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“Except for the one who went missing,” I said.
Chris blinked at me. “What?”
“The night clerk who went missing in 1982.”
“How the hell did you hear about that?”
“It was in the papers,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.
“Oh, God,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. He seemed horrified. “Don’t bring that up, okay? I thought everyone had forgotten about that. That was in my parents’ time. You weren’t even born.”
“Did you know her?” I asked him.
“I was a kid, so no.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
“Who knows? It’s ancient history. Please don’t bring it up. We don’t need even fewer customers than we already have.”
That was the end of my interview with Chris about my aunt’s disappearance. Score zero for Nancy Drew.
When Chris left, I dropped the blue polyester vest on a chair and went to work. I started with the desk, opening all the drawers and rifling through them. Except for the room keys, each of which was on a ring on a leather tab with a number stamped on it, there was nothing interesting.
Next, I moved to the desktop. It was chipped wood with a Formica top. There was a blotter, pencils and pens, the old telephone with big square buttons across the bottom to open different lines. None of the buttons were lit at the moment. On the corner was the guest book, a large leather binder with pages inside. I hovered my hand over the guest book, then stopped.
For a crazy minute it seemed like time had folded in on itself, like there was no gap between 1982 and this moment. This was the desk Viv Delaney had sat at; this was the exact phone she had used. The blue polyester vest may have been the one she wore. She had sat in this chair, looked at this pinboard with the police phone number pinned to it. What year is it? a voice in the back of my mind asked. Is it 1982 or 2017? Do you really know?
I picked up the guest book and opened it. There were four rooms occupied tonight: two men, a couple, and a woman. I didn’t recognize any of the names. I found an old notepad and a pen, scribbled them down, and pulled out my phone. I already knew there was no signal in here, but I put on my coat, slipped out the office door, and roamed the walkway, then the parking lot, looking at the screen to see if a signal would appear.
When I stood almost next to the sign (VACANCY. CABLE TV!) the signal icon popped up. I quickly tried to Google the names on my paper, but not even the first search would load. The signal was too weak.
I stuffed the paper into my pocket. I texted Heather, knowing she would be awake. We’d stayed awake the past two nights, watching movies and getting me prepared to take the night shift once I knew I had the job.
No files, no computer, no Internet, and my boss says not to ask him about Viv. I’m striking out so far, I texted her.
Her reply was immediate. Carly, it’s eleven thirty.
Right. I was just here to work a few shifts and find what I could find before quitting. I had plenty of time left in the night. Carrying on, I texted, and put the phone back in my pocket as the signal went dead again.
The wind sliced down my neck, and the sign made a weird electric buzzing sound overhead. I moved away from it and walked to the parking lot, looking up at the motel. The rooms were dark except for two that had lamps on, the curtains drawn. The motel itself looked asleep in the darkness, yet it had that eerie vibe I’d felt when I first came here. I rubbed my hands together and wondered how I would spend the next seven and a half hours here. I wondered what the heck I thought I was doing.
On the second level, the door to one of the unoccupied rooms swung open, showing the darkness within.
I squinted. There was definitely no one staying in the room, no one in the doorway. Yet the door hung open now, banging gently in the wind.
The lock must be broken, or the knob. I crossed the parking lot and climbed the stairs, huddling deeper into my coat because it seemed colder up here. Late fall in upstate New York is no joke. My ears were stinging and my nose was starting to run.
I grabbed the knob to the room door—it was room 218—and pulled it closed. I tried turning the knob and found it was unlocked, and I had no key. I opened the door again and found it had a disc on the inside of the knob that locked it. I turned the disc and closed the door again.
Two doors down, room 216 opened.
That was it—just the soft squeak of the door opening, then nothing. The wind blew and the door creaked, waving.
Something inside my mind said, This is not right.
Still, I walked to the doorway and grabbed the knob, this time taking a second to sweep a glance through the dark room. Bed, dresser, TV, door to the bathroom. Nothing else there.
I turned the disc and shut the door, making sure to pull it all the way closed. It swung back open again, even though the knob didn’t turn. I grabbed it and banged it closed again, harder this time. It stayed shut for a stretch of maybe ten seconds, then creaked open again.
There was a faint sound from behind the door, as if someone were standing there. A rustle of cloth. The soft tap of a footstep. I caught a whiff of flowery perfume.
“Hey,” I said, and reached my hand out. Before I could touch the door it slammed shut, so hard the door frame nearly rattled.
My breath had stopped. My arm was still out, my hand up, my fingers cold. A wash of freezing air brushed into my face, down my neck. I couldn’t think.
While I stood frozen, the door to 210 opened.
My chest squeezed inside my coat. I made my feet move, bumped back against the railing. Dull pain thudded up my spine. My hands were like ice as I tried clumsily to turn my body, to back away. There were heavy footsteps.
A man stepped out of room 210 and into the corridor. He was a few years older than me, maybe. Brown hair, cropped short. Worn jeans and an old dark gray T-shirt. Stubble on his jaw. Laser blue eyes. His hair was sticking up, like he’d been sleeping.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was real, but I’d looked at the guest book, and he wasn’t supposed to be here. Room 210 was unoccupied. Which meant I had no idea who he was.
“Hey,” the man said to me as if he belonged here. “Who the fuck are you?”
* * *
• • •
I exhaled a breath that steamed in the cold. I took a step back. “Um,” I said, “I’m—”
“Banging doors in the middle of the night,” he finished. “I’m trying to sleep in here.”
That wasn’t me. At least, I don’t think so. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I said to the man. I pointