The Haunted Halls (15 page)

Chapter Three

Jeff continued to check his hands for wounds that weren’t there. He rolled down Route 5 cranking the local rock station, WKIT. Rumor was Stephen King actually owned it. As he headed toward Hollis Oaks, he thought of the first copy of
The Shining
that he’d ever read. He’d found it while doing a paper route down in Portland back when he was in his early-twenties.

One of his favorite stops on his route was the Franklin Towers, a sixteen floor apartment complex in the center of town. The Towers loomed over the sleeping city like a sentry. Each floor of the old building held ten apartments on either side of an open room that served as a lobby. These lobbies had either a couple old couches or some rocking chairs or recliners. There were always magazines and books strewn about on one piece of furniture or another. Jeff made sure to scan the paperbacks every morning, adding a couple Dean Koontz and Stephen King novels to his collection. In all the time spent doing the route, he had only ever seen two breathing people in the building. He was there before most people had a chance to grab their first cup of coffee, so it never seemed odd until he did bump into someone. One of those people, was Mrs. Shelby who lived in apartment 86 on the fifth floor. She waited for him Sunday mornings to give him his tip, usually five bucks. The other person he ran into was a one-time encounter that he would never forget.

Jeff was in the elevator, waiting to deliver his last six Sunday Telegrams, exhausted from a morning of heavy lifting–the Sunday paper was a monster in comparison to the daily editions. When the elevator door slid open to the sixteenth floor he was startled at the sight of the man sitting on the tan pleather couch in the community space. The guy was hunched over holding a hand to his bloody forehead and looking confused, lost.  Conflicted on whether to ask the man if he was okay or to just mind his own business, Jeff’s legs carried him away from the open room. He delivered all but one paper. The last copy went to an apartment on the other side of the floor. Approaching the lobby, he imagined the various ways the man on the couch had come to his current bloody state–they all involved someone getting attacked. He stopped shy of the open room, the last paper of the night in hand, and contemplated skipping it. He could just take the stairs and never look back. A blanket of dread–warranted or not–swaddled him like a baby.

“Uhhh…”

The moan from the man just out of sight startled him. Terrified over what was probably nothing, he forced his legs to carry him onward. He dared a glance toward the couch and wished he hadn’t. The man, staring at his blood-covered hands and rocking back and forth, looked up letting out another moan and locking eyes with him. Jeff dropped his gaze and scurried across the floor to the next set of apartments. He hurried down the hallway fearing the lights would go out any second and leave him in the darkness with the moaning, bleeding man. He saw himself being chased to the end of the corridor only to find the staircase door locked. Jeff got to apartment 318, dropped the heavy paper with a loud thud in the quiet space, and darted for the staircase door. He slammed into it–it wouldn’t budge. He thought he saw the lights flicker. There was a sign hanging on the handle of the stairwell door:

Temporarily closed. Sorry for any inconvenience. Please use the elevator.

He glanced back down the hallway that suddenly seemed more like a tunnel in a coal mine. His chest was tight, a cold sweat breaking out over his body as he tried to shake all of the wicked images being flung at him from the dark side of his brain. He started forward, chanting a prayer under his breath.
Please be gone, please be gone.

When he reached the open room, it was empty. Relieved, he hit the down button for the elevator as he glanced around the room laughing at his cowardice. His good feelings died as his eyes landed on the droplets of blood scattered in a trail from the foot of the sofa to where he was now standing. He raised his hand to his face and saw blood on his finger. The elevator button was smeared red.

Bing

He jumped at the elevator’s arrival. Part of his body clenched as the door slid open revealing an empty space. He stepped in and found himself scanning the interior for more blood. There was none.  He rode down to the ground floor feeling like he’d imagined the whole thing; the blood he wiped on his pant leg assured him he had not. The ding of the elevator arriving at the bottom floor felt like a gunshot signaling the start of a race. He ran out of the elevator as it opened to his freedom, tripping and nearly falling on his face over a book lying on the floor. He picked it up. It was a hard cover copy of
The Shining
. There was a bloody print on the back cover. He looked around the lobby, making sure the man from the sixteenth floor wasn’t waiting for him. He was alone, as usual. Tucking the book in his carrier bag, he got out to his van, and drove home.

That copy of the King classic, bloody print and all, was sitting on his backseat even now as he drove down Route 5 toward Hollis Oaks. He glanced in his rearview mirror and for a moment thought he saw someone smiling back at him.  He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Nothing. The hair on his arms and neck raised like tiny antenna seeking out a signal. He passed the sign for Hollis Oaks and took his next right into town.

Entering Barnes and Noble, he followed the welcoming aroma of coffee to the sample-size Starbuck’s café, grateful to have people around. With a fresh shot of caffeine in hand, he set out to find the books he’d seen online. He found the local section just beyond the magazines, and skimmed past a plethora of town-by-town histories, a series of Maine hunting books, and a lakes and campground book before finding what he was looking for.
Ghosts of Maine: Lighthouses
,
Ghosts on the Coast of Maine
,
Haunted Coast
. He spotted two that looked intriguing–
Ghost Legends
of Vacationland,
and another in the Ghosts of Maine series:
Ghosts of Maine: Hotels, Inns, and Bed and Breakfasts
. Before he could reach them, the man he’d been quietly joined by grabbed both.

“Oh, sorry, were you looking at these,” the man said.

“I was–” Jeff noticed a book display to the left featuring the man’s likeness.

“Yeah, that’s me. Lee Buhl, nice to meet you…”

“Oh, so it is. Jeff,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Jeff. You’re into ghosts I take it?”

“Not exactly. I’m just doing a little research.”

“Same here. Say, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you wouldn’t happen to be privy to any tales in this particular area would you?”

