Run for my life? What am I running from exactly?

Was it silly to be afraid? Some people were deathly afraid of being locked in a room. He had seen more than one lady screech at the sight of a mouse. Was that really fear? This must be something more primal? Is this shame for having the urges of a schoolboy stuck on his teacher?

A small part of him wanted to seek out the doll and strike up a conversation. What if the lady had a daddy? Morris was certain that guests were capable of paying for their stay. Tired of these questions, he retreated, certain in the fact that avoidance would serve him best.

His convictions were soon put to the test; everywhere he went, the lady was there. It was uncanny, considering fate could only carry you so far. When he came across the pool, she was there, pulling her sleek chassis out from the water while her bathing suit glistened. They again crossed paths at a clip-joint where she wore a long blouse with a short knee-duster while hoofing it on the dance floor.

The lady appeared while he waited for his meal, which made him cringe because the prices were not listed. With every glance, his infatuation grew at the expense of his morals. How could a married man find himself slack jawed from the sight of a lady? What power of persuasion did she possess? Why do I feel like a love-struck boy who kissed a girl for the first time?

Morris considered giving up, walking over, and taking a knee before her to beg for her attention. Fear poisoned his mind while doubt took hold, so he ran away and left behind a confused waiter.

Morris wandered the hotel until he found a lonely little gin mill in the West wing. The bartender was quietly polishing the brass while some Jane played a tune on The Grand piano.

“A piano bar,” Morris said.

Given how quiet this part of the hotel was, it seemed like the perfect place to hold out, the ideal place to sit down, listen to this siren’s songs while he got spifflicated. Given the nature of this hotel, he had no doubt that the staff would drag his carcass back to his room once he fell unconscious. Tomorrow morning, he would wake up from a nasty hangover, book a passage out of town then try his luck elsewhere.

No sooner did the bartender serve him his first shot of bourbon, did that woman show up from out of the ether. To make things worse, she chose a stool next to his! What’s a man to do?

This was not a gilded cage; he had the ability to get up and walk out. To be a proper gentleman, he only needed to excuse himself before leaving, trip over his words, and be humiliated for years to come. Easy peasy, nice and easy.

Did he have the willpower to remain where he was and ignore her? That’s about as safe as a mouse waking up the cat by pulling out its whiskers!

From behind the comfort of his drink, the salesman dared a peek. He was not sure when she had the time, but she was wearing a different outfit. While her loose-fitting clothing just seemed to flow, it did little to hide the natural curves of her body. How can an outfit be so arousing?

“It is customary to introduce yourself before undressing a lady with your eyes,” the woman said in an accented voice.

Somehow, this little detail further added to the allure. With wide eyes and a gaping jaw, Morris turned to face her while the hamster in his brain scrambled furiously to power the speech circuits of his mind.

“B-B-But,” Morris replied, sounding like a broken record.

At that moment, he desired nothing more than to crawl out of his skin and find himself a nice deep hole to hide in. Why does my brain shut down when the pressure is on?

The woman edged closer, then, with a feline grace, placed a finger over his lips and then hushed him. Why was it that everyone knew how to exploit a pushover?

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth, the line ran through Morris’ mind.

Though, for all the potency the words of ‘Matthew 5:5’ had, it did nothing to change his lot in life. Perhaps it’s time to assert myself?

“But I wasn’t doing that!” Morris exclaimed.

A trifle too late, but she did not seem to care. Instead, she smiled warmly, making Morris wonder if he had died and gone to heaven. That would certainly explain the luxury of his surroundings and exquisite beauty of the women.

“Then what were you doing?” she asked while her voice somehow echoed throughout his head. She looked him over inquisitively then added, “Perhaps this was nothing more than an innocent misunderstanding?”

The salesman stared longingly at her while he thought of ways to redeem himself. Should I apologise for being less than a gentleman?

In his mind, he imagined himself saying, “Of course, madam; it has all been a grave misunderstanding as I would never presume to trespass on a lady such as you.”

What part of him was capable of conjuring up such a coherent and well-spoken line? In reality, what he said turned out to be far less endearing. It sounded more like a series of grunts that would take a crack team of codebreakers months to decipher. To save time, a slap across the face would have served her well. Instead, she leaned in so close that her body heat turned his skin to gooseflesh.

The lady did not stop there, she moved in close enough so he could feel her lips tremble while she said, “Two, one, and three.”

Without another word, she got up then dropped more than enough money to cover his tab. When she left, both the bartender and Morris looked at each other with surprise then shrugged.

It took him awhile for the hamster wheel to turn fast enough so he could put two and two together. His mind was in a daze, his face tingled from her proximity, and his drawers were uncomfortably tight. How did that happen?

Nowhere in his mind did his wife figure into the equation. How would she react to this offer? What’s her name again?

He shot out of the bar like an arrow, pushing his way into the Grand Hall while looking for a glimpse of this woman. He saw her near the end of the hall just as she was about to head downstairs.

Without hesitation, he followed suit, moving quick as a flash. His stomach sank to the bottom of his toes when she disappeared from sight.

After a mad dash down, Morris felt relief once he set eyes on her again. What a rise he had when she turned around long enough to blow him a kiss! It’s so sweet that she beckons me!

He did follow, keeping a distance at first but he found it difficult to keep apart. By the time they neared her room, he and this mystery woman were practically walking hand in hand.

* * * *

Was he under some sort of spell? Morris’ hand glided over her gams then onto the curves of her hips before fumbling the attempt to take off her knee-duster. Despite his grievous ineptitude, the woman did not laugh or shirk away. This must be a dream?

Her sweet lips beckoned and soon they were locked in an embrace. When his tongue found its way through her parted lips, he found something that was off. Why did it feel like he was licking sandpaper? When considering the young and willing partner, Morris decided he could easily live with such a flaw.

Without notice, she pushed him away and then said, “Bank’s closed.”

Morris stood there dumbfounded, staring as she retreated behind a privacy screen. The panels were made of a thin material that enabled him to see her silhouette. Morris watched while her clothes puddled to the ground. Excitement grew along with the anticipation, even when her tail stretched out. Wait! What?

Then he heard something familiar, reminding him of his cats back home. It was a peculiar sound, and it grew more pronounced when she reappeared from behind the screen.

What the? Is she purring? Morris wondered.

Certain features had been transformed while she undressed. Her upper lip was split in two, her cheeks were puffy which gave her the appearance of having a snout and her eyes had turned into glowing slits. Those were the eyes of a predator and the notion was reinforced by the presence of claws. This woman then gave him a sickly smile.

Am I prey? Morris wondered.

“Back in my day they used to worship my kind,” she said. “I was their goddess.”

The words just echoed between his ears. Wait! That’s not an illusion?

“There’s only one God!” Morris yelled, but cringed when he saw the look in her eyes.

With one fell swoop, a clawed hand slashed across his chest shredding his suit. When he looked down, Morris saw no bleeding, although his skin was now bare. A draught from the room made that skin feel tingly, but he suspected this was the least of his worries.

“That is the thing with gods… they tend to have egos,” the goddess said while her claws contracted back into her fingertips.

“Your one true God as you know him has the benefit of popularity these days. Before him was Zeus preceded by Apollo and in my day, it was Amun-Ra. They all had a chip on their shoulder until their empires crumbled and their followers flocked elsewhere,” she said in a tone that hinted of nostalgia.

For a moment, Morris chanced to look at the Jane and saw that she had three sets of nipples? What is she?

“Lies!” Morris yelled.

Morris would hold his ground on this matter but never expected her to escalate so quickly. This time, her claws brushed against his left cheek. At first, he felt nothing more than a breeze while her claws glided through his soft flesh. It took time for the blood to flow through the nearly invisible cuts.

Panic set in when a droplet of blood fell from off his chin and splashed onto the marble floor. That panic was quickly subverted once pain registered, hitting him like a sledgehammer.

“I, too, had a great many followers,” she said while fixating on the blood flowing from his wound.

The goddess knew that the human body had a greater concentration of blood vessels in the face, an excellent way to showcase her sadistic ways. If the lady wished it, Morris could heal with nothing more than thin scars serving as a reminder of their encounter. Sadly, that was not what she had in mind.

“Imagine being a warrior, a lioness, and then being relegated to a cat goddess,” she hissed.

The pain dulled the impact of her message, forcing him to focus instead on maintaining pressure on the wound. The goddess lost her patience, so she clawed at his arm and left a long deep gash near his wrist.

When fear overtook all rational thought, Morris ran away into a corner to cower. The goddess walked over casually, her tail moving counter to the sway of her hips. How could those movements entrance Morris so? The smile grew exponentially as she approached.

Once within inches of him, she whispered, “You do know what cats do to mice before they go for the kill?” She laughed before adding, “Or when they get bored?”

Morris realised how he had been lured here. This feline predator had forced him into a corner. For what? To enjoy tormenting me?

Bastet clawed him across the forehead. The gash bled freely and left him blinded. The lady could prolong this game all night if she so desired. Before starting, she would create a few hazards to make things interesting, easily accomplished by shattering a few vases against the floor.

Now Morris was left with an obstacle course, one which she could navigate without issue. This should make this game more interesting, at least for her.

Wait! Why do I have a stiffy?

* * * *

Lewis Hall looked over the valley floor while the sun scorched the land. He supposed Max saw the world differently, but that was only a guess. The concierge knew enough to avoid asking such questions.

Rumours were that most of the special requests for room service were assigned to the night watch. That was one of the many reasons why the day and night staff rarely interacted, which suited him just fine.

The concierge rather enjoyed being with dames that did not view him as food, besides several were receptive to his advances. What other line of work created such bountiful opportunities? Is there a greater pleasure than discovering how far a lady is willing to go?

From the corner of his eye, he saw a Jane exit the birdcage. The concierge recognised her immediately, simply by the way she walked with feline grace. He watched as Lady Bastet approached the front desk, finding the sway in her hips alluring as always.

This time, he noticed her lips were blood red, a sure-fire way to tell that a service call to her room would be required. This was not wholly unexpected, even the day watch had clientele with unique requirements. This one’s an odd bird when it comes to her service calls.

Her dietary requirements were different, at least when compared to most day clients. Truth be told it was more the administrative overhead associated with cleaning up after her. How much of a gratuity will she leave when she checks out?

“Good morning!” Bastet exclaimed while the concierge considered who would be assigned to clean-up.

“Morning, Miss. How can I be of service to you on this fine day?” Lewis asked, while oozing professionalism.

At The Grand, some clients expected formalities, no matter how friendly and colloquial they were in return. Considering some of the dames here could free his head from its shoulders without breaking a sweat…it certainly pays to keep that in mind!

“Oh, you know! I simply must go into town to run some errands,” Bastet said.

Lady Bastet paused long enough to lick some of the blood from her lips. The taste must have agreed with her since it made her face glow.

“I’d very much appreciate it if you could have my suite serviced. It seems I dropped a teapot last night and I’d be devastated if it stained the carpet,” Bastet said.

Lewis was amazed by her insistence to continue with this charade. Especially when considering the establishment…she’s fooling no one.

Lewis played along by saying, “Of course, Madam. We shall send up the maid shortly to scrub that carpet clean for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

There was no reply. Lady Bastet was already on her way out. The concierge mulled it over then thought of the right crew to handle this one.

“Perfect,” Lewis said while looking away from the register to focus on another guest heading his way.

He made a note to have Morris’ room cleared as well. Lewis would be sure to send his compliments to the inn’s owner. As judged by the Lady’s glow, she thoroughly enjoyed her chew toy.

September 14th 1948

John looked through the file and made a note to ensure that Elmer and Ida would not accidentally stumble onto the folders. In the distance, he saw a purple sky gaining ground over the night, a sign that the sun would soon rise.

These files had him baffled, just like the diary had. To think that such a conspiracy could transpire here was unfathomable and yet here was the proof. Despite the uncertainties surrounding these cases, John was certain of three things.

For one, there had been a cover-up to conceal the true cause of death. Even the explanation for Morris Little’s purported demise seemed improbable. A wolf attack was unlikely because those animals did not have retractable claws. Only that type cuts with a razor-like precision.

Whatever attacked Morris had been deliberate and precise, as judged by the look of agony painted on the victim’s face. John believed that torture played a part. To his knowledge animals tended to go right for the kill, whilst Morris’s wounds were systematically placed. Only that type of claw create cuts like that with a razor-like precision.

In one picture, he saw something that looked like a sheath from a house cat’s claw but on a much larger scale. It’s odd that a competent medical examiner would miss that evidence.

Why did they go through so much trouble to cover it up? Only a fool would buy such conclusions. So why try?

That question led him to his second certainty. Those charged with peace and justice in this town had other priorities. These acts were either due to corruption, apathy or outright incompetence; a shame he was unable to tell which.

The last point he dreaded thinking about. Anything this big could not be adequately investigated by one person. To bring someone else into the fold made things easier, but simultaneously increased the risk of being discovered.

John did not know who to approach, if anyone. He was certain that he had no desire to follow Edward’s path. Sanatoriums were not a place people returned from unscathed; had Edward Locke been sane upon his arrival, he likely died a lunatic.

How can the mind survive the trauma of finding that still beating heart? John had to admit he was still disturbed by this find. Even though it was now safely hidden inside his basement floor safe; in the back of his mind, he still heard it beating away.

* * * *

John undressed while the sky shifted from dark purple to pink and red hues. Soon the sun would peek above the mountains. The town would then wake up from its fearful slumber and join him in the waking world.

Today John would consume far more coffee than was healthy. Fortunately, he was known for working late nights, so the additional yawns would go unnoticed.

Once in the bathroom, John stepped into the claw-footed tub, closed the curtains, then turned on the water. Normally he turned on the cold and followed through with the hot to avoid scalding himself. This time he forgot, and that sent a blast of freezing water on his face.

That shock sent him back to his time at sea. It was night, the moon hung overhead, and yet it was difficult to make out the outline of the convoy. He was cold, shivering, tired and miserable.

John thought he saw something at the edge of his vision. It seemed as though a straight line was headed right for the ship. Why don’t I have memories of this? Then all hell broke loose. Out from the starboard quarter, he heard the Coxswain raise the alarm before the sounds of metal and men being torn asunder deafened him.

Warm water running off his face brought him back to reality. Looking down, he witnessed the ravages of cold water on a man’s pride along with the telltale signs of gooseflesh covering all visible skin. I hate these vivid dreams.

Worried that the flow would soon scald him, John turned down the hot water just a notch hoping for a quick response. Instead, it grew so hot that he almost jumped out of the tub. In desperation, he turned down the knob a quick half turn.

For a moment, all was right in the world, then a jet of cold water forced him back into his earlier nightmare. Now he was alone, clinging onto a piece of flotsam while everything reeked of bunker oil and brine. In the distance, John heard sailors calling out for help. John wanted to call out but could not utter a word since his belly was full of fuel.

At that moment he considered surrendering to the depths of the sea. Let that bitch claim his life even though she had gorged on death for far too long, all because of this bloody war and sickly season.

Does another life even matter to this cruel mistress? Would it be meaningless as tears shed in the rain?

In that moment of despair, he saw her. He saw Eleanor’s gentle features before him, wearing that warm smile he often dreamed about. She embraced him and even through the cold of the North Atlantic he felt her body heat which gave him strength.

“Focus, John,” Eleanor said with a voice that somehow managed to rouse a part of him lost in the depths of his demolished soul.

John looked into her eyes, then found himself back in the shower. This time, he yelped from the cold, jumping out of the shower until the water temperature could be adjusted. A quick look down informed him that once properly motivated, any and all effects of the cold could be overcome.

Jumping back into the shower, John felt the warmth against his chest. Given how his earlier vision of Eleanor was so effective in motivating him…it would be a shame to let this opportunity go to waste.

CHAPTER 12

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

September 2nd 1929

People often said that revenge was a dish best served cold. Although the originator of that turn of phrase probably never came across those who possessed the chill touch of the grave.

Either way, Clara was not sold on the idea, considering that the memory of a corpse bursting into flames was so near and dear to her heart. It was the heat from those flames that permitted her to keep going until the sun claimed its dominion over the land.

Revenge for whom or for what? Clara wondered.

Clara wondered why she considered her vocation a form of revenge. Her father died working the coal mines while her mother followed suit years later. I have no desire to avenge their deaths.

The hunter was also not sure which of their deaths had been the most traumatic. Was it watching one’s father grow weaker until he could barely get up from bed? She remembered how he would cough up black blood. They eventually found him in the outhouse stiff and blue. Somehow, he managed to make it there during the night but never made it back.

Or was it her mother’s death which had been more traumatic? A slower and more prolonged death, which brought about skin lesions, rashes and the eventual collapse of the mind. Even though she had gone blind near the end and appeared leprous, Clara remembered how men would still come around looking for her services. I really hoped they would catch whatever my mother had.

After her death, Clara and her two sisters went their separate ways. That had been her first time on a train and the last time she ever saw them again.

She ended up at some orphanage run by sisters from a local convent. Her arrival marked her first exposure to both schooling and religious studies. These had been luxuries that her family could ill afford since it was difficult to justify higher learning when one had to give up a meal or lose the roof over their heads to provide it.

Clara readily embraced her new way of life, giving in to her thirst for knowledge. She further utilised what she learned to make life difficult for the sisters.

There were other children who enjoyed pushing the boundaries as well, but Clara quickly learned how to avoid the nuns’ wrath. Judgements are only rendered to those unlucky enough to get caught…

Not only did this push Clara to conceal her movements, but it made her escapades much more elaborate. There was nothing more rewarding than seeing Sister Agnes’ eyes dart from child-to-child in another failed attempt to root out the culprit.

On occasion, Clara would get caught in the act, although that was normally part of the plan. She would take her lashings and pray or fast as required. All the while, she would plot her next bout of defiance. Getting caught made them underestimate my capability for mischief…

* * * *

During her second year at the orphanage, Clara noticed how often Father Michael, the school’s resident priest, was called away. The man would disappear for days or even weeks at a time without raising suspicion. For a mischievous little girl, the concept of being able to avoid consequences had some allure.

Motivated to discover his secrets, Clara shadowed the man. It seemed to be easy enough since he probably never considered that someone would follow him. Such thoughts must have been a foreign concept for those who lived under the watchful eye of their God, especially for those who had given a vow of obedience to him.

In anticipation of his destination, Clara went ahead and hid in his quarters. She was reminded that those who were devout were notorious for remaining covered at all times. Clara once caught a sister flaying herself as she bathed, all in an effort to keep impure thoughts from her mind. She later learned that was the reason they adopted the habit. They did it to keep aspects of themselves which might elicit any impure thoughts hidden. Some orders were more strict, such as the nuns who taught at this school. They would go so far as to bathe clothed to avoid being seduced by their own bodies.

Clara caught no more than a glimpse of his scar-riddled back. It had been long enough for her to know that these scars had not been left by a whip, paddle or any other form of corporal punishment. There was an animalistic quality to the scarring…what kind of animal is capable of inflicting those?

While most assumed they were alone once in their quarters, this priest surprised her. So much so that it blew her earlier theories out of the water.

“It is not wise to enter the house of God with impure thoughts,” Father Michael said calmly using the voice he reserved for his sleep-inducing sermons.

Clara did not say a word; she even held her breath in an effort to remain undetected. He never turned back to look, nor did Clara see any reflective surfaces in the room. Her presence should have remained undetected.

“You have been following me all morning, child,” Father Michael added.

Clara knew that she had been discovered which made it futile to continue on with this game. It was obvious that he knew; the question was, how?

“Curious,” Clara replied while she mulled over her initial response. She then thought it best to add for good measure, “Father.”

“Curious, child?” Father Michael asked while continuing to change.

Clara noted how these new clothes were not a priest’s garbs. The more Clara questioned this situation, the more curiosity swelled within.

“Why does a man of the cloth disappear for days on end? Or the origin of your scars and your more recent wounds?” she asked despite that being a wild guess.

So why not turn the tables and evade his attempts at an inquisition? That tactic was much easier to handle than constant evasion.

Once again, she threw in, “Father,” as a belated mark of respect.

“The sisters often mention how bright you are,” Father Michael said.

Clara wondered why he dropped the formality of calling her child. Father Michael turned around then knelt to get a better view of her. It was the first time she had looked into his eyes, steel-grey and full of life, just like hers.

“Clever enough to stay out of sight,” the priest said, which was quickly followed by a warm smile. “Quick enough to ask questions that would provide you with valuable insight.”

Before she could reply, he raised his hand to interrupt. This confused Clara because the room was silent. There were no sounds to be heard, inside or out. Was this a veiled attempt at making fun of her? Is he trying to teach me a lesson?

That answer came once the door was torn from its hinges. After the dust settled, Clara saw a woman of intense beauty. Clara had no words to describe her, only that she was as beautiful as Clara imagined angels to be.

Father Michael, seemed bewitched, unable to think nor focus. At first, she wanted to say something, to help him snap out of it. Yet she sensed there were forces at play that went beyond her comprehension.

Clara remained concealed and once more held her breath while she observed. If that woman was aware of Clara’s presence, she showed no obvious signs.

The creature continued her slow deliberate approach towards the priest. Once she was a foot away from Father Michael, he broke out of his trance and pulled out a rosary from his pocket. This particular item had been fitted with a thin metal blade attached to the base of the crucifix.

With one quick motion, he attacked but missed. This woman moved like a blur, reappearing just behind Father Michael and in one vicious strike, gouged out a chunk of his neck.

Clara watched as blood shot out in spurts. The initial jet of blood covered the wall to his left and the second narrowly missed Clara. The third spurt never materialised because this creature had latched onto his neck to feed.

Terror should have taken hold of this girl, culminating in a blood-curdling scream. Such a response would have made her the second victim that night. Fortunately, she remained even-keeled, her mind clear and focused.

Clara snuck out of her hiding place then crept quietly towards the rosary. She picked it up prior to focusing on the scene. Given the nasty wound, it would take no more than a moment for that creature to finish her feast. Even now, Father Michael was white as a sheet, a sign that he was too far gone to be helped.

Regardless, Clara realised how this would be her only chance; she closed her eyes and recited a prayer. Relying on faith alone, she plunged the crucifix’s blade into the woman’s back and was greeted by silence.

In the time it took for her to blink, the other had turned around to glare. Pure hatred was painted on the creature’s face, a clear indication of what she had in mind for Clara. Meanwhile, Father Michael’s body slumped to the ground with nothing more than a few drops of blood trickling from his wound.

“How dare you!” shrieked the woman, who Clara later learned was called Drusilla.

Again, this confrontation should have left her shaking like a leaf. Instead, Clara stood tall, with her blade in hand. Blood from that creature covered the bare metal and Clara wondered why it appeared to be thicker than her own.

The girl then looked out to the doorway, noticing how it had splintered. Were these Titans? Who’s capable of such displays of strength and speed?

When shadows appeared in the hallway followed by the sound of footsteps, a smile fell upon Clara’s lips. The creature’s face flickered for a moment followed by a hint of worry; it seemed that she had arrived at the same conclusion. In a blink of an eye, the creature was gone; her escape left nothing more than a breeze from an open window.

* * * *

Clara snapped back to reality, momentarily confused about where she was.

Was Father Michael’s death the catalyst that drove my thirst for revenge? Clara wondered.

That reason did not jive. He dedicated his life to purging the world of their kind. He knew the risks and died doing God’s work.

“Not a bad way to go,” Clara said absentmindedly.

As the somniferous clickety-clack of the railcars took hold of her mind, Clara realised the sandman would soon claim his prize. It was midday and the train would not get there until a few hours before sunset.

She reached for a picture at her side, a recent shot taken a week or so ago. It featured a woman who walked hand in hand with an unidentified man who was later found dead. Despite a different hairstyle and clothes, Clara knew this woman, the one named Drusilla, who had been responsible for countless deaths and atrocities. Unfortunately, before Clara could deliver her verdict, she was fast asleep.

* * * *

“Check out the rock of ages,” a lobby boy said loud enough that Lewis’ ears perked up.

The concierge looked up to see how a woman in her thirties would deserve that kind of reaction. Sure enough, Lewis’ question was answered the moment he set eyes on the gal making her way towards the lobby desk. Her baggage followed suit along with the love-struck valet who hauled it.

Odd how he seemed unaffected by the crushing weight of her bags. It might have something to do with the fact that his eyes were glued to her ass!

She had the chassis of a Greek goddess, toned and shapely. Despite her obviously active lifestyle, she retained that distinctive feminine sway, which entranced every male in the room.

Of course, the lobby boy would need to be reprimanded, even if his call to arms had been spot on. The day shift’s concierge eyed every movement she made, finding the entire affair sensual despite the lack of visible skin. The lady had chosen to wear a knee-duster that was both longer and of a heavier fabric than fashion dictated. A shame. I would’ve enjoyed seeing more of her.

“Good day,” Clara said after giving Lewis the once-over.

Experience shone through her steel-grey eyes and Lewis could tell she had been around the block. All the better for him… I like the idea of learning new tricks.

“I cabled ahead for a room,” Clara said with a soul-crushing tone that reinforced her desire to keep things strictly business. “Under the name of Grey,” she added nonchalantly.

Left with a deflated ego, Lewis wondered how she so easily rejected his masculine charm. The concierge looked over the register and found the entry. First name Clara, he noted. That’s a pretty name that fits her to a tee.

“Ah, yes,” Lewis said, playing the game. “Clara Grey, right here. May I call you Clara?” he asked with the backing of his warmest smile.

Clara smirked, then shook her head before replying, “No. Miss Grey will do.”

In the background, Lewis imagined his ego being shanked in some dark alley and left to bleed out. Unfortunately, she was not done with him yet, choosing to show no mercy by delivering the coup de grâce.

Clara said, “The key, if you please.”

She grabbed the key from his hand and before he said a word, left with the valet in tow. That man would probably go to the depths of hell as long as she led the way. Bets were sure to be made amongst the staff on how big a tip he would get for his trouble. Lewis assumed a big fat goose egg and was later proven correct.

It seemed that Lewis had been right all along, in that Miss Grey had been around the block a few times. She certainly had no trouble seeing me for a player…

* * * *

Clara locked the door as soon as the valet left empty handed and crestfallen. She settled onto the bed, admiring the opulence. There was nothing here but the best and that came as no surprise.

She pulled out the picture from her bible. How odd was it that she had not aged a day since they last met? They never aged, none of them did. That explained why people were so easily convinced to turn their backs on God. Such a small price to pay to avoid the ravages of time.

Rumours swirled within her order that this transition occurred during a ritual that was eerily similar to a baptism, a wilful act which ceded their place in paradise for commuting their death sentence on the mortal plane.

The older these creatures were, the more twisted and dangerous they became. Age warped their minds as boredom led them to shed their morality. Their kind would do anything in their power to keep boredom at bay, even for a moment.

Drusilla was a particularly nasty one who had walked the earth for a long time. There was no other way to explain how consecrated ground meant nothing to her. The younger ones often had an aversion to those with faith, although they were rarely conscious of it.

This was an invaluable way for Clara to find threats in a crowd. If she observed someone who kept their distance despite making advances, Clara knew she had found a monster in their midst.

“Betty Jones,” Clara said after reading the name on the back of the picture.

A very modern name, which was Drusilla’s way of avoiding unwanted attention. How many names had she used over the years? As many as the Devil?

“Time to get ready,” Clara said while she grudgingly slid off of the bed.

Tonight, she would dress in accordance with fashion, and not for comfort. This would make her the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, free to manipulate men as she saw fit. Drusilla is not the only one who possesses that particular skill set…

The latest fashions did have disadvantages. For one, it was difficult to conceal weapons. This was a trade-off that women regularly made, since walking into a gin mill while dressed in plate-armour tended to be a giveaway.

Before leaving, Clara put on a long strand of pearls. The pearls formed a fashionably long necklace that draped over her light blouse. In turn, her blouse flowed loosely over her skirt which did the same over her gams.

Her ears were adorned with a set of studded pearl earrings. These were convincing fakes since patrons of The Grand could spot cheap knock-offs from a mile away. Each contained a single drop of holy water, one of the many tricks up her sleeve that had endless possibilities.

Out of habit, she wrapped Father Michael’s rosary around her wrist, snugly enough to conceal its religious significance and the blade fitted at the end. Clara carried it with her everywhere she went ever since the incident. She wore it out of respect for the dead, for those who lost their lives protecting the innocent from the likes of them.

She looked into a mirror, making sure her hair was neatly bobbed and devoid of any stray curls. She then turned the outer casing of her lipstick to extend the carmine dye and wax stick. Clara proceeded to glide the compound over her lower lip. She then followed through to the top but did not extend completely to the edges of her lips. Somehow, the illusion of smaller lips had become the latest craze. No matter how silly it seemed, breaking from the norm in this situation was asking for trouble.

As an additional precaution, she dabbed a thin layer of holy water onto her lips. While women were mostly immune to feminine wiles of others, men took more effort. Fortunately, they tended to be melodramatic losers who sought to romance their prey. The holy water was a fail-safe and one that saved her life on several occasions.

Lastly, she placed her compact, lipstick and other cosmetics into a small purse. It was a black, sequined affair with a thin shoulder strap that left just enough space to accommodate her derringer. A gal has to look out for herself after all…

Clara slipped her feet into a pair of shoes then double-checked her appearance in the mirror. She hated getting all dolled up for a hunt, but one had to play the part. She wondered if Father Michael ever had to get ready like this and giggled at the thought of him wearing her dress.

“That would be something to see,” Clara said before opening the door. “Now, where’s Drusilla?”

That creature was bound to be at the biggest party going. Where else could she be the centre of attention? Clara had every intention of crashing the party.

* * * *

Max, the night concierge, kept busy by reading the local paper. News never changed, especially the local rag, since the truth was bad for business.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a keen woman heading towards the fountain. When she stopped to take in the view of the cherubs feeding their eternal pond, his eyes focused on her.

She had all the signs of someone afflicted with the malady called life, an unfortunate condition that invariably led to death. Despite her terminal prognosis, she appeared to be fit, at least as judged by the toned muscles in her getaway sticks and bare-arms.

When this dame turned around, he saw a hint of worry in her eyes. She looked around as though searching for someone. Max even noted how her heart rate rose to match her anxiety.

When she was about ready to give into hysterics, the woman’s eyes floated over to Max. Upon seeing the presence of staff who could assist, she approached his desk and he noted the sensual sway of her hips.

“Oh, where is she?” Clara murmured while looking over her shoulder.

“Where is whom, madam?” Max asked.

The poor dear’s heart was very much at a gallop by now. With curiosity renewed, he hoped this event might temporarily relieve his boredom.

“I was supposed to meet Betty here an hour ago,” Clara said, all worried. “But I fell asleep and woke up too late,” she added while her voice was on the cusp of cracking.

The concierge had no desire to deal with the waterworks. After having lived for over a thousand years, this type of melodrama wore thin. Max’s only interest was to get her out of his hair.

“Betty?” Max asked to see if she would cough out the family name.

“Jones. Betty Jones,” Clara replied.

With hope renewed, her voice perked up, but Max quirked an eyebrow. That’s not a name that should roll off her tongue.

Her eyes were hard to read but he could tell this was not some dumb Dora. Years of life and experience shone through clearly enough. Was this one playing him? This was not Drusilla’s conventional fare. How do these two know each other?

While his mind was racing with unanswered questions, he noticed something peculiar. How did I miss the clues? Max was now standing a foot away from the counter as though her very presence could harm him.

He could overcome that fear if need be and even vacation at Sancta Sedes while sucking the life out of the Pope. Still this was a potent clue that there was a hunter in their midst.

“I believe I saw the young miss heading towards the East wing,” Max said wholeheartedly.

At this point, it simplified matters to tell her the truth. It would get her out of the way so he could get on the blower to coordinate a response.

“Really?” Clara asked excitedly.

The girl relaxed and even her heart slowed, a clear sign that she was well trained and could wreak havoc. A hunter of this calibre on the loose is bad news.

“Thank you!” Clara exclaimed. With a warm smile, she added, “I could kiss you!”

“That’s quite alright, madam,” Max said with a nod. “Now, be sure to head in that direction and you are bound to cross her path.”

“Thank you,” Clara said excitedly.

She walked away with a light seductive sway. Was she inviting him to follow…or is that a dare?

Max could not help it. He was in awe of just how manipulative this one was. With this distraction out of the way, he picked up the receiver and waited for Mavis to answer.

“Operator,” Mavis said.

Tonight, Mavis would be the vital link to contain this evening’s complication. Selene would need to wait before getting his undivided attention.

* * * *

“Horsefeathers,” Clara said under her breath.

All the signs were there, so how had she missed them? There was no doubt the concierge was one of them, making it a foregone conclusion that there were others on staff as well. The latter was obvious considering how the lobby boys seemed afraid she would set them aflame.

So, this must be a haven for their kind. Hunters like her probably ended up on the menu once their suspicions were aroused. No wonder Drusilla made a stop here…

“Fine place to end up,” Clara said while trying to work out a solution. “Served up like a thanksgiving turkey at a five-star hotel…”

Clara stopped once she heard the familiar clicking sound, one that might prove to be her salvation. When she looked in that direction, Clara saw familiar brass and glass contraptions busily spewing out stock market updates.

Could it be? Clara wondered in hopes that she might be right.

On her way to the hotel, she noticed they had sentinels posted atop the perimeter walls. Clara initially dismissed their presence as some misplaced adherence to historical anachronisms. But given the revelation that this was not a normal hotel, Clara figured they might be automatons used to protect the grounds. If that’s true, then Georgians are involved.

On a hope and a prayer, Clara casually made her way through the crowd towards the ticker tapes. That was the easy part, since men naturally ceded their places once women came into the picture. To think people say chivalry is dead!

She found that these devices were anchored to the marble top, not that anyone would dream of stealing one, at least not here. These marvels of technology were connected to a teletype line and received stock updates from their particular markets. Fortunately for her, one of the machines was beginning to show signs of ink fade.

She gave a quick glance to the immediate area and noticed sliding panels below the marble tops. Clara knelt down, found some ink, and proceeded to place it by the faltering machine. First, she removed the glass, then the inkwell’s cover. Next, she applied liberal amounts of fresh ink while simultaneously pressing down on a button just to the side.

To anyone who observed, Clara appeared to be doing nothing more than routine maintenance. But a hidden function had been triggered within the device which forced it to read from an alternate channel. To Clara’s satisfaction, the machine generated a series of glyphs.

Once the symbols began to repeat, she ripped the ticker tape then replaced the ink and cover. Without a second glance, she walked away from the crowd intent on finding a potential escape.

* * * *

When Clara neared a lady’s room, she feigned a quick pace to appear as though nature was calling. She then darted inside, hurried into a stall, and sat down prior to looking at the ticker tape. Three feet of stock updates could make or break fortunes, but tonight it might save her life.

Right before the glyphs, she saw a four, one and four printed. Clara assumed it to be the point of origin for the portal. A reference to anything, but in this case, it was probably a room number. A shame there were only three floors that she knew of. That means there’s a floor hidden from the public…

“That’s not much of an escape plan,” Clara muttered.

She looked over the glyphs to see if any were familiar and found two that were. The first was not an option, recognising it as the symbol for the goddess Selene. Clara doubted she would enjoy that particular destination and wondered why it was an option at all. Is this an example of Georgian humour?

The second symbol was more of a concern, familiar only because she found it at sites their kind were known to congregate.

While Clara often referred to them as those without faith, that was actually a misnomer. They believed strongly in something even if it proved to be the anathema of her faith. This place was assuredly sacred for them, their equivalent of the Holy See. As a destination for her escape, she had no hope of finding allies there.

“Just ducky,” Clara said while considering what to do next.

The proof of her knowledge on the portal could be flushed away, but misdirection seemed to be the best course of action. Clara pulled out her lipstick and circled one of the other destinations. Even if she had no clue where it ended up, they might assume otherwise. That meant the staff would dedicate resources to defend the portal which would weaken their security elsewhere.

When she returned her lipstick to the purse, Clara dropped the ticker tape. For now, it appeared as though she was being careless, understandable given the situation.

Before leaving, Clara looked into the mirror, breathed in deeply, and forced herself to tear up. Time to let loose her tears and fool anyone who caught sight of her. Now they would think she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Let them underestimate me,” Clara said.

She then recited a prayer while walking through the East wing. It was the hunter’s equivalent of the Last Rights. I may as well make this trip worthwhile because I won’t get through the front doors intact.

* * * *

Drusilla turned out to be a snap to find. All Clara had to do was stumble across the wildest party. Her target craved to be at the centre of attention and this baby vamp loved nothing more than to be treated like a goddess.

While this flaw made finding her opponent easy, it came at the expense of dealing with a wall of human flesh. People naturally congregated around Drusilla which made most ranged attacks messy.

Nonetheless, the hunter moved deeper into this clip-joint while heading towards the bar. This manoeuvre would give her time to familiarise herself with the surroundings and devise a plan.

From the corner of her eye, Clara saw Drusilla busily petting a young man. Chances were that this boy would end up as her late-night snack. I wonder if that can be leveraged to my advantage…

Clara found the bar, then plopped down onto a stool while crying quietly. In a place this lively, she was bound to get some attention, which was precisely what she needed.

Right on cue, a tough looking bimbo sat down on the adjacent stool and ordered a drink. It took no time at all for him to home in on her. While not the youngest woman around, men knew how to spot an opportunity.

“You okay, miss?” the man inquired.

“He said it would last forever,” Clara said while her voice was on the edge of cracking.

She extended the last word to coincide with the beginning of a wail. It was very childlike, but effective in manipulating those with an ounce of empathy. I think this one will do!

“Excuse me?” the man asked.

She saw his entire demeanour change, then thought bingo! This is a good sign. It means he’s buying my brand of baloney.

Clara broke into a shower of tears, sobbing uncontrollably while she fell into his arms. For a moment, the two were locked in an uncomfortable embrace until he realised there was no escape. Defeated, the bimbo wrapped his arms around her in an attempt to comfort her. Now, he needs to make the next move…

“There now,” the bimbo said.

Clara toned down her crying and sobbed as if she were holding back biblical floodwaters. His hold softened once he accepted his fate.

“Now what were you saying?” the man finally asked.

“Came here with a friend,” Clara said with puffy red cheeks and a shaky voice. “Said he would always be there for me.”

Clara made sure the statements appeared to be somewhat incoherent and disjointed. Men rarely expected the lesser sex to handle such situations with a level head.

“Then what happened?” the man asked before throwing in, “My name is Victor.”

He was looking to establish a rapport even if it threw her off. Clara pulled away and wiped the tears from her face. To cry with that much intensity took a lot out of a girl…especially when it’s forced!

“Clara,” she managed to say.

Clara then set her eyes on Drusilla’s little pet. Her eyes narrowed in a way that would impress upon Victor just how close he was to seeing Mount Vesuvius blow its top.

Victor looked in that direction and connected the dots. Since she had practically drawn him a map, this was hardly the demonstration of a razor-sharp wit! Nonetheless, they were on the same page.

The bimbo turned around and ordered a stiff drink. Before Victor’s lips could touch the glass, Clara snatched it away then downed it in one shot. God, I needed that! Sure, it was not very ladylike, and it tasted like coffin varnish, but it lent credibility to her being an emotional wreck.

To sweeten the deal Clara said, “That bastard!”

If the man felt offended in any way, he hid it well. Instead, he ordered another two shots. The bimbo downed one for the road and took a long hard look at Drusilla’s pet. He was clearly working up the courage to play his role in her plan.

“Is that him?” Victor asked.

“Yes,” Clara confirmed before a stream of tears started up again.

Now Victor was left with a choice: either face the emotional wreck named Clara or go after the patsy blamed for hurting her feelings. The latter offered a far greater payoff, so without much fanfare, the bimbo ventured out into the crowd. Clara feigned an attempt to stop him, but his resolve was steeled.

Now that her plan was set in motion, it was high-time she got in position. Clara rolled down the rosary, placing it around her hand and left the crucifix hanging freely.

For a moment, she gazed at Victor’s remaining shot then smiled. The hunter crushed one of her pearl earrings over the glass. She then reached into her purse and pulled out a small silvery object.

With a drink in hand, Clara made her way through the crowd, following in Victor’s wake, passing by a tall woman with dark hair. She gave her a quick glance, noticing those dark eyes, so dark they reminded her of a moonless night. Those eyes bothered her, but she had no time for that, so Clara bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The pain will keep me focused.

By the time she neared the scene, Victor had already arrived and confronted the patsy. The expressed confusion only served to infuriate Victor which quickly escalated matters.

Clara heard the familiar sound of a punch making contact, followed by the crowd’s inevitable reaction.

Victor is not one to fool around, Clara thought.

Perhaps he had been a palooka? There’s nothing like a former boxer to make things interesting!

For now, Drusilla remained at the centre of a gawking crowd who enjoyed this fresh bit of entertainment. This is my chance!

Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, Clara prayed in silence.

Clara entered the makeshift ring, ignoring the men while walking casually towards the creature. If people had not been aware of her presence a moment ago, they were about to be.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus, Clara recited the second verse.

The words rolled off her tongue, the effect of having spent hours reciting the prayer over her rosary. Bonus, there would be no kneeling tonight!

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, Clara completed the the third verse.

Clara then pounded back her drink and felt her tongue burn. When she was no more than a step away, Clara slipped the silvery object between her fingers then snapped it open. With a quick flick of her wrist, a bright flame came about.

Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, Clara recited and could hear the verse reverberate in her mind.

The prayer was as yet incomplete since one word remained. Clara spat out the fluid, forming a slew of droplets, sailing effortlessly towards Drusilla. However, the real show began once the liquid came in contact with a naked flame. The candle-sized flame erupted into a fireball which enveloped the creature’s head.

Drusilla may have been unaware of the impending attack, but the zippo certainly got her attention. The timing had not been planned, but was nonetheless beneficial. At that moment when the flame flashed over, Drusilla had been facing Clara.

The creature screamed while flames enveloped her. The sound was hard to describe, but it reminded Clara of a child running her nails across slate. It had certainly been loud enough to stop the band cold.

Clara kept her distance while fire consumed Drusilla’s hair. The heat was so intense that she wondered if it had been fashioned with embalming fluid. When the time was right, Clara attacked with a quick and precise jab across Drusilla’s jaw.

“Amen!” Clara exclaimed, releasing that word for all the world to hear.

In that moment, Clara realised just how alone she was. Well not literally since the crowd was there, however everyone at the party seemed to be converging on her. As a distraction Clara grabbed her pearl necklace and tore it from her neck. While pearls went flying through the air, she exposed the blade of her crucifix.

Despite the distraction, it seemed unlikely that she would have the time to land a killing blow.

“Fuck!” Clara exclaimed feeling robbed of her already hollow victory.

That is, until the world paused, literally; even the pearls were suspended in mid-air. Clara felt as though she were seeing the world through a stereoscope. Most disturbing was the absence of sound, Clara never realised how loud this party had been until it all stopped.

“That’s an interesting development,” Clara said and found the words reassuring.

Clara did not dare hesitate. She plunged the blade into Drusilla’s spine. The blade penetrated just below the base of Drusilla’s skull, effectively paralysing her lower body. With any luck, the damage might even be permanent. For now, her biggest threat had been neutralised.

Out from her purse came her derringer which she held close to her body to prevent her being disarmed early in the game. She looked about, able to take in this tapestry of horror, and noticed that one-third of the room was made up of their kind. Does that mean the remaining guests are food? The idea of a place with so many of those things made her skin crawl. How can there be so many?

“You Bitch!” Drusilla said from the depths of Clara’s mind.

Since there was not much left of Drusilla’s face, Clara would have been more surprised to hear her speak. The mixture of burning alcohol laced with holy water had somehow aggravated the damage. If Clara ever made it out alive, she would be sure to add that trick to her playbook.

Clara turned to face the thing, finding her crumpled on the floor. To her right, Victor and Drusilla’s pet were bloodied from exchanging jabs. That paled in comparison to the look on their faces, a mix of shock and awe. Of all the times, to wish for a camera!

* * * *

The sound of applause got Clara’s attention. When she turned to look, a portion of the mob was gone, which gave her a clear view of the bar. Clara saw three women sitting on individual barstools. From this distance, they appeared to be triplets, albeit there were clear differences between them.

The middle sister wore a locket shaped like a key and was imbued with a silvery aura. The sister to the left had a brooch shaped like a lantern on her left lapel that glowed like a spark gap transmitter. Last, but not least, was a sister who also had a lantern adorning her lapel, this time on her right, but appeared to have just stepped out of her grave. The single most disturbing aspect was her ethereal translucency.

“Bravo,” the silvery sister said in a jovial and uplifting tone. After all she had gone through today, any words of encouragement were welcome!

Say, I’ll settle on Silver, Clara said to herself.

“I’ve seen better,” the ethereal sister said.

Ethereal it is, Clara thought once the name popped into her mind.

This comment left Clara feeling as though she had been bludgeoned. Peculiar how those words had no emotion, no warmth, and how they sucked the life out of her.

“Leave her alone!” the sister reminding her of a spark gap exclaimed.

From now on, I’ll call her Sparky, Clara noted.

As a good measure, Sparky sent a jolt of electricity through to Ethereal. The recipient just glared at the others before she gave it her all in a Bronx cheer.

Should she laugh or get ready for another attack? There was something vaguely familiar about this whole affair, but for the life of her, Clara could not remember why.

“Thank you,” Clara said but remained unsure of herself.

“She’s stalling,” Ethereal said without a hint of emotion.

The silvery sister had nothing to say. Instead, she slipped off her barstool. With her first step, the other two merged into a single body, but every so often they would morph from one persona to another.

“You’ll have to excuse her,” Silver said while extending her hand.

“Spirits and necromancy have a tendency to drag a girl down,” Sparky added.

The moment they shook hands, Clara felt the current flowing through her.

“Like anyone believes in magic anymore!” Ethereal said, while pulling her hand away.

Clearly, not the life of the party, Clara thought.

“I will get you for this!” Drusilla said.

Up to that point, Clara had forgotten about that irritation. The triplet’s reaction was humorous. One by one, they glared at Drusilla and snapped their fingers. After the third sister completed this motion, Clara saw Drusilla’s eyes glaze over like an aged photograph. A quick glance around the room confirmed that the rest had been frozen in the same way.

The word ‘bizarre’ fit this scene to a tee. There were clues leading Clara to believe that this situation had been manufactured by the sisters. Was that necessary? Clara had no doubt that her fate would have been unpleasant had they chosen not to intervene. So, why are they putting on a show?

Clearly, this remnant found her amusing, even one powerful enough to distort reality. The Georgians were unable to manipulate space and time to this degree. Since she was not getting any headway with this one, Clara decided to play a gambit.

“I’m sorry,” Clara said followed by a pause to seem natural. “Have we met before?”

All three versions rolled their eyes in succession, but the transitions slowed until they settled on one version. This variant was nothing special to look at and could easily blend into a crowd. For now, it seemed like they were done with their parlour tricks.

“No,” the goddess said while moving back to the bar.

Once the goddess sat down, two full glasses materialised at her fingertips. She raised her glass in salute, then emptied it in one hit. She then pointed to an empty stool. They aren’t exactly subtle with their demands…

With no perception of choice, Clara sat down. She picked up the glass, staring deeply into the swirling liquid. Nothing appeared to be familiar about the elixir. Heck, it even glowed, although it smelled divine. All it took was a drop of the elixir on her tongue to make all of her senses come alive. It was hard to describe, but it easily put the most intense orgasm she ever had to shame.

“Ambrosia,” Clara said absentmindedly while waiting for her body to stop tingling.

“Very good!” the other exclaimed.

The goddess grabbed the glass from Clara’s hand and finished it just like the other. It’s a good thing it was only a drop!

“That makes you a goddess?” Clara managed to ask.

“Right again…” the other said.

The change in her voice would have been hard to catch to the inexperienced ear. Clara focused on that change while forcing her mind to recover from the effects of the ambrosia. This was important, and she needed her wits to stay alive. Clara blinked a few moments…why does the world seem so bleak and dismal now?

“Something wrong?” Clara asked.

“Oh,” the other replied distractedly with a sigh. “It’s nothing, really.”

Clara hesitated. Playing a motherly figure to something that was well over three-thousand years old was suicide. The elderly did not take their advice from newborn babes, a comparison Clara expected to hear from self-professed gods.

She mulled over the situation. First, there was the fight which brought her out of the woodwork, then her powers faded over time. Greek gods were renowned for their need for worship. Like Drusilla, they craved to be the centre of attention, be it on Olympus or in the mortal realm.

Could it be that the wholesale abandonment of their followers had weakened them? Just how bored and lonely were they? How much would they give to feel alive? Even for a moment? How long would such emotions last when they were awash in several millennia of experiences?

“Clara,” she said to break the silence.

“Hecate,” the other said with a half-smile.

So that explained the three distinct personas! A goddess represented by holding two lanterns and a key, or sculpted as Siamese triplets. The goddess of magic, crossroads, moon, ghosts, and necromancy. What a fitting entity for the hallowed grounds of The Grand.

With a snap of Hecate’s fingers, an amphora appeared permitting her to pour liberal doses of ambrosia. What effect did ambrosia have on the Gods of old?

“Thank you for intervening,” Clara said.

Clara reached over the bar and grabbed the bottle of coffin varnish. She opted to leave her derringer on the counter, doubtful that a firearm would be of any use given her situation. A shame. I rather liked that weapon…

Unlike the Goddess, Clara decided to forego a bit of class and drank straight from the bottle. Compared to ambrosia, this stuff tasted like molten brimstone. Why does that feel so right?

The goddess smiled. It must have been a while since she had last revealed herself. Why am I so deserving of this honour?

“It was fun to watch,” Hecate said. “They wholeheartedly believe they control every facet of your society. Nice to see them knocked down a peg.”

For the moment, Clara kept quiet. That was the only way to see where she was headed. Clara turned to glance at Drusilla crumpled onto the ground. A shame that she was unable to land a fatal blow. That’s a problem I need to remedy.

“Besides,” Hecate said, “Someone was waiting for you to fail.”

The goddess pointed to the woman with raven black hair, the one who creeped Clara out earlier. Was this a mythical creature as well?

Now Clara was left with a lot of questions but no answers. That’s normal when dealing with the divine…just look at the bible.

“You have a choice,” Hecate said.

Since Hecate did not elaborate, it forced Clara to ask what her choices were. Before that happened, Clara sent another dose of fire down her belly to calm her nerves.

“What choice would that be?” Clara asked.

“For a minute, you managed to shake a few cobwebs loose,” Hecate replied.

So Clara’s assumptions had been correct. The goddess was hoping to regain her former glory, even a sliver of her former powers. There were probably some followers to be found, scattered about by the winds of time.

How many still prayed to Athena or Ares? How many people damned others to Hades anymore? These were vestiges of a time long past. Who could fault them for wanting to regain even one iota of their power?

“You mentioned a choice?” Clara asked, but could guess where this was heading.

Hecate smirked and pointed over to the mob of people who, by all rights, should have torn her to shreds by now. That would have been a quick death, perhaps, but also gruesome. Would such a death have made her worthy of canonization?

The hunter swallowed two large mouthfuls of that swill. Clara began to feel close to the edge, and if she were careless, might end up spifflicated. Then what?

“What about that one?” Clara asked while pointing towards Drusilla.

“What about her?” Hecate replied with a yawn.

“She’s still a threat, even in her current state,” Clara said, hinting at the importance of this task.

“It’s not really your problem,” Hecate said.

There was truth to that statement. Had the goddess not intervened, Clara would not have lived to care. Drusilla would live to see another night, although scarred from their encounter, but nonetheless, free to continue her pattern of violence.

Would stories of my sucker punching Drusilla become legend? Clara wondered.

Hecate’s yawn had been the definitive clue Clara needed. She would live to fight another day, but at the expense of becoming a diversion. Once bored, would Hecate toss me away like trash?

“You would leave her to exact her revenge on the innocent?” Clara asked.

Time for her to start poking the bear, she thought. For a moment, all three versions of her appeared to break away from the unified form but were quickly drawn back together.

“Innocent!” Hecate laughed. “No one in this room is innocent.”

“God forgives all sins,” Clara insisted.

What were her chances of being killed for simply throwing down that name? Hecate glared at Clara, a sore point to their kind, given how Christianity usurped their dominance long ago.

She walked away and made sure to have the bottle of coffin varnish with her. Clara stopped by Victor then giggled at the look on his face. He may have believed he was going to get lucky tonight, but that was a deal forged entirely in his mind.

“What can you offer me that God cannot?” Clara asked.

Clara’s demeanour was that of a woman who was drunk. The emotional upheaval, stress, and booze created the perfect conditions for Clara to lose control. To pull off a convincing lie, she needed some effects to seem authentic.

As expected, the goddess’ reaction was more violent. The goddess split back to her three distinct entities and this time, the Ethereal entity took the lead.

“This one’s trying to rile us up,” Ethereal said.

For once, the Ethereal one was right. Sparky began to channel her powers which mimicked a tesla coil as surges of energy flowed along her length. Clara giggled. A goddess that can’t conceal her temper is silly!

“Now why would I do that?” Clara said while playing the role of a dumb Dora.

Clara pulled at her last pearl earring, then crushed it over the mouth of the bottle. The sleight of hand had been quick and expertly done, appearing as though she had been fumbling with the bottle prior to taking another swig.

“See! See! She just did something!” Ethereal exclaimed.

“What did you see?” Silver asked.

Clara saw how Sparky’s eyes were set aglow in a bright blue hue. This was the first time Clara had observed this behaviour, so perhaps her capacitors were fully charged?

This was the perfect time for her to pretend to be scared. Her heart rate rose, and she backed away from the sisters until she tripped over Drusilla. Clara’s fall caused the bottle to fly through the air like some slapstick comedy. To think that all that time spent watching Charlie Chaplin movies would come in handy someday!

When she landed hard on Drusilla, the bottle crashed on top of that monster’s head, drenching both of them in alcohol. God, I hope the bitch can feel that! The odour of alcohol invaded every one of her senses. It even made her eyes water.

“Bravo!” Silver exclaimed.

“It’s all part of the act,” Ethereal added to keep the other two focused.

Based on the hysterical laughter, the Ethereal sister’s words were having no effect. Clara needed them to unleash their wrath for her plan to work. I’ll need to up the ante!

Clara grabbed onto the hilt of her blade buried into Drusilla’s spine. As expected, the blade would not budge. Nonetheless, she hoped this act would force the goddess to play her hand.

“She’s going to attack,” said the decidedly paranoid Ethereal.

“Now wait—,” Silver managed to say just as a long and powerful bolt of blue energy made the air crackle.

The beam struck Clara dead centre in her chest, spreading over her body while passing through the blade and into Drusilla’s spine making them both convulse. Whatever prevented Clara from affecting others in the room was easily sidestepped by the goddesses’ power.

The other two sisters turned to look at Sparky. The look matched precisely what was etched on Victor’s face. Of all the times to wish for a camera!

The look on their faces soon dissipated when a bright yellow light filled the room. That bolt of energy had been enough to ignite the alcohol which engulfed both women in an inferno.

“In nómine Patris et Fílii et Spíritus Sancti,” Clara said while making the sign of a cross.

In a final act of faith, Clara closed her eyes, understanding that time was not on her side. This would be a painful and unpleasant death. So where are the effects? Her skin should have been burning, her flesh drawing tight while pain flooded her mind.

Surprised, she opened her eyes and expected to see Hecate taunting her. Instead, she was greeted with a wall of flame growing in intensity.

When Clara glanced at Drusilla, she saw that the flames licked her corpse with zeal. Soon enough, Drusilla would be nothing more than a collection of charred bones. That idea put a smile on her face, succeeding in her mission despite interference from a higher power. Drusilla would never again be a threat to anyone.

So where was the sense of accomplishment? If her life revolved around revenge, then her goal had been met. To die doing God’s work was a good way to go and certainly better than Drusilla’s pot-roast welcome to hell.

Then it dawned on her. Revenge had consumed her life because she was furious with these creatures for robbing her of a mundane existence. Until that moment, she never stopped to think about her desire to find a good man, fall in love, and become a mother. The idea of existing like a normal person and carrying on in a world oblivious to what lurked in the shadows had been her idea of paradise.

Clara felt some form of energy from within which was hard to describe. She humbly accepted her fate, even while this power kept the flames at bay. Despite this divine intervention, Clara knew she had mere moments before being overwhelmed.

Clara finished off by saying, “Amen.”

Her final word was followed by an intense shock wave of blinding light that knocked down the column of fire.

“That bastard!” Ethereal said before spitting on the floor.

For the first time tonight, her voice carried a depth of emotion.

“Ab-so-lute-ly,” Silver said before she turned to look at Sparky. “Someone just had to go and stir up enough shit so that egomaniac would save the day.”

“What did I do?” Sparky said while feigning ignorance.

Tired of this party, Sparky casually strolled towards the exit. However, that did nothing to diffuse the situation.

“You know full well what you did,” Silver said following suit.

“You always fuck things up!” Ethereal tossed in to get one last dig in.

“Me?” Sparky asked while her eyes were aglow.

“Just ducky,” Silver said.

The latter knew this would take a while to fix. The last fight that broke out between those two had taken the better part of a century to resolve!

September 13th 1929

What do you mean you can’t move ‘em?” Max asked over the blower.

His eyes darted about to see if anyone could hear, but was almost beyond giving a fuck right now. First, a hunter comes to The Grand and ends up with a list of portal destinations, then waltzes into a party to kill a distinguished guest.

From time to time, the world had to right itself and re-establish the balance. In Rome, his kind had sought to consolidate power while making the population more complacent. Their stratagem opened up rich hunting grounds at the cost of their empire. This led to rampant corruption, created a power vacuum, and ultimately led to their downfall.

This was something else altogether. There were dozens dead as of the last count. Dozens more were missing and no one had a clue where to begin a search. Cecil had just finished telling him how the entire room was frozen in time, leaving the occupants to look like a collection of wax sculptures.

Worse still, some sort of divine inferno had consumed the centre of the room. There were burn marks on the marble flooring, plaster ceiling and anyone within fifteen feet of the centre was crispy fried. Well, not precisely. Anyone human had been spared, including the two found near the epicentre.

“They won’t budge,” Cecil replied. “Even a ‘Goyle couldn’t move ‘em!”

On the line, they both heard a gasp. It seemed Mavis was listening in and fortunately, for her sake, the operator could be trusted.

“I’ll get on the blower and see what the Georgians can do to assist,” Max said while thinking about how the Boss was going to be pissed.

“Fine. You do that,” Cecil said. “In the meantime, staff will put up some scaffolding and barricades so people don’t come sniffing around.”

Max wished he had thought of that since he needed a way to stay on the Boss’ good side. This time, the concierge was not sure if he would get out of it intact.

“Good idea,” Max said and cut the conversation short.

“Mavis,” Max said nonchalantly. “Since you’re already on the line, link me up with Administration.”

The line went dead while the operator quickly patched him through. Will Thelma pick up tonight?

Normally, he got a rise from the very idea of talking to the head of Administration. The memories of their night together would forever excite him. Alas, she returned to treating him no better than a low-level acolyte the moment he left her room exhausted and satiated.

Thelma was the least of his problems because the hunter’s body was nowhere to be found. Anyone that dangerous who remained on the lam was bad for business and the Boss hated losing business. A fiasco of this magnitude might even seal my fate…

“Just ducky,” Max said.

October 3rd 1948

From the comfort of his bed, John looked over the diary another time. Why can’t I decipher the notes? This was not the first time he asked that particular question. The sheer genius this man must have possessed to create a cypher that resisted all attempts to crack.

Chances were those responsible for the conspiracy also failed to break his code. Edward Locke had been careful; the beating heart and this journal were a testament to that fact. Given they never found the heart meant Edward died taking his secrets to the grave. Am I capable of the same?

This time, he looked through entries that were nearer to the end of Edward’s diary. John dreaded looking through those last months of journal entries.

The barrister discovered there was a noticeable change in the man’s notes during those months. Cyphered text fell out of use at the expense of nonsensical words. There were sketches of both the hotel and its guests but without a clear objective. Perhaps that’s the reason why he was committed?

What does that make me? John did not like the idea of venturing down Edward’s path. Someone was not paranoid if the conspiracy was legitimate, so John hoped this one did not originate from the depths of his sick mind. The records seemed real enough, as did the beating heart. Yet, that fits in nicely with psychosis?

It was easier to assume he was sane. After all, he found corroborative evidence linking case files to actual events. Even after thirty years, the scars left by these crimes were impossible to miss. Are people aware when they crossed the threshold to insanity?

“Focus,” Eleanor said.

“Great,” John said, then sighed, “Hearing voices and talking to yourself are not hallmarks of sanity.”

The barrister was about to call it a night when he noticed something peculiar. The pages in this section looked as though they had been pasted in. The colour and grain of these pages differed from earlier portions. The handwriting also stood out, and they were not encoded but written in Latin. A shame I can’t read the language!

One woman was featured in every entry. The first was a postcard from Rome which featured a statue on display at some museum. While not an expert in art or sculpting, he assumed this piece had been carved during the antiquities.

Then came the portrait of a woman dressed in Victorian clothes. More precisely this was a photograph of a painting. John saw how aged and cracked the canvas was. Despite the damage, John observed that these featured the same model.

Lastly, a sketch dating back to nineteen-twenty-nine, which he identified through the pose and style distinctive to that era. John had seen many such shots circulating amongst the sailors. There tended to be an everlasting quality to scantily clad women… especially when there are no women to be found…

Despite the differing mediums, the resemblances were uncanny. Is this proof that immortals exist?

“Pages taken from a diary in room three-forty-five,” John made out.

Immediately below, he saw a diagram of a ballroom. In the centre he saw a body, followed by several within a circular diameter from the epicentre. These two are represented using different symbology for a reason…

John wished he had pictures of that particular scene. A diagram could only convey so much information since they imperfectly represented the world. John would not be able to gain any appreciation of the scope of the damage or condition of the corpses.

A good photographer could capture the essence of a crime scene with a few skilled shots. A sketch, on the other hand, permitted him a view of the big picture. In the end, it was likely that Edward feared getting caught for smuggling out a few photographs.

In the diary, he came across a picture of a woman over thirty, strikingly beautiful. This picture had been taken the same day as those sketches. It’s peculiar that a guest of The Grand, during the Roaring Twenties, looks like the local Inn owner’s wife…

“John,” Eleanor said.

Eleanor’s voice led him to imagine the long-haired beauty in a state of undress. That single image was enough to cast away any other thoughts. Since it was bedtime, John thanked his lucky stars for the surprise sleeping aid.

CHAPTER 13

ETHEREAL NIGHTS

June 8th 1927

The flapper awoke in a start while grasping her chest. She felt as though she was about to hyperventilate, so she tried to calm down by closing her eyes while focusing on her rhythmic heartbeat. Unfortunately, a pair of sinister eyes greeted her from the vestiges of her dream.

She yelped then leapt from the bed and onto the cold floor below. Without pause, she scurried towards the bathroom until she collided with a nightstand. Wait! I don’t own a nightstand…

Is this my room? She scanned her surroundings and found luxurious drapery, decorations, along with a four-poster bed. This was decidedly not where she lived because the bed alone was worth more than everything she owned put together.

“The Grand,” she said and unsurprisingly heard no reply.

It was dark, so the flapper pulled the drapery apart to get some light. Instead of a window, she found a solid wall.

Confused, she asked, “Why would anyone build rooms without windows?”

Again, there was no response, so she fumbled around the room for a light switch. After a few attempts, the electric lights came to life and filled the room with a warm yellow glow. Now she could see just how opulent the suites at The Grand were.

Rather spiffy. For a moment she imagined what it would be like to be a princess. This dredged up memories from her youth spent looking up to the hotel. She imagined it being her castle which provided her with a commanding view. How else could I spot my prince arrive atop his magnificent steed?

How did I get here? Locals normally stayed away from The Grand, doubly so at night. She did not remember making her way here nor could she fathom a reason for why. The flapper looked for a mirror but found none. Thankfully, she found the water closet and took the opportunity to freshen up. Seeing as there were no answers to be found here, the young woman walked out in search of clues.

Fortunately, she woke up fully clothed. Odd how she did not remember owning this ensemble, the feathered hat, pearl necklace or the loosely hanging knee-duster that gave her a fashionably boyish look. If she ever crossed a mirror, the reflection of a dainty doll dressed in the latest fashions would be sure to greet her.

It was hard for her not to like the liberal views of flappers, including their hedonistic ways. Unfortunately, she found it impossible to play the part in an isolated mountain town.

Petting parties were said to be all the rage in big cities, but here she was at risk of accidentally necking with a cousin. Not to mention the army of fire extinguishers that watch our every move…

She often dreamed of booking passage to the city and wondered how copacetic it would be to be free of the social norms of her forefathers? How wonderful would it be to smoke, party in a gin mill, and flirt with men… or women for that matter!

Once she closed the door, the girl noticed it was room four-fifty-three and found a cleaning cart parked just outside. The flapper looked side to side then headed to the right where room numbers were counting down. On her way to the stairs, she passed maids and guests who looked right through her. That’s a bit cold…

At the end of the hall, she discovered an opulent set of stairs leading to the third floor. From there she followed a guest to an elevator who in turn instructed the indoor aviator to take him to the main floor. The flapper was in awe at how beautiful this place was. Even the inside of the bird cage was a work of art. Gold panels and a golden handle that the operator manipulated using white gloves. There was not a speck of dust to be found.

She was surprised how everyone she came across gave her the high-hat. Although, such behaviour was not entirely unexpected, considering her place on the social strata. I’m not sure the guests even know there’s a town nearby…

Once they reached the main floor, she walked out in the Grand Hall and fixated immediately on the fountain. It seemed so beautiful, with cherubs frolicking in the pool as water poured freely from their vases. She caught a view of the valley floor and saw her town in the distance.

Until that moment, she never considered how small and insignificant her birthplace was. This was a humbling experience and yet it reinforced her desires to leave this valley at the earliest opportunity. I really need to see the world…

She wandered about for a moment, watching as people moved through the hotel. From the corner of her eye, the flapper saw the front desk. This was her opportunity to inquire about getting a ride into town. Unfortunately, the concierge and his staff were acting like a couple of old hens. How dreadfully unprofessional!

“A local?” Lewis asked.

The man had a hint of concern in his voice. The flapper then observed the young man with his manicured moustache, as his eyes darted about the room.

“What am I, chopped liver?” she asked, but got no response.

“What… local… here?” she managed to catch the concierge saying, even though she was trying not to eavesdrop.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Despite raising her voice, they went on with their conversation. Eventually, some mistress Gundy approached, and she observed how they immediately hushed up while wearing fake smiles.

As quick as a flash the valet disappeared, dismissed with nothing more than a, “Deal with it.”

The others scattered about, leaving the concierge alone at his desk. Lewis gave the lady a large and flirtatious smile which would not sway this face stretcher.

“Ah, madam. How can The Grand assist you today?” he asked as though genuinely interested.

“Excuse me,” the flapper said. “I was here first…”

There was no way to get a word in edgewise. Staff knew better than to deal with the likes of her when esteemed guests were present.

Frustrated by their behaviour, the flapper felt her anger boil over. She never noticed that the concierge’s jaw dropped when the fog rolled into the Grand Hall. Somehow, the temperature in the room dropped below the dew point.

* * * *

To calm down, she wandered about the hotel until she found a nice bistro-style restaurant. She was not hungry, but figured she may as well sit down and enjoy the amenities.

Since the flapper knew the room number, she could bill against that account. If anything, this was an opportunity to let off a bit of steam at someone else’s expense. Why not have a bit of fun while I’m here?

She picked a table near the bar, sat down, then proceeded to wait. While the room was quiet, save for a half-dozen patrons, the waiters seemed oblivious to her. Even blatant attempts at flagging one down proved fruitless.

When a waiter eventually passed by, another table got his attention first. How rude!

“Garçon,” a dapper said as his two daughters looked at the waiter flirtatiously. “Is there a problem with the heat?” the man asked with a hoity-toity accent.

“The heat sir—” the waiter asked.

It took a moment, but the chill soon rode up the waiter’s spine and answered his question. Confused, the waiter looked about for a source but found no vents, fans, or windows to account for the sudden drop.

“I will report this at once, sir,” the man said.

The waiter gave a less than subtle wink to the older of the two. This flapper supposed that for now the bank was closed, at least until that fire extinguisher was out of the picture.

“Had a rough day?” a woman asked from the opposite side of the table.

When the flapper turned to look, she saw a woman wearing clothing more appropriate for a townie. With her dark eyes, black hair and disarming smile, the flapper could not help but feel relief.

“Yes,” the flapper said before reciprocating the smile. “How’d you know?”

“I see this a lot,” the woman said absentmindedly.

The lady sipped from a glass of water. A glass which had been dropped moments ago by a passing waiter. It was peculiar they would only drop off one glass. Why would the waiter assume I’m not thirsty?

“Do you?” the flapper wondered.

The flapper then turned around and gave the waiter a dirty look. The man shivered as though someone had stepped on his grave.

“Why yes,” the feather replied while keeping her warm smile throughout. “You wake up as though from a dream, no idea how you got there or who you are. No one gives you the time of day.”

“Says you,” the flapper said in agreement.

Not only did this describe her situation perfectly, but it seemed as though this was old news. Wait! What did that woman mean by not knowing who I am?

“What’d you mean by that?” the flapper asked curiously.

“Simple,” the dark-haired beauty said before chuckling. “Tell me your name?”

The tone of her voice irked the flapper. When a flash of rage washed over her, the lady’s glass froze solid then shattered. The speed of the change in state had been so violent that glass and ice shrapnel went flying.

This would have likely been quite a show if the flapper had not been caught unawares. It did not take long for guests sitting at neighbouring tables to stand up and leave, clearly distraught by what happened.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You are a powerful one, Lillian,” the feather said.

The woman was unwilling to elaborate, instead she focused on brushing off shards of glass from her dress.

“Normally, it takes years to get that much control over—” the woman began before she was cut short.

“That was me?” the flapper asked while wondering why she was not covered in glass.

Who’s Lillian? Wait! I am! A faded memory of her mother telling her to follow her three golden rules came to mind. That had been the key required to unlock her mind…including the one of my death…

“Of course,” the feather said.

With a wave of her hand, everything around them grew pale and lifeless. The scene reminded Lillian of looking at the world through a piece of amber.

All of the patrons and staff stopped moving. One waiter was even caught mid-stride. Lillian found it funny how one of the dapper’s daughters had lost her hat. The accoutrement was frozen midway to the floor. Funnier still was the look of surprise written on her face.

“How are you doing this?” Lillian asked.

“You have your powers and I have mine. Now I think it is time that you and I were on our way,” she said to Lillian, although her voice hinted there was no choice.

Just then, a bright light filled the room as a staircase appeared from out of the farthest wall. Unlike the dull world surrounding it, this one seemed real and alive. Lillian sensed that her destiny awaited beyond.

“What if I refuse?” Lillian asked.

The quick flash of anger that ran through those midnight eyes told Lillian that such a decision was not in her best interests. Dejected, she got up and started to make her way towards the archway. Again it seemed so warm and welcoming that she felt no fear.

Before Lillian stepped foot on the first set of stairs, she turned around and asked, “Thank you, miss?”

“I go by Eleanor, and anytime,” the feather replied while waving goodbye. “Believe me. It is far better for you to cross the threshold then haunt these halls. There are worse things here than angry spirits lurking about.”

Before Lillian said a word, the archway vanished along with its passenger. The lady grabbed the falling hat and repositioned it on the daughter’s head before leaving. Only then did she permit time to resume.

“That will leave someone dumbfounded,” Eleanor said.

October 25th 1948

John sat comfortably in his padded leather chair while a fire crackled in the fireplace. The smoky atmosphere and shelves upon shelves of books brought him back to his first night in town.

That night, he was introduced to the flair of this town and its inhabitants. The diary he found could easily have been passed off as a Brothers Grimm tale.

At the time, he attributed this town’s quirks as a malady brought on by their isolation. The diary had been used as a way to increase the town’s profile. Now, I’m not so sure…

In his hands, John held the leather-bound journal of Edward Locke. A man who had gone to great lengths to conceal his thoughts. Not only had the diary remained hidden for years, but it was also encoded.

Sceptics would attribute the odd language to gibberish, a sure sign that the man was a deserving guest of the looney bin. To John, this text seemed too coherent in form and syntax to be nonsensical. Edward had something to hide and had done so in a spectacular fashion.

John remembered that some classmates created their own flavour of shorthand. That way, others could not copy their notes, and steal project ideas while maintaining client confidentiality later in their careers. Edward probably learned it for the same reasons, but later found it to be integral to his survival.

It was unfortunate that John did not have the cognitive abilities of Sherlock Holmes in ‘The Adventure of the Dancing Men.’ That man would need no more than a page or two to break the cypher. What secrets would be uncovered if the code was broken?

John had no choice but to trudge through the nonsense in hopes of finding this journal’s version of the Rosetta stone. Alas, he was forced to infer meaning through newspaper clippings, pictures, and diagrams that were included on the pages. I still feel as though I’m stumbling around in the dark…

This evening John stumbled across a newspaper clipping on Walter Mayweather, described as a local palooka and drugstore cowboy who had left town unexpectedly. It was written as a standard fluff piece. A man had gone missing, leaving behind his loving wife, Alice, daughter, Lillian and youngest son, Jacob. On the same page, there was a picture of the young family which left him with a profound sense of déjà vu.

Under the clipping, he saw an old and faded picture. The photograph looked to be of a crime scene although there were none of the usual signs of this being a police investigation. Centred in the frame was the body of Walter Mayweather whose head was turned unnaturally to the side. As judged from the bruise on his left cheek, it looked to be the result of a single blow.

Now, fighters were trained to absorb hits, especially to the head. These modern-day gladiators won by outlasting and outmuscling their opponents. With pictures serving as his guide, he traced out the impression of a bruise. While nasty and bloody, it appeared to have been made with an open-handed strike.

John could make out the imprint of individual fingers which gave him an idea of the size of the attacker. The overall size of the bruise seemed childlike in comparison.

Edward probably reached the same conclusion. Was it possible for a child to separate a man’s head from his neck with one blow? I don’t think the heavyweight champion of the world could manage that…

Also telling was the blood caked around his nose. This man had been left to die, and it took a couple of days for the bruise to develop. Too bad he was unable to see details surrounding the body. This shot could be from anywhere, but he suspected it had been taken nearer to The Grand.

“Mayweather!” John exclaimed.

Why does that name ring a bell? John got up and began to pace around the room, hoping that it would focus his mind.

His mind ran through all of the cases that seemed out of place or peculiar. The list was exhaustive and grew day by day. Despite the overwhelming number of files, he remembered one involving a female car crash victim.

John returned to the chair then looked at the family picture focusing on the young wife. The victim of that crash appeared older as judged by the crow’s feet and worry lines.

It was probably difficult to make ends meet with the main provider out of the picture. Given there were no obituaries, the wife must have assumed this washed-out boxer left her for greener pastures.

Looking at the back of the crime scene picture, he noticed how this shot had been taken before the article was published. Who took these post-mortem shots? Why were these revelations not brought forward? This had to be part of a larger conspiracy?

To pay off every lawyer, every judge, and peace officer in the area to deny justice was inconceivable. How could so many people be on the take? How could a conspiracy be all encompassing and remain unnoticed?

He flipped through a dozen pages then came across another picture. This shot was of an emaciated female victim. She was young. Even the physiological changes related to starvation would not rob her of that.

The bed was a mess; it seemed as though the victim had been there for the duration of her deterioration. It’s odd…there are no signs of restraints or any bruising on her body…

Whatever the cause, John could not fathom a situation where someone would simply waste away and not put up a fight. Unless they were not aware of it? Is that even possible?

On the back of the photograph, he found a name and date. That particular name threw him for a loop, and by now he had mostly grown numb to death reports. Wolf Packs had decimated convoys and their escorts. This had been a war of attrition and the price to be paid was in the blood of men.

“Lillian Mayweather,” he said while turning over the picture to get a better look.

Three dead from the same family and all under suspicious conditions. Unsurprisingly, this all revolved around The Grand and provided ample justification for the townspeople’s odd behaviour. It was hard to imagine that only one family had been decimated during that era. There must have been others, even if there were no case files to prove it.

Had this been The Grand’s way of keeping the locals in check? Fear was a powerful motivator, one which people paid a high price to ensure they were never targeted.

People often complained about their rights, but rarely fought for them. John felt that his fellow men were more concerned with a warm bed, good food and security. Taxation, wars or governmental intrusion rarely concerned them unless their basic needs were not met.

The barrister believed it was unwise to put his faith behind overarching conspiracies. The more people were involved, the more likely information would shake loose, even by accident.

To believe all key positions in town were paid off, monitored and controlled implied a certain degree of intellect and competence within the collective. If those bribed were dim-witted, they would readily divulge their secrets. If they were criminal masterminds like Moriarty, they would seek to leverage their knowledge to gain more power. Had Edward been involved in this conspiracy? Was this why they had him committed?

This situation is absurd! To even consider this possibility merited a trip to the nut house. Would he end up in the room Edward haunted? Subjected to electroshock treatments and experimented on with drugs?

He imagined himself being no more animated than a walking corpse, devoid of emotion or thought. John shuddered; the truth could condemn him to a fate worse than death.

John looked at the fire and observed time slowing down. He saw individual flames dancing in intricate detail while embers popped like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. It was both eerie and spectacular to witness this trick of the mind. As time slowed, the heat radiating from the fire diminished which left him feeling cold and alone. The world faded and was replaced by a dreary night out at sea.

“Focus, John,” he heard from deep within his subconscious.

Just like that, he was back in the study. For a moment he seemed confused by the presence of Eleanor’s voice. When was the last time we met? How about outside of my mind? More questions to stack onto his queue. Perhaps it was time to invest in a number dispenser. That way he could sort through them sequentially.

He gazed at the journal, noticing something peculiar. At first, he thought it had been a trick of the eye, but it was now plain as day. In the shot, he saw something that could not possibly originate from that era. He leaned closer to the diary to gain a different perspective, hoping to be proven wrong. Yet the image remained, calling out to him like a lighthouse on a stormy night.

While the picture was centred on the victim, he could see the silhouette of a woman standing near the door that led into the bathroom. This was a shape and form he was very familiar with. It was Eleanor’s silhouette, including the long black hair.

“Eleanor,” John said while questioning the validity of this discovery.

With renewed curiosity, he began to thumb through the journal pausing at every image. Sure enough, many of the shots had some sort of silhouette or an ethereal representation of Eleanor. He even found her eyes reflected through an empty wine glass. How eerie was it to find pictures of this single mother in photographs taken twenty years back? That would easily put her into her forties!

He heard something hit the window behind him. John went to investigate the noise, finding that the fog had rolled in. Peculiar, considering there were no lakes or rivers nearby. He chose to discount this as another one of the valley’s quirks. Even through the fog, John made out Eleanor’s silhouette. What’s she doing here? Does she know about my discovery? How can she possibly know?

John considered going down to meet her but changed his mind. The last time he made such an attempt, he ended up face-to-face with that infernal wall. He had no appetite for being lured away from his home in the middle of the night.

Instead, he returned to his chair, sat down and closed his eyes. He felt the heat radiating from the fire and imagined being in a warm embrace with Eleanor. Why am I so enthralled? Who cares?

CHAPTER 14

JOURNEY THROUGH THE RIVER OF BELIEF

November 10th 1948

Great, more rain,” John said while looking out the window.

There was nothing out there other than dreary grey skies. While it rained over the colourless landscape, he was reminded of his time at sea and had no desire to linger on that.

When’s the last time I saw the sun? For the life of him, he could not remember.

“That’s depressing,” John said.

Left to ponder his situation, something from within urged him to ignore the weather. John felt compelled to sit in his comfortable chair, light a warm fire and read a good book. That’s the better alternative?

John scanned the clifftop and found the familiar vestiges of The Grand hanging over the valley. Even through the naked eye, John made out the signs of decay from years of neglect.

How could I’ve missed the hotel when I moved here? That was a mystery since the hotel had been built to dominate the skyline. Instead, he needed to scan the ridgeline until it sort of appeared from out of his peripheral vision.

Nonetheless, the appearance of the hotel was probably a subterfuge, an illusion to keep people away. If the hotel was nothing more than a vacant husk, a monument to past atrocities, then the town’s collective fear ought to have ebbed. The stories should have lost their potency and faded into folklore. No one wants to believe in the bogeyman!

For now, John had a mystery of his own. He was curious about finding pictures of Eleanor within Edward Locke’s diary. These pictures had all been taken well over twenty years ago. It was unlikely that someone would be able to maintain a youthful glow for so long. There should be signs of age or decay, much like the hotel.

Eleanor looked to be a woman in her mid to late twenties. If he guessed her age correctly, then she would have been under ten when these shots were taken. Alternatively, if she were twenty in those pictures, then that would put her well over forty!

Perhaps Eleanor has a doppelgänger? Could these have been pictures of her mother or a close relative? The resemblances were uncanny, and that alone seemed to disprove the theory. Some children did resemble their parents, but was it possible to be a spitting image?

Frustrated with a slew of questions without answers, John returned to his seat facing the fireplace. He was settled on the idea of seeking out Eleanor; it was time to contemplate future plans. In time, he wanted to scale The Grand’s walls to see what lay beyond. That could wait, given how the rain and humidity seeped into his bones. Will I ever feel warm again?

Once he began to read his book, John smiled. This particular diversion may yet prove useful since he was reading ‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ hoping that the story would read a bit like a how-to manual.

November 11th 1948

As expected, Eleanor proved to be as elusive as she was mysterious. On this rain-soaked morning, John walked through town drenched from head-to-toe. He hated the rain and the cold but focused on scouring the town for signs of that raven haired beauty.

John shivered with every gust of wind, clenching his jaw in frustration until he laid eyes on a young couple walking hand in hand. At first, nothing appeared to be out of place, but he had this nagging feeling that something was amiss. It’s a Kodak moment with that couple looking oblivious to the rain.

The barrister remembered falling for an English girl during the war and how the world and its woes melted away with nothing more than a kiss. For a time, the ravages of war no longer concerned him. One glance at her piercing grey eyes was all he needed. That is, until he returned from a patrol and found out that her neighbourhood had been bombed out of existence. Why can’t I remember her name?

John slid the final piece of the puzzle into place. They were oblivious to the rain because it had no effect on them. While John was soaked, these two were dry as a bone. He stopped dead in his tracks, fixated on the couple who turned around a corner then faded into the storm.

Footsteps approached from behind. John turned to find a man heading towards the diner. Again, he saw how rain passed through and left him dry. Why does he seem so familiar? Curious, he decided to follow.

This was a small town and yet most of its inhabitants remained a mystery to him. John was normally engrossed in casework and barely travelled. That had been his daily routine, leaving a great many faces in the background, doomed to anonymity.

This man was not a regular to the diner, seeing as John was. The man was well-built, stocky and walked about with a sense of purpose, traits that reminded him of a boxer. John swore he had seen him before but could not remember where.

The man walked into the diner then held the door open as John hurriedly escaped the weather outside. The barrister hung up his coat and hat though it did him little good considering he was soaked.

A pang of hunger overtook John once the aroma of hot food wafted his way. With the urge digging away at him, he sat at a booth but kept an eye on the man.

“What will it be today, John?” Rose asked.

John’s eyes trailed over to Rose, lingering over her youthful features. For the first time, he realised how beautiful she was. John’s caseload kept him busy, certainly, but how could he have been so blind? Out of nowhere, a powerful sense of déjà vu hit him but this time he connected the dots.

“Lillian,” John said while looking for signs of recognition.

“Excuse me?” Rose asked.

The waitress showed no signs of recognising the name and for a moment, he doubted his instincts. So John visualised the picture he saw two weeks ago.

Wait! What? That was last night, John thought.

Confusion seeped in, leading him to doubt his conclusions. His eyes darted away from Rose, scanning over the new arrival which led to another moment of clarity.

“Do you know who that man is over there?” John asked.

“Who?” Rose asked while looking a bit perplexed.

The barrister nodded towards the boxer-type fellow then said, “That one there.”

“Dunno,” Rose said then followed through with a shrug. “I’ve never seen him here before, John.”

“I thought you two might have been related,” John said then turned towards the menu.

Rose looked dumbfounded, leaving little doubt that she was being honest. He was about to speak up when a new patron walked in. This time, the mouse-like features instantly conjured up the name of Morris Little, a man who had been the victim of a vicious animal attack and died nearly twenty years ago.

John went pale, blood drained from his face and left behind a wax-like finish. As his eyes darted from Morris to Lillian and finally onto Walter, John felt as though his fears were justified.

“I’m sorry,” John said with a slight stutter.

He got up, grabbed his hat then walked out of the diner. In his haste, John forgot his coat, but given the weather, that would be the least of his concerns.

* * * *

John left the diner in a hurry, the idea that these were murder victims was ludicrous! Perhaps those crime scenes were staged? All of that just to drive me batty?

Such a plot would need intricate planning, preparation and surveillance to pull off. Was that less plausible than a concerted effort to conceal atrocities committed at a luxury hotel?

Both of these theories were ridiculous, a bit like a man holding a billboard that said the end was near. For some, these were the words of a lunatic, to others, they were preaching the gospel.

While crossing the street, he noticed five men walking towards him. It was the lead man that got his attention, more specifically his eyes. This man had dead eyes, something he had seen before in shell-shocked soldiers.

John changed direction, cutting through the spacing between two buildings. For the moment, he was more concerned with evading the dearly departed. He travelled for twenty minutes but wanted nothing more than to head for home. Yet, his car was parked at the other end of town and there were too many ghosts in the way to get there undetected.

A moment ago, the rain reminded him of thunderous applause which had almost rendered him deaf. Now there was dead silence and he discovered that he was at the epicentre of an opening situated over the town’s bridge. John noted how the downpour continued beyond the perimeter, he also noticed there was a speck of blue sky above. To think, this is the first blue sky I’ve seen in months!

“John,” Eleanor said from behind.

How did she manage to do that? John turned and saw her leaning against the railing while gazing into the water. It occurred to him how odd it was for the water to retain its deep turquoise colour despite the heavy rains. Dirt and sediment should have contaminated the river by now.

“How did you—” John began.

“Know where to find you?” Eleanor asked.

John found Eleanor to be even more beautiful than ever. Today she wore a long flowing white dress that suited her curves perfectly. Given her dark hair and eyes, it created an ideal contrast. Despite all he had seen today he had no urge to run. Why?

“How do you—” John asked but was cut off yet again.

“Know what you are about to say?” Eleanor said in reply.

Just as she smiled, the sun somehow shone through the opening. The sun’s rays imbued her with some sort of heavenly glow. John could sense desire grow within. Why? Well, I have a pretty good idea on the why.

Eleanor did not allow John to say another word. She walked up to him in long sensual strides. He felt helpless, unable to do anything more than focus on her. At first, his gaze was fixed on her dress then his eyes drifted upwards to her ample bosom. Meanwhile, her black eyes remained fixed on him while she beckoned with a smile. For a moment, John believed he was living out a fantasy.

“This is not a fantasy,” Eleanor said while her fingers walked up his chest then across his neck.

They paused, staring at one another until she took the lead by wrapping her arms around him. For a moment John thought of telling her that he was soaking wet. Why? I’m dry as a bone? Huh?

Eleanor pushed up using the tips of her toes so she could reach his lips. John’s heart raced wildly when their lips met; he could not help how he felt. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around her willing body, and felt all his fears melt away.

“At least not precisely,” Eleanor said.

John opened his eyes just in time to watch her push him with such vigour that he went flying through the air. In one singular motion, Eleanor sent him over the railing. Before his mind could register what happened, he splashed into the glacial waters.

November 11th 1943

Focus, John,” Eleanor said.

John found himself underwater. The water was dark as night and tasted of fuel and brine. There were no doubts as to where he was. From above, he saw a woman dressed in white that beckoned, an odd reversal considering the role sirens played in legends.

John paused, pulled out his sea knife then cut the laces from his boots. Free from their weight, he swam towards the surface while his lungs were burning. Even though the air was filled with noxious smoke John was overwhelmed with a sense of relief.

In no time at all, the smells reached his senses. It made his nose curl. Now he could feel the urge to take his chances below. He needed only to fill his lungs with water to be at peace.

Once his mind settled, he looked about to find a piece of flotsam. He saw a sailor clinging to the piece but his skin had gone blue. John embraced this opportunity for survival by prying the stiffened fingers loose so the sea could claim another victim.

John took a view of the carnage unleashed by the Wolfpacks. He remembered how a torpedo had struck their ship amidships which led to a sympathetic detonation within the ship’s magazine. The explosion had torn the ship apart and launched him clear off the bridge. Despite surviving the initial attack, the shock wave had left him stunned.

John was not sure if he was the sole survivor. After spotting the half-submerged wreck off in the distance, that did little to reassure him. Based on the dispersal of fires, the attack claimed several ships before the U-Boats dove deep to avoid retribution.

Now a woman wearing a long white dress came into view. John had no doubt this was Eleanor. There she stood upon the waves while her bare feet created tiny ripples while she walked. Wait! What?

“Are you ready?” Eleanor asked.

John’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach when he noted the doubt in her eyes. John mulled over the situation before speaking. After all, he wanted that question to be reasonable.

“Ready for?” John asked in return.

“You know that sailor you just sent to Davy Jones’ Locker?” Eleanor asked.

“What about him?” John replied.

Eleanor leaned down, even as her knees pressed into the water her dress remained dry. She got so close to his ear that it tickled when she spoke.

“Think about it,” Eleanor whispered.

John mulled over the events. At the time he was too focused on survival to notice the sailor in question. Chivalry may have been the better part of valour, but that notion was tossed out the porthole when survival was the only option. All he had to do was pry a few fingers from the dead… Wait!

“Yes,” Eleanor said, then added, “That was you.”

Eleanor knew these words would take time to soak in. John was one of those who was not only unprepared for the transition, but unwilling to declare his life forfeit.

“What was all that?” John managed to ask.

Eleanor grabbed him by the hand then pulled him out from the water. Despite her slight frame and size, she had no trouble doing so.

From the moment he was freed, time froze and a white light flooded the immediate area. The light filled him with warmth and was followed by a sense of comfort. Oddly enough, this was a sensation he often experienced in her presence.

“You were so miserable and afraid,” Eleanor said calmly. “When I found you floating out here surrounded by a mass of bodies, I brought you to a place that I knew well. I gave you a view on how life might have been.”

Bewildered, John stepped back. A part of his mind realised he was standing on water and feared he would fall through. Fear invigorated him, made his senses come alive, even though she just confirmed the opposite.

Did this explain all of the bizarre occurrences in town? He was dead and Eleanor made up an alternate life to prepare him to move on? Why were elements of The Grand and its murders featured so prominently? Why not some sort of utopia?

“It was in you to seek out the injustices of the world,” Eleanor replied.

Her ability to read his thoughts should have been a clue that there was something peculiar about her. She exhibited that behaviour the moment we met!

“The Grand keeps me busy,” she said with a light sigh. “The town and its surroundings are beautiful and far from the sea. It was my hope that you would not dwell on the darker elements of that reality and live a life that would better prepare you to move on.”

Instead, John had squandered the opportunity she provided. Or was it a being? Creature? Goddess? His need to fight injustices in the world led him to uncover the truth. Did that explain the weather? Had I been the cause of all that rain recently?

“Precisely,” Eleanor said. “I could not interfere more than I had.”

John was left to realise why doses of cold water brought him back to this place. Eleanor had been there to help him focus. Why?

“Are you ready?” Eleanor asked.

Once more, John looked about to see the same doubt lingering in her eyes. However, this time she scanned the horizon as though expecting something to appear.

“For what?” John asked.

It was rarely polite to answer a question with another, but given the circumstances it seemed appropriate.

“Nothing,” Eleanor said.

Before John could say something, she faded out of existence.

“Eleanor!” he pleaded, but it was too late.

November 11th 2003

The change in motion got Jessica’s attention well before the alarm sounded. Without much thought, she got up from her bunk and got dressed. All around her, items were shifting within their cabinets. Fortunately, she and her assistant had secured for sea prior to leaving port.

“Port watch to rescue stations,” she heard over the main broadcast.

All the while, she struggled with her boots. The ship was gaining headway while banking hard to starboard, which made moving around tricky. That did not stop sailors from hurrying down the flats on their way to the boat deck.

“Port watch to rescue stations,” the broadcast repeated.

In the background, she heard one of the bridge watchkeepers giving orders to the helm. Soon enough, the bridge would be abuzz with activity. Jessica put on her last boot just as the ship levelled off, noticing that the seas were calm.

The ship had been traversing a particularly nasty storm for the past three weeks. The sea state had been high enough to pipe down all non-essential personnel.

Most of the crew were green around the gills, eating little more than saltines. People were lined up every morning waiting to restock their supply of motion sickness pills and patches.

Jessica left sickbay and breached the airlock. She was instantly hit with the odour of burning diesel and flesh. She blocked out the urge to hurl then looked about. There were no ships on the horizon, no running lights or burning fires to mark the origin of these odours.

She made her way to the starboard side just as one of the ship’s boats was swallowed up by the night. The seas were eerily calm and fortunately, there was no fog. Otherwise, the bridge would have missed whoever was out there.

Within minutes, the boat returned with a third man aboard. As the boat approached, she made out the man’s uniform and found it peculiar. He was dressed like an extra from the ‘Cruel Sea.’ Her experience of the movie may have been as part of a drinking game, but that uniform was hard to miss. Could he be some sort of merchant shipman?

More of the crew broke onto the quarterdeck as the boat pulled up alongside to assist this man with boarding the ship. The more she looked, the more he seemed out of place, even his crushed black hat adorned with the king’s crown appeared dated. After taking a few steps on the deck, he collapsed.

Jessica rushed to render assistance and when the man opened his eyes, he smiled. He reeked of diesel, the odour even wafted from his breath, so this poor man must have swallowed a few mouthfuls. Jessica was about to order a stretcher when he grabbed her arms and she saw that he was in a great deal of pain.

“Eleanor,” the man said as though pleading for it to be true this time.

“I’m Jessica,” she said while observing the desperation in his eyes.

In that moment, it appeared as though he had given up entirely on life. When Petty Officer Jessica Hayes turned around to order a stretcher, she noticed the vacant look on the crew’s collective faces.

Once Jessica turned back, she found no trace of the man; only a light coat of oily residue remained. At that moment, she shared the same stunned look as the rest of the crew.

EPILOGUE

GHOUL HUNTERS

July 16th 2015

You guys suck!” a man yelled from the sidewalk as Tyler’s van turned the corner of a busy city street.

“Hey,” Tyler said under his breath. “Fuck you.”

This was not exactly news, at least not from the loyal and dedicated fans of their competitors. For them, the Ghoul Hunters were yet another copycat paranormal investigation group who gave the others a bad name.

Even their name lacked originality, because every good name was already copyrighted. How much could the market take when Beowulf’s Bayou Babes had a regular slot on prime-time television?

That relegated the Ghoul Hunters to webcasts, podcasts, and an o-dark-stupid time slot on community cable. Tyler tried not to think about a bunch of bikini-clad rednecks with a penchant for Ye Olde English poetry having a hit show.

If not for their distinctive van, no one would have known who they were. Tyler worked in the background, dealing with the logistics, and played a part in the show’s production. While that meant no one could pick him out from a crowd, that arrangement suited him fine.

Besides, it was Tyler’s fault for even agreeing to get a custom paint job done on the van. There were three gangly silhouettes caught in the glowing crosshairs of a rifle. In his mind they resembled the slender-man myth more than what he imagined when thinking of ghouls. However, the artist was certain that he got the form right. I’m not sure how he would know…

Just short of thirty, Tyler was the middle child of the group. However, the other two sometimes referred to him as the old man on account of his old-fashioned nature by being clean shaven, with taper trimmed black hair, and walking with a slight limp. What caused the latter also gave him a thousand-mile stare. When it was time for people to back off, he would focus those nearly black eyes on them and wait for them to realise there was something dark behind his polite exterior.

“Here we are,” Kyle said from the passenger seat.

They pulled into Kyle’s parents’ driveway, located in an affluent neighbourhood associated with old money. Despite new families moving into the area over the years, Tyler always felt as though he was being judged for not matching up to the neighbourhood’s character.

Given their budget, lack of patrons and popularity, this served as their base of operations. Kyle’s parents were corporate lawyers who gave their thirty-year-old son a wide berth. As long as he stayed out of the six-o’clock news, and did not max out the credit card, they could not care less about what he did. So long as he doesn’t tarnish their reputations…

Tyler envied the host of the Ghoul Hunters. That chiselled physique, piercing blue eyes and sandy hair were like ambrosia to women, and his personality was just the cherry on top. Alas, there was no drive, everything he wanted was at his fingertips… And that includes women.

Once Tyler arrived at the basement, he flicked the light switch to shed some light on all their equipment, electronics, and sensors. They referred to this place as their Command Centre, and they had no reason to complain. We could have ended up in worse places.

They were here to lick their wounds. They had spent a week investigating rumours surrounding an old farmhouse. Local legends and historical records confirmed that several gruesome murders occurred in the home’s one-hundred-and-fifty-year history. Despite the thousands of hours of footage they captured over the weekend, the Ghoul Hunters came up with a big fat goose egg.

While die-hard fans of this genre were patient, they had their limits. Bealzabook fans, by far the most fickle, would soon drop off unless their luck improved. Other shows were known for making mountains out of molehills, like turning a chair moving an eighth of an inch by itself into the incontrovertible proof of life after death. They had to be better than these shows to draw in an audience.

Throughout the ages, people sought reassurances that their life choices would yield some sort of reward. Perhaps a paradise for the good, while damning those who strayed. It was different for him, as a combat veteran he had seen things that made him question such beliefs. Humans are not at the top of the food chain…

Every time I close my eyes, I find myself back there…

* * * *

Their platoon had been ordered to take over a forward operating base. Orders came from high up the chain, and the LT appeared uneasy about it. Word was this site was being used by special ops, which explained why there was nothing on the map. Although, it astonished him they could find anything in this dry and arid desert.

Upon reaching the base, a repurposed manor with mud walls surrounding the perimeter, Tyler found it odd there were no sentries. As a precaution the platoon did advance to contact manoeuvres and secured the location.

The place was deserted. It was as though everyone just walked off into the wastes. If that was true, then why leave their gear, munitions, and heavy weapons behind? Why was everything free of sand and dust?

For two weeks, they held the position under the punishing sunlight. Intelligence reports claimed there was no activity in the area. That meant they were alone, or the insurgents were keeping out of sight.

* * * *

On a moonless night, a patrol they sent out failed to return. The next morning, they found their bodies and equipment just outside the gate. Each soldier showed visible lacerations and were drained of blood.

Their bodies had been staged like mannequins, in the same order they left in. The LT went pale as a ghost, because there was not a drop of blood to be found. If that detail was not chilling enough, these men were found within earshot of their base, but no one heard a thing.

They requested immediate support but were denied by the brass. Meanwhile, they dispatched a detail to bring back the bodies before nightfall. Given the time needed to document and catalogue the scene, they barely got it done before the sun set. That was when they struck.

What they were was not immediately obvious. Black boots, white pants, and tunics, followed by a chapan coat that went down to knee level. When factoring in the turban, these insurgents were indistinguishable from the locals. While they approached the compound unarmed, it made little difference to the outcome.

These things could move from one side of the compound to the other in the blink of an eye. No human could throw a kitted-out infanteer across the compound, or tear one limb from limb. Sure, there were stories of people lifting oil drums over their heads when under the influence of drugs, but never applied to a coherent fighting force.

These things also knew what they were doing. They took out the LT in the first strike and systematically dismantled the command-and-control structure of the platoon. Those who remained were panicked, disorganised, and unable to mount an effective defence.

As the platoon’s most junior member, Tyler was issued the light machine gun. Without hesitation, he emptied a two-hundred-round box without hitting a thing. The barrel glowed red after he depressed the trigger, but he did not care about the wear and tear on the weapon. Instead, he loaded another drum before spotting something.

The assailants showed no interest in him, since they did not view him as a threat. That meant he had leeway, but without a plan… Wait! Are those grenade crates by the fuel point?

With a freshly minted plan in mind, Tyler grabbed one of his grenades, pulled the pin, and threw it at the cache. The grenade sailed through the air while he grabbed another. Fuck! Take cover!

He counted to five and feared it was a dud. When he counted six, there came a blast that sent a shockwave over the compound.

The detonation sent crates soaring through the air, scattering incendiary grenades all over the compound. Within moments, bright patches of fiery hell were burning throughout. Thermite was dangerous at the best of times, but tonight it was the most beautiful thing he ever set eyes on. No way that anyone’s crazy enough to venture out in that.

Tyler figured he could wait until the fires burned out. However, that plan went to hell the moment a wave of pain washed over him.

He clenched his jaw then glanced down at an insurgent gripping his leg. For all intents and purposes, it looked human. He expected to find something grotesque, like a mutilated face, black mirror-like eyes, or even a lizard tongue. There was nothing separating this man from what stared back at him in the mirror. Wait! Are those fangs protruding from his upper lip?

No matter, the pain caused Tyler to loosen his grip on the second grenade. The spoon sprang into the air, banishing his heart to the pit of his stomach. There came an audible snap, followed by a blinding flash of pain. He fumbled around for his pistol to shake off his assailant, but it was gone.

“Oh shit,” Tyler said.

With time and distance against him, he needed to get out of there. I’m not going anywhere fast with this leg.

“One,” Tyler counted, while mulling over reaching for the grenade. No time!

“Two.”

Tyler moved to stand on his good leg, while the injured one sent out waves of pain every time he moved. With no choice but to move forward, Tyler simply clenched his jaw, struggling to control his breathing as he fought through the pain. He went to take a step, but in his haste forgot about his broken leg and fell forward into an unplanned combat roll. Thank you, James T. Kirk!

“Three,” Tyler said upon reaching cover.

Unfortunately, he remained partially exposed. In the background, there came a loud whoosh which sounded a bit like a model-rocket launch.

“Four.”

He laid flat against the ground to minimise his profile. I hope this works!

“Five,” Tyler added.

This time his count was bang on. The leg nearest to the blast was torn up by shrapnel, and to be honest he barely felt a thing. While the pain would phase in once his mind registered the sheer scope of the trauma, at least he was conscious for now. That means I’m alive? Right?

Tyler heard a distant pop. A moment later, an intense white light washed over the compound.

In a corner, Tyler saw another private with a long green plastic tube. He recognised it as a parachute flare, the very thing that turned night into day just now. The insurgents had left the compound. Was it because of the intense light or because of the raging infernos within?

“Who cares,” Tyler said before losing consciousness.

* * * *

“Wha—” Tyler whispered, unsure of where he was.

His mind had been caught in a state between reality and what happened at the compound years ago. If not for Lauren, he might have remained like that for hours. He sometimes woke up from this state after collapsing from fatigue because it hit while he had been standing, like now, or after relieving himself. Kyle had to take me to the hospital once after a particularly bad episode.

“Do you see it?” Lauren repeated.

Lauren was the shapely buxom brunette who served as their technical adviser and operated their audio-visual equipment. At twenty-eight, she was the youngest and the wisest. It took her all of five minutes to friend-zone the both of them.

“See what?” Tyler asked in a distant voice.

Tyler needed a minute to come back to his senses. He hated it when the memories of that night became his reality. At least I’m at our command centre, so I didn’t make a scene at a restaurant.

“It happened again?” Lauren asked. “Didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tyler replied before sitting down.

As expected, his leg began to throb, as though all those months spent recovering in Germany never happened. While it was said that time heals all wounds, his mind was not following direction.

“Sorry,” Tyler said, while his voice was strained.

“Well, this will help take your mind off things.” Lauren pointed at three photographs laid out on the table they used for planning and logistics.

He found pictures of what appeared to be the remains of an enormous castle. The first was an aerial shot over the site, while the latter two were taken from the valley floor. As judged by the state of the buildings in the foreground, the latter two had been taken from within the ruins of a town.

“Ruins are always good,” Tyler replied.

He noticed there was another picture in Lauren’s hand. Experience told him she was holding the proverbial smoking gun. The shot that would distract him from that fateful mission and his phantom leg pain. Fat chance!

True to form, she dropped another picture atop the others. It appeared to be the same place, but taken in its heyday, before age and neglect took hold.

“Nice place…so what am I missing?” Tyler asked.

She sighed, annoyed that Tyler’s mental acuity was often dull after one of his episodes.

Lauren’s smile melted away before answering, “You see that building in the historical photograph? Notice how they built it right into the cliffside…”

Lauren pointed out the several floors that extended below the ridgeline.

“Yeah.” Tyler scanned the other pictures.

A place like that must have cost a fortune to design and build. They had to carve out thousands of tons of rock just to make room.

“Wait…” Tyler said.

He realised that the rock face was intact in the modern shots.

“Where’s the hole?” Tyler confirmed.

“Exactly!” Lauren said.

Lauren turned away from him for a moment, which gave Tyler a good view of her backside. It would have taken an act of god to conceal his shit-eating grin.

Sure, Tyler had no chance with her, but she was stunningly beautiful. What was the harm in getting an eyeful? I think she enjoys the attention.

Lauren noticed his grin. Her eyes narrowed, and that tense jaw and those thin lips sent a chill running down his spine. This time she had another ace up her sleeve. Lauren dropped another picture, taken from an infrared camera. In this wavelength, the structure was intact, with no wear and tear visible.

“Except for that historical shot, these were taken last week by a fan on Bealzabook,” Lauren said.

“We can’t afford to go to Europe,” Tyler said.

This could be their one-way ticket to stardom. However, the price to hop across the pond was well beyond their means. Not even with all the loose change Kyle found between his parents’ couch cushions would do.

“That’s not a problem,” Lauren said. “This place is a few hours from the city along the highway.”

“A castle?” Tyler asked. “H-h-here?”

“Actually, it’s a hotel,” Lauren replied.

“Some hotel,” Tyler said in awe.

There were several variations like that in the big cities, most of which had been built by railway companies. These once served as waystations of the rich; their way of waiting out connections in style.

“Yep. It was opened during the Roaring Twenties and went bankrupt after business dried up when the stock market crashed,” Lauren added.

Tyler smiled. “Do you think these are legit?”

“Yep,” Lauren answered. “I checked the metadata and found no artefacts in the images.”

Being faced by this once-in-lifetime opportunity left him lightheaded. They would need a couple of days to prepare, but they were up for the task.

Off the top of his mind, their gear needed to be calibrated, tested, and packaged. Since these were ruins, that meant roughing it, and with that came camping gear, a generator, fuel…

“Kyle!” Tyler yelled while facing the ceiling. “Road trip!”

A muffled cheer came from above. Knowing Kyle, they would soon celebrate the news with ice-cold beer.

July 21st 2015

So what are we up against?” Tyler asked while driving along the back roads leading to the foothills.

Kyle had been busy sifting through their research. The Ghoul Hunters needed him to absorb as many facts as possible on the situation. Kyle would later interject with the odd tidbit of trivia while filming to play the role of an informed host.

“To be honest, there’s not much to go on…” Kyle replied. “The town corporation dissolved about sixty years ago. All the records should have been transferred to the county.”

Kyle paused until he had a clear picture in his mind.

“Records that survived appear to have been sanitised. They create the impression that this was a mundane town dealing with an occasional bout of vandalism,” Kyle said.

He furrowed his brow until the pieces fell neatly into place.

“Odd, considering they had a courthouse and a sizable police force,” Kyle said. “Which was unheard of for such a small centre.”

“You caught that detail, eh?” Tyler interjected.

There was something peculiar about so many records being lost or destroyed. He needed to confirm if Kyle had a grasp over the key talking points before moving on. Still, Tyler kept quiet, hoping their host would come through.

“Lauren found a slew of missing person’s posters stemming from the twenties on—” Kyle said in a flash of insight.

Kyle paused as their four-by-four drove into a tunnel. This was one of his quirks; going silent whenever they drove under an overhanging structure. Loads of fun at a drive through.

“There are more missing persons’ reports here than anywhere else in the country. When you factor in the First Nations legends that the valley is cursed, it paints a grim picture,” Kyle added once clear.

“I think it’s safe to say you got most of it,” Tyler said.

The veteran returned his focus to this stretch of nondescript highway. It was still early in the morning and if everything went according to plan, they would arrive around mid-day. Despite excitement hanging in the air, they remained silent, as though expecting to wake up from a dream.

* * * *

As they entered the valley nestled in between the Rocky Mountains, Tyler noticed a woman standing on the side of the road. Since the truck was packed with equipment and tools, they could not stop for her. Besides, Tyler knew that Lauren, who was driving the rear vehicle, would lose it if they picked her up. Unless her heart were to grow three sizes.

His eyes locked onto this peculiar hitchhiker and he noted that the bronze skin and black hair marked her as being indigenous. However, her outfit was entirely unexpected. She had on a flowing white dress, impractical for travelling the back-country on foot. I’m not even sure she has a bra on…

“Odd,” Tyler whispered.

“Did you say something?” Kyle asked, busy preparing his social media responses.

He had taken his eyes off her for a second, but that was enough for her to vanish. That development was downright creepy, but Tyler dismissed it as a product of an overactive imagination.

“Oh nothing,” Tyler said in reply. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

He spent the rest of the trip in silence, enjoying the forest cover of the valley, with the mountains looming over them. It’s hard to believe there’s a major highway running parallel to us about a kilometre north.

* * * *

They arrived at the ruins of the town around mid-day. The settlement had surrendered to nature long ago. There were trees growing out through the roofs.

Some buildings had collapsed onto themselves, leaving behind mounds of rot and decay. Brick structures appeared to fare better, but a quick glance through a window revealed the floors had either collapsed onto one another or rotted away.

A good night’s sleep at this town’s hotel was unlikely, since all that remained was a rusted-out sign. Without their GPS, they might not have found this place.

“I must have driven by dozens of times and never noticed,” Lauren said while the others nodded in agreement.

Given the remote location, Kyle opted to buy additional insurance on the rentals in case something went wrong. That way they would not need to worry about scratching the skid plate or denting the fender. These rides also had the traction and horsepower needed to track up that mountain toward The Grand.

From a bridge that crossed an azure river, they had a clear view of the ridgeline. Behind the cliff, there were majestic snowcapped mountains, present even at the height of summer. Other than wind and running water, Tyler noted there was an absence of animal noises. Not even the caw of a magpie or a crow…

“Can you see anything?” Tyler asked Lauren.

“It’s uncanny,” Lauren replied.

The tech turned the camera’s viewfinder towards them so they could get a better view. Both Tyler and Kyle made out the walls, windows, and a structure. All of it untouched by time, but once she flicked the switch on the camera, the hotel returned to ruins.

“Freaky,” Kyle said.

Kyle took a shot of the ruins, after which he confirmed they had full bars, enough for media to be copied over to the Cloud in seconds.

Everyone had a similar setup in case their gear was immersed in water, stolen, or dropped into molten lava while they were escaping a murderous death cult. Lauren even established a mobile hotspot so older equipment could sync up as well.

“Here we are, standing at the edge of a ghost town. Our destination for today? The Grand,” Kyle narrated while typing out the words on his phone.

He then took a selfie with the town’s ruins in the background and pressed ‘Send.’ That teaser would be sure to pique the interest of their fans.

“Shall we head up?” Lauren asked.

The men looked up at the ruined hotel, and then at the road leading to the cell tower. After that, they suspected it would be a rough ride. It was a good thing they opted to leave their van at home.

“Sure,” they replied before getting back into their truck.

“This should be fun!” Kyle exclaimed as the engine roared to life.

“Oh yeah,” Tyler confirmed.

If that were true, why were his instincts urging him to turn back?

* * * *

The last thing they expected to find after the cell tower was a freshly paved road. It made no sense for them to maintain the road beyond The Tower. They drove on regardless, curious about what would await them around the next corner. None turned back to gaze upon the valley floor that was bathed in the light of the westward sun.

They reached an impasse before getting near the hotel. Dead ahead there was a heavily corroded wrought-iron fence. While it had seen better days, the chain and oversized padlock securing the gate gleamed in the light. Why would anyone put a fresh lock on a rusty gate?

Tyler went to the back of the truck for a zip-saw. With a saw in hand, Lauren tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed at the gate and he realised the padlock was gone.

“When did that happen?” Tyler asked.

“Dunno,” Lauren said.

To prove a hunch, Lauren pushed against the gates, and they swung open effortlessly.

“Do you think we should turn back?” Lauren asked.

The surrounding air cooled noticeably, but their instruments did not register the change. Someone is seriously fucking with us.

They drove past the gates and through an overgrown garden. The trees here were misshapen from the years of storms, while a sea of weeds moved like waves in the wind. Even after decades of neglect, the hardier flowers still bloomed.

After mentally rolling back the years of neglect, these once-manicured lands would have been a sight to behold. Since Lauren was following them, they could not tell if this was all an illusion. A shame that we can’t see the world through Lauren’s viewfinder.

Upon reaching the halfway point, they came across a massive tree trunk lying on the road. Tyler hesitated for a moment and smiled.

“You got the insurance on these trucks?” Tyler asked. “Right?”

“Yeah… Why?” Kyle asked, confused.

“No reason,” Tyler said before burying the accelerator.

In response to an imminent crash, Kyle grabbed onto the oh-shit handle. However, it was all for naught. They drove straight through the felled tree and appeared on the other side intact.

“Whoa!” Kyle asked, “What was that?”

“Another illusion,” Tyler said with a wide grin on his face.

“Like that lock?” Kyle asked, still wide eyed from the event. “How did you know?”

“Well, there was no stump on either side,” Tyler said.

It was a good thing they opted to have dash-mounted cameras in these trucks. It would be a challenge for the viewers to disprove how they passed through a solid object.

“So, you figured that the best way to prove your hunch was to take a run at it?” Kyle asked. “What if it turned out to be real?”

“Then the airbags would have deployed and Lauren would browbeat our corpses,” Tyler said.

The pause that followed hinted that those words must have formed a vivid picture in Kyle’s mind. The ensuing shiver only confirmed Tyler’s hunch.

They arrived at the foot of a stagnant pond contained by a stone embankment. The remnants of a statue in the middle confirmed this had once been an imposing fountain. However, water no longer poured from the rust-stained spouts, and a thick layer of algae covered its surface.

The sight of all that stagnant water took him back to his early army training, specifically all that time spent ploughing through swamps. The smell and sound of buzzing mosquitoes awakened memories that he thought suppressed long ago. Those bloodsuckers were relentless.

Beyond the fountain, lay the remnants of the hotel. The walls had collapsed, and the roof was gone. Little of it remained, which was odd considering the scale of the hotel.

Lauren pulled out her gear from the truck and began filming the area in the visible light spectrum. Tyler and Kyle crowded behind her while she switched through various modes until the hotel appeared to be intact.

“Can you hear that?” Lauren asked.

On instinct, Tyler closed his eyes and let his jaw hang loose. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The wind was blowing, and water trickled playfully into the pool.

“Nothing…wait…running water?” Tyler said.

“Correct,” Lauren replied before turning to face the fountain.

In infrared light, the fountain and the water pouring through the spurts were clear as day. That’s one hell of a trick! Was this some sort of illusion? Or were they peering through a window to the past?

Kyle took a video which had both the viewfinder and the fountain in the frame. He then turned the camera on himself before adopting his well-practised host pose.

“How spooky is that!” Kyle exclaimed. “Here we are in the ruins of an old railway hotel from the Roaring Twenties. From the naked eye, it appears to be nothing more than an old fountain. A home for skeeters and frogs.”

He paused before adopting the used-car-salesman smile, then panned the camera. That way he could show to their audience that there was no obvious source of running water.

“Riddle me this,” Kyle said. “Where’s that trickling sound coming from?”

Once done, Kyle typed out something on his phone before posting the video on Bealzabook and Twitcher. With that kind of footage, fans would get excited.

“Ever the eye for theatrics,” Tyler said.

Kyle bowed in a melodramatic fashion, and Lauren chuckled. The host walked up the steps and bolted toward the space between the walls, where the doors once stood.

Before anyone could object, Kyle slammed face-first into an invisible wall. The impact caused him to bounce off and land straight on his ass. I wonder how much money we’d make in blackmail by withholding that video?

Both Lauren and Tyler covered up a smirk prior to converging on Kyle. The host held his nose as blood poured out from between his fingers. While Tyler thought it was funny, he hoped it was not broken, because that meant going back to the city. Tyler was sure another crew would swoop in to claim all the glory if that were to happen…

Kyle looked up to the both of them and said, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Lauren said with a smirk.

Lauren froze in place, her eyes fixated on blood splatter suspended in mid-air. Tyler took several pictures with his camera phone and confirmed that the GPS coordinates were embedded. From where they stood, the blood drops projected a shadow over the ruined floor.

As though channelling his inner-mime, Tyler pressed up against the invisible surface. The onlookers went wide eyed and slack jawed. This discovery shot down the theory of this being a window in time.

“Wait here,” Tyler said.

In response, Lauren kept the camera trained on him. Meanwhile, Tyler ran his hands over the invisible wall until he felt the wooden grain of the doors. He found the gap, leaving Tyler a reference point. He then located a handle and pulled. Just like that, Tyler vanished, leaving the others with more questions than answers.

A minute later, Lauren and Kyle jumped after hearing a knock. Tyler then reappeared wearing a shit-eating grin.

“I could see you through the walls,” Tyler said.

“That was you?” Lauren asked. “You fuck!”

“If the esteemed star of Ghoul Hunters is done bleeding, he can check this out for himself,” Tyler said.

Kyle smirked before giving him the finger. This time it was Tyler’s turn to bow.

* * * *

It took about an hour to get Kyle cleaned up from the back of the lead truck. He would end up with some bruising, but makeup and a clean shirt sufficed for now.

Since his antics were caught on video, Lauren hijacked his social media accounts and posted this latest blunder. There was sure to be some resentment once he found out, but she knew all would be forgiven once the hits rolled in.

When ready, they assembled a couple of paces away from the invisible doorway. Kyle may have been the star, but it was Tyler who took the lead in dangerous situations.

Since there were no blueprints on record, they knew little of the hotel’s layout, or what to expect once inside. Their hearts raced in anticipation and adrenaline heightened their senses. Was this their ticket to stardom? Proof of the paranormal? Certainly, this would show everyone there were still mysteries left in this world. I wonder if—

One of the main doors opened, seemingly by itself, the sound echoing throughout the courtyard. Unlike Tyler’s foray into the hotel, this time they had a clear view of the interior. Inside, there were two rounded staircases beside an expansive hall. The gold trim, intricate carvings, and purity of the marble were a testament to the wealth needed to make this place a reality. What the actual fuck?

“Why are we seeing this now?” Lauren asked.

Her brows furrowed to the point where her eyes were nearly closed.

Tyler peeked over his shoulder to find a dull grey world. Despite it being a little after four in the afternoon, the shadows from the mountains were stretched out over the property. Fuck me…

“This way, if you please,” an unfamiliar voice said with a foreign accent.

While the accent was not Transylvanian in nature, the effect was the same. Their heads turned toward the speaker, as though in slow motion. There they were, just off to the side. Three men dressed in tailored black-and-white uniforms.

There were two immediately by the doors, whereas a third stood apart. That one had a similar uniform but was notable for his olive skin, dark hair, black eyes, and the name ‘Max’ engraved on a gold nametag. What this one lacked in height, he made up for with attitude. He’s clearly the one in charge…

* * * *

“Contact! Bravo—” the LT yelled before being eviscerated by an assailant.

“LT!” one of the senior sergeants said before being silenced by another attacker.

Tyler was back there, he could taste the sand in the air and smell the fresh blood. His eyes were wide and wild, unable to focus on a target. There were so many, and they moved so fast he could not follow them.

“I need—” Tyler said. Not now!

* * * *

“We don’t have a reservation,” Lauren quipped, though only someone who knew her would pick up the additional trembling in her voice.

Tyler tasted blood in his mouth and his cheek stung like a son-of-a-bitch. The shock from his self-inflicted wound and Lauren’s voice were enough to wrestle him away from entering that mind trap.

He considered spitting out the blood, but figured these three would get off on that. Instead, he closed his eyes and swallowed it. The sound echoed throughout the entryway, and for a moment he thought he might have to puke it up, but he pushed through. They won’t make me the main course.

God, she’s awesome. He was floored that Lauren had been the first one to recover from their collective stupor and drop a witty one-liner to boot!

Tyler peeked through the viewfinder. In all modes, the interior remained visible. However, the infrared view showed there was no difference between the ambient temperature inside the hotel and the body temperature of those men before them.

“You are in luck, madam, there are vacancies for tonight,” Max said in a painfully formal tone.

“We don’t have any cash…” Kyle tried to say with confidence, but his voice trailed off to a whisper.

For being such a smooth operator with the ladies, Kyle certainly did not deal well with being faced by the indisputable truth that science and religion needed a rethink.

Max disappeared and reappeared behind Kyle. The shock of someone disappearing and reappearing within the blink of an eye caused Lauren to drop her camera. The viewfinder revealed nothing initially, although the sound of blood dripping was followed by a deluge of viscera spreading out ahead of the camera. Seconds later, Kyle fell forward onto his knees before face-planting into his own mess.

Tyler knew what they were and realised that the shadow of those mountains effectively cut off any chance of escape. A shame that he had been too focused on exposing them to heed their warnings. There’s no way we’re getting out of this alive.

“Now, if you two will follow me,” Max said, no longer concealing the underlying threat.

Lauren’s eyes were glassy, and her breathing was shallow. Tyler pulled Lauren in the right direction, and her legs moved mechanically. The camera continued recording as their steps grew faint. Later, the doors were shut, and Kyle was dragged away by an unseen force.

Tyler had no wish to antagonise his host just yet, so he played the part of a man broken by the trauma. That left him to focus on where to make his last stand. They were led up the left staircase, like lambs to the slaughter, past the cheerful cherub-filled fountain and up to the front counter.

The man removed his soiled gloves and disposed of them in the wastebasket. From the drawer he produced a fresh pair. In the interim, Tyler noticed those hands were mutilated. It was as though the skin had been removed to expose the muscle, sinew, and bone. Was this the result of an accident? Or done as a punitive measure?

Whereas Lauren stared out into the distance unaware of what was going on, Tyler was distracted by a couple dressed in formal evening attire passing by. The man and woman would look right at home in an old movie. They appeared to be oblivious to what was going on, but the two must have assumed Tyler and Lauren were not important enough to acknowledge. This place has been shuttered since the Great Depression? Right…

Max picked up the phone and selected one of the presets. The black wireless headset fitted to his ear freed him from the desk while the connection was made.

When the other side picked up, he said, “Cecil. I need a clean-up at the entrance.”

The concierge then focused on his remaining guests.

“How the fuck did you end up here?” Max asked.

The man had dropped any pretence of civility. Given his overt show of power from earlier, Tyler knew this would escalate fast, if answers were not forthcoming.

“We drove here. You invited us in,” Tyler said before a smile crept across his neutral features. Here’s as good of a place as any…

Prior to deployment, Tyler had been taught how to handle himself in cases of capture. He had spent the better part of a week naked, with little sleep or food. They questioned him constantly and even had him water-boarded, but Tyler never broke. However, he was certain Max and his cronies had creative ways of getting people to talk. He won’t get that chance…

Lauren began to shake. Tyler stepped closer to her and put his arm around her waist, fearing that she would faint. He needed her to stay mobile, so he could keep her alive for as long as possible.

Tyler kept his mind focused on the situation at hand. This was not a time to think about what happened to Kyle and he needed to keep his wits about him. He was certain they would not go down quietly.

“Wrong answer,” Max said.

The concierge paused, and a sickly smile fell upon his lips. Tyler knew this man would enjoy putting in the work needed to get his answers.

“Care to try again?” Max asked.

“Just a minute,” Tyler replied. He hugged Lauren before adding, “Can’t you see that you’re upsetting the lady?”

He leaned in close, which roused her from the depths of despair. Before she screamed, he whispered something into her ear. At first, she appeared to be confused, but eventually she returned his hug. Once he felt a tug, all the pieces were in place.

“Get away from her,” Max ordered.

“Fuck off,” Tyler replied.

Tyler needed more time, but that was complicated when faced by an opponent that could tear him apart with his bare hands. He hoped his outburst would appear non-threatening and he could eke out a few meagre seconds before showing his hand.

“Last chance,” Max said.

The concierge’s body went taut like a viper. This man was poised for an attack and there was nothing Tyler could do to prevent it.

“I said fuck off,” Tyler replied while tightening his grip over Lauren.

Lauren stiffened considerably, and for a few heartbeats they appeared to be inseparable. Then in the blink of an eye, they were three feet apart, torn away from each other by the concierge’s brute strength. At that moment, the spoon sprang free from the grenade that was crammed into Tyler’s backpack.

One…

Tyler watched as Lauren recovered and made a mad dash toward him.

Two…

He glanced at his phone, which showed the progress of multiple file uploads. So far, thirty pictures and two videos had been uploaded with another just about complete.

Three…

Tyler glanced at Max, whose eyes were tracking the spoon’s arc through the air.

Clearly, the concierge was not familiar with the tools of a modern war. A grenade going off was sure to be a novel experience for their host.

Four…

Tyler broke a smile. Meanwhile, Lauren collided with enough force that she toppled him over.

“Fuck you!” Tyler swore.

Tyler expected to feel something when he finally came face to face with death. Part of him hoped for a blinding white light to welcome him to the afterlife. Barring that, witnessing the entirety of his life passing before his eyes would have sufficed. Disappointingly, there was nothing at all.

The concierge was pushed back by the force of the explosion. He received a face full of shrapnel, including bone matter from the initial victims.

Max was going to have a hell of a time explaining this to the Boss.

December 14th 2015

GHOUL HUNTERS VIDEOS DECLARED A HOAX

By Victoria Frost of Consolidated Press

Videos purportedly filmed during the last investigation of the Ghoul Hunters, a lesser-known group of paranormal investigators, were deemed to be an elaborate hoax.

For the past several months, videos containing the graphic footage of their rumoured demise have circulated the internet. While these videos were pulled from mainstream sites because of their graphic content, hacker sites were getting millions of unique hits daily.

While the footage was thoroughly discredited by renowned experts in the field, the whereabouts of the group remains a mystery. Local police have stated the investigation is ongoing, and they are aggressively pursuing leads.

Certain fringe groups claim the footage is undeniable proof of the paranormal. Concurrently, conspiracy theorists insist the Ghoul Hunters’ footage proves the government is involved in an elaborate cover-up, claims which have been repeatedly denied by senior government officials.

In response to these naysayers, one expert had this to say, —You’d be surprised what you can do with a crabApple these days.—

LEXICON

A Snap

Something which is quick or easy.

Ab-so-lute-ly

Agreement in the affirmative.

Absent Treatment

Dancing with a bashful partner.

Airtight

Someone who is extremely desirable or attractive.

Attaboy

A congratulatory statement.

Balled Up

Confused and/or messed up.

Baloney

Complete nonsense.

Baby

Another word for sweetheart. Can also be used to denote something of high value or respect.

Baby Vamp

A woman considered attractive or popular.

Bank’s Closed

Not interested in kissing or fooling around.

Barneymugging

Euphemism for sex.

Beat It

Another word for go away.

Batty

Driving someone crazy.

Bee’s Knees

Excellent or very high quality.

Berries

Someone attractive or pleasing, or another word for great.

Berry Patch

Euphemism for a woman’s genital area.

Betty

An attractive woman.

Billboard

A flashy man or woman.

Bimbo

Slang for a tough guy.

Bingo

Used to express satisfaction at a sudden positive outcome.

Bird

A term for someone odd or strange.

Bird Cage

Elevator car.

Biscuit

A pettable flapper.

Black Tuesday

Also known as the Great Crash of 1929.

Blower

Slang for the telephone.

Blowhard

A braggart and/or a bully.

Bootleg

Alcohol that has been illegally produced.

Bronx Cheer

Loud sputtering noise to show disapproval. Also known as a raspberry.

Bub

Often used as an insolent term of address.

Bull

Slang referring to a police officer or another branch of law enforcement.

Bump in the Night

Unexplained and frightening noises at night, purportedly caused by ghosts.

Bumped Off

To have someone killed.

Bum’s Rush

To be forcibly removed from an establishment or locale.

Cable

Message sent by telegraph.

Cash

Euphemism for a kiss.

Caper

A criminal act which normally involves an elaborate plan.

Cat’s Meow

An excellent person or thing.

Chassis

Slang referring to the female form.

Cheque

Euphemism for saving a kiss for later.

Chippy

A woman who is the polar opposite of frigid.

Clip-Joint

A dance club filled with rich or sophisticated patrons.

Coffin Varnish

Moonshine.

Cool His Heels

Forced to wait.

Copacetic

That which is wonderful, fine or alright.

Cupid’s Bow

The way a flapper uses lipstick to make the bow more prominent, while also making their lips appear smaller.

Crashing the Party

The act of getting into a party in which one was not invited.

Daddy

A young woman’s boyfriend or lover, especially if he’s rich.

Dame

A lady.

Dapper

A flapper’s father.

Dead Hoofer

A lousy dancer.

Declaration of Independence

A divorce.

Di Mi

Dear me.

Dimbox

Slang for a taxi cab.

Dingle Dangler

Someone who insists on calling.

Doll

An attractive woman.

Doozie

Something that is big, complex, outstanding, or unique of its kind.

Dough

Slang for money.

Drugstore Cowboy

A man who tries to pick up women on a street corner.

Dumb Dora

A woman who is considered lacking in intellectual prowess.

Ducky

Great or wonderful. Can be used sarcastically to imply the opposite.

Edge

A term applied to the feeling of intoxication.

Electric Cure

As in, the electric chair; a permanent solution.

Face Stretcher

An older woman who adopts youthful fashions or wears heavy makeup to conceal her age.

Fancy Smancy

A derogatory way to refer to something high-class.

Finale Hopper

Someone who arrives after everything has been paid for.

Fire Extinguisher

A chaperone.

Flapper

A stylish, brash, hedonistic young woman with short skirts and shorter hair.

Flat Tyre

A dull-witted, insipid, and disappointing date.

Flivver

A Ford Model-T or any old car after 1928.

Flour Lover

Girl who is too liberal with the face powder.

Four-Flusher

A term applied to cheats, swindlers, and liars.

Gams

A woman’s legs.

Getaway sticks

A woman’s legs.

Giggle Water

An alcoholic drink.

Goofy

To be in love.

Hayburner

A vehicle that uses a lot of fuel.

Heater

Slang that is applied to firearms.

Heebie-Jeebies

Nervous or anxious.

Helluva

Alternate pronunciation for hell of a.

Hen Coop

A term referring to a beauty salon.

High-Hat

A snub.

Hit on All Sixes

Going full throttle or all out.

Hoity-Toity

Marked by an air of assumed importance.

Hole

Slang for solitary confinement in prison.

Hooch

Another term for bootleg alcohol.

Hoofer

Slang for a dancer.

Hoofing

The act of dancing.

Hoosegow

Slang for prison.

Horsefeathers

The equivalent of a modern swear word.

Indoor Aviator

Also known as an elevator operator. This is a play on the fact that their lives are composed of a series of ups and downs.

It

Slang for someone with sex appeal.

Jalopy

An old car or a beater.

Jane

A term applied to any female.

Juice Joint

Another name for a speakeasy.

Keen

Attractive or appealing.

Kick the Gong Around

Smoking opium.

Killjoy

A person who spoils other people’s fun or enjoyment.

Knee-Duster

Slang for a skirt.

Kodak Moment

A memorable moment that one would wish to capture on film.

Mad Money

Cab fare home if she gets in a dispute with her escort.

Make Do

Working with what one has.

Malarkey

Talk that is nonsensical.

Middle-Aisle

The act of getting married; walking down the middle-aisle at church.

Moll

A gangster’s girl.

Mistress Grundy

A priggish or extremely tight-laced person.

Munitions

Face powder and rouge.

Mustard Plaster

Someone who is not wanted and will not leave.

Neck

The act of kissing with passion.

Nobody Home

Describes someone who is dumb or dumbfounded.

Nertz

Used to express disgust, defiance, disapproval or despair.

Nervous Nellie

Timid or worrisome.

Off-Time Jive

To be inappropriate, impolite; to have bad manners.

On the Lam

Someone who is fleeing from the authorities.

On the Up and Up

Legitimate and above board.

Ossified

Someone who is intoxicated.

Palooka

An average or below average boxer.

Peashooter

The term for a firearm, normally of smaller calibres.

Petting

To make out or participate in foreplay.

Petting Party

A party where young couples make out.

Piece of the Action

Share of the profits or advantages generated by an activity.

Pill

A person who is generally unlikable.

Poufter

An effeminate male.

Pushover

Individuals who are easily convinced or seduced.

Quiff

A term applied to sexually active females.

Real McCoy

A term applied to an item that is genuine.

Ritzy

Based on the Hotel Ritz; implies elegance.

Rock of Ages

A middle-aged woman, usually over thirty.

Sap

Someone who is easily fooled.

Sapphic

Slang for a lesbian.

Says You

A reaction of disbelief.

Shell-Shocked

A term used during the Great War referring to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Speakeasy

An illicit drinking establishment dealing in bootleg alcohol.

Spifflicated

Someone who is intoxicated.

Spiffy

Something that is elegant or opulent.

Stewbum

Someone from the dredges or an old drunken hobo.

Sure-Fire

Will not fail.

Swanky

A term similar to ritzy.

Talkie

Original term for movies where actors speak.

Take for a Ride

The final drive someone will take before they are murdered.

Tapped Out

Slang used to imply that one has no money.

Tarte

Slang for a prostitute.

Tits

Slang for breasts.

To a Tee

Something which is made or fits properly or to exact specifications.

Toe-to-Toe

Being in direct confrontation or opposition.

Torpedo

A hired gun or enforcer.

Tough

Too bad.

Townie

Someone from the city.

On the Up and Up

Open and honest.

Upchuck

Slang for the act of vomiting.

Wallflower

A person who stands apart from others during a dance or party.

Waterworks

Crying.

What am I, Chopped Liver?

Frustration or anger at being ignored on a social level.

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

Evelyn Chartres is the nom de plume for a self-published Canadian author. The writer of eight Gothic fantasy novels, Evelyn released her debut novel, The Portrait, in 2016, and her latest, The Van Helsing Impetus, in 2023.

A fan of the phrase ‘live to eat’, Evelyn shares her recipes on evelynchartres.com. These recipes have a loose focus on French-Canadian cuisine, which feature deep-dish meat pies, seafood, and desserts that are rarely seen outside of La Belle Province.

Evelyn is currently living in Ottawa, Ontario, and is busy laying the foundations for her next book featuring Marc.

Follow Evelyn on Facebook

http://www.facebook.com/theportraitofawoman

Follow Evelyn on Instagram

http://www.instagram.com/authorevelynchartres/

Follow Evelyn on Twitter

http://twitter.com/EvelynChartres

Visit Evelyn’s Website

http://evelynchartres.com

ALSO, FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

THE PORTRAIT

“A vision from the past becomes a writer's deadly obsession.”

The Portrait is a Gothic fantasy about Victoria Frost, an author who develops an unhealthy obsession for her character. As events unfold, her infatuation sours, forcing Victoria to question her sanity. Is she simply slipping into madness, or is there something else at play?

The Portrait features a mixture of contemporary and historical scenes brought forward as Victoria explores the world of her muse. Using both prose and art, every scene yields a new piece of the puzzle, providing insights on the origins of her character's portrait and its featured model.

Discover how a vision from the past becomes a writer's deadly obsession.

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

“A gal has to look out for herself, after all.”

Clara Grey’s parents once said that the world was a dark and dangerous place. There was more truth than fiction in those words. There were things that lurked in the shadows which defied the laws of nature: perversions that fed on the dead, terrorised the living, or escaped the chill touch of the grave.

Clara is a member of The Tower, a religious order of hunters who work outside the confines of the Church. As keepers of the arcane, her order takes an active role in countering such threats. Alas, the life of a hunter can be short, and many go missing before they are ready to serve. So, what does it take to succeed against all odds?

Explore Clara’s origin, a child born before the dawn of the twentieth century. Witness her rigorous education, how she faces adversity, and how she fights in the Great War to become the derringer-wielding flapper she is.

Throughout her tale, keep in mind: No matter the threat, a gal has to look out for herself, after all.

THE VAN HELSING RESURGENCE

“While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.”

Clara Grey was a hunter and part of a secret organisation known only as The Tower. During the Roaring Twenties, she sacrificed herself to destroy a powerful vampire. As a reward, she joined the ranks of Heaven’s army, and for ninety years, Clara yearned to take an active role in the mortal realm.

In an attempt to alter the course of history, scientists trigger an experiment with devastating results. The effects are felt not only on Earth, but in other realms as well.

Clara and an echo from her past are sent to Earth to investigate the case of a stolen soul. For this transgression, Heaven could go to war, but they choose to send Clara—and Edith. They fall to Earth, focused on their mission.

Both had been isolated from the mortal realm for generations. In their lifetimes, monsters were on the decline, but learn how much the modern world has changed. While navigating this alien land, will they adapt to their surroundings to fulfil their mission? Or be swallowed up by the evil that lurks in the shadows?

Before reading on, be sure to remember: While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.

THE VAN HELSING INCURSION

“Hunting things that go bump in the night is child's play when compared to juggling relationships.”

During the Roaring Twenties, Clara Grey hunted things that went bump in the night. On her last mission, she paid the ultimate price to rid the world of a powerful foe. As a reward, she ascended to Heaven and joined its ranks as an angel.

Ninety years after her death, Clara fell to Earth, intent on saving a soul. While successful, killing an old god in self-defence barred her from returning to Heaven. Lost in the modern world, Clara was forced to seek unlikely allies to navigate through these uncertain times.

Four months later, Clara has settled in with Elizabeth, a young woman she saved shortly after descending to Earth. For a gal who had sworn off anything that hinted at normalcy, Clara learns that being average takes more effort than she suspected.

Alas, repercussions from choices made on that fateful mission have not been idle. Her enemies trigger a chain of events that force our fated femme fatale to act. Is Clara prepared to deal with the fallout? Will her allies come to her aid? Or must she stand on her own?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: Hunting things that go bump in the night is child’s play when compared to juggling relationships.

THE VAN HELSING IMPETUS

“While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.”

Clara Grey is a fallen angel, one who tried her hand at having a normal life. That experiment came to an abrupt end when werewolves kidnapped her gal. While victorious, tales from that fateful night became the stuff of legend. Now known as ‘the Valkyrie,’ she is a wanted fugitive.

She has been on the lam for months, using a nondescript persona to evade the authorities. All the while, Clara is tormented by voices from a goddess that she thought long dead.

Clara has never faced an enemy that can strike from the shadows, forcing her to align herself with the things she hunted in life. Even with an army at her back, does she have what it takes to defeat her foe?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.

HIGH WATER MARK

“When humanity has been driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?”

Anna is a humanoid mermaid who spends her days with the local timekeeper until a podmate comes to her with a proposal. They hatch a plan to head out into the watery ruins of humanity in search of lost technology and materials. For a young mermaid living in the dredges of society, the promise of riches from such a find is just too good to pass up.

Armed with nothing more than an old map and some rusty road signs to follow, they are soon reminded that adventure often brings forth more than its fair share of rough waters. Her friend gets captured, leaving Anna alone in a world where mermaids are nowhere near the top of the food chain.

Follow Anna as she makes landfall and learns why her ancestors abandoned the surface. Lost in a world that is perpetually covered in a thick fog, Anna must navigate through what remains above the high-water mark. What will she find? An ally? A foe? Or will she find nothing but death and destruction?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: With humanity driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?

DARK HEARTS

“She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf!”

Julia is a werewolf who turned against her pack and saved an innocent life. As a reward for her good deed, she ends up in prison, but thrives while others like her waste away.

On the eve of a full moon, an unknown benefactor arranges for Julia’s release. Faced with the prospect of returning to the city that nearly killed her, she opts to disappear into the surrounding woods.

This is the opportunity she needs to find herself and reconnect with the wild. As her past resurfaces, the supernatural and dark elements within humanity take notice of her.

Before reading on, be sure to consider: She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf.

LICENCE

The Grand is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblances to reality are purely coincidental.

All images and text herein are copyrighted:

The Grand

Copyright © 2019 by

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

All rights reserved.

Draft2Digital – Fourth Edition – ISBN 978-0-9947805-1-5

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

NOTE

THE GRAND

PROLOGUE

JUNE 16TH 1920

JULY 28TH 1969

CHAPTER 1

MARCH 24TH 1948

CHAPTER 2

MAY 3RD 1948

MAY 4TH 1948

CHAPTER 3

JULY 15TH 1948

JUNE 5TH 1917

CHAPTER 4

AUGUST 22ND 1922

AUGUST 16TH 1948

CHAPTER 5

MAY 1ST 1927

MAY 30TH 1927

MAY 31ST 1927

JUNE 7TH 1927

AUGUST 19TH 1948

CHAPTER 6

JULY 11TH 1928

AUGUST 17TH 1948

CHAPTER 7

OCTOBER 29TH 1929

OCTOBER 30TH 1929

AUGUST 26TH 1948

CHAPTER 8

SEPTEMBER 19TH 1948

AUGUST 7TH 1926

AUGUST 8TH 1926

CHAPTER 9

JUNE 9TH 1922

SEPTEMBER 8TH 1948

CHAPTER 10

MAY 21ST 1919

MAY 24TH 1919

MAY 21ST 1921

MAY 30TH 1921

SEPTEMBER 9TH 1948

CHAPTER 11

JULY 16TH 1925

SEPTEMBER 14TH 1948

CHAPTER 12

SEPTEMBER 2ND 1929

SEPTEMBER 13TH 1929

OCTOBER 3RD 1948

CHAPTER 13

JUNE 8TH 1927

OCTOBER 25TH 1948

CHAPTER 14

NOVEMBER 10TH 1948

NOVEMBER 11TH 1948

NOVEMBER 11TH 1943

NOVEMBER 11TH 2003

EPILOGUE

JULY 16TH 2015

JULY 21ST 2015

DECEMBER 14TH 2015

LEXICON

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO, FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

LICENCE