Jeff hesitated. “Not really. I mean, kind of–”

The man stepped back. “Are you’re experiencing something now? Is that why you’re looking for these books,” he said, holding the books up.

Jeff looked into the man’s eyes. “I think so.”

“Well, I’m not sure if you’re familiar with what it is I do, but maybe I can be of some assistance. How’s about we grab a bite to eat.”

“Sure,” Jeff said. He felt compelled to grab a copy of the man’s book while in his presence. Part of him hoped the guy would offer him a free copy–he didn’t. Instead, the man handed him the two local ghost books they had both been interested in.

“How’s about you meet me out front after you pay for these. I’m going to run to the restroom.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Jeff wondered why a professional author was making him pay for the books—agreeing nonetheless. He waited in line, purchased the books, and met Lee Buhl out front.

“You know this area,” Lee said. “Where can I get a good slice of pizza? I’m fucking sick of seafood.”

“Matt’s,” Jeff said. “It’s a couple streets over.”

“Lead the way.”

Jeff wanted to laugh at the way this guy was dressed: fancy button up shirt, pleated pants, and a ring on almost every finger. What kind of jerk wore so many rings?

Writers.

Lee talked mostly about his books and his travels while sucking down two cigarettes. Jeff nodded along, half-listening as he led the guy to the best pizza in town. They walked in the local joint, an Aerosmith song blaring from the speakers, the smell of fresh pizza and onions in the air. He saw the shop’s proprietor, Matt Hilton, standing behind the counter talking with one of the new girls. He nodded, Matt waved, giving Jeff’s company a second look. He led Lee to a booth near the KISS pinball machine in the back.

“So, Jeff, what’s this current predicament you’re in?” Lee said.

Chapter Four

Carla Dunn was singing an old Supremes song as she pushed her housekeeping cart down the corridor. Her singing was more for distraction than anything else. She knew the Bruton Inn shared a space with
something
, but over the years, she’d minded her own business and had been left alone in return. She’d felt the presence throughout the inn–pockets of cold, like you’d find in a lake. There was always a sense of being watched, something being in the room with you, but never any poltergeist-type activity.  She’d yet to see a bed levitate or drawers flying across a room. Rhiannon’s asking her about ghosts was like someone cleaning a fishbowl–stirring up all that nasty stuff you didn’t usually see. Carla was feeling one of those cold pockets now.

The last couple of late check-outs needed cleaning and suddenly she wanted to get them done as quickly as possible. She noticed a number of the rooms on the second floor had
do not disturb
cards in the door–211 had not been touched in a week. It was hotel policy that she had to get into every room at least once every six days to change the blankets and vacuum, a number of the rooms were due tomorrow for the sixth day cleaning. 211 was due and had not been checked off today. The girls must have missed it.

She knocked on the door. “Housekeeping.” Carla stood there giving the guest a chance to respond. Placing an ear to the door, fear snuggled up around her. Her mouth went dry. She fished the master key from her apron, removed the
do not disturb
card, slipped her key into the lock for 211, and turned the knob. She was welcomed by a blast of frigid air and an unexplainable sense of dread. She wanted to turn around and leave the room for tomorrow, maybe have a couple of the younger girls do it, but her feet carried her over the threshold. “Hello?” She propped open the door then grabbed her cleaning cart and shivered. Her arms busted out in goose pimples as she made her way in. Her eyes followed the naked mattress down to the bathing suit and skivvies crumpled at the foot of the bed. It was empty.

Someone had a good night.
The thought usually produced a smirk from her, but instead she felt her flesh crawl, her stomach turn. She moved past the sick feeling building within and began to gather the discarded bedding when she heard the toilet flush from the bathroom across the room. “Housekeeping,” she said again, her voice barely squeaking through her lips. More silence. She wished she had skipped this room and gone home for the day. “Hello?”

The door behind her slammed shut. She looked back and saw the rubber stopper—the one she’d used to hold it open—melted into the rug. She turned her head back and dropped the bedding she’d been clinging to. A naked man with long blonde hair and dark eyes stood before her. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t catch her breath. He placed his hands on either side of her face and stared into her (
through her
) with pitch black eyes. She thought of her husband, John, and her son, Parker, before the naked man lifted her from the floor and tossed her across the room. There was a deep crack as she came down on the nightstand and fell to the floor in a broken heap.

“Please, Jesus–” she tried.

“Shh, shh, shh, come on now,” the man said. Carla began to convulse as he smiled at her.
He
was doing this. “You came into
my
room,” he said crouching down before her, stroking her hair. “Are you frightened?”

“Y-y-yes, please d-don’t–” He placed a hand over her mouth.

“I will,” he said. “I don’t like strange people coming into my room unless I ask them to. Did you not see the card in the door? Don’t answer that.”

Tears bled from her eyes, snot dripped from her nose down onto his hand. He lifted his palm from her lips and glared at the mucus with a look of disgust.

“Why? Why are you doing this now?” she said. “I’ve known you were here for years, but you’ve never hurt any of us?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” his laughter was awful. She closed her eyes and thought of her husband and son again. “You speak of my love,” he said. “She’s a fine piece of work. She tells me the staff is harmless, but I’m new here, and frankly, I don’t like you.” He placed his thumbs over her wet eyes.

Carla Dunn screamed as he pressed them in.

…..

Timothy Laymon pulled his gore-soaked thumbs from the screaming woman’s eyes. He snapped her head to the side, silencing her.

Standing up and stretching, he felt
her
power flowing through him. Killing had always come easy, all he had to do was unleash the rage; it was the guilt that came afterward that had kept his humanity. This was different. He felt a surge of power from taking the woman’s life. He’d been born for this, just as
she
had said. The ecstasy purring through his veins felt like heaven and he wanted more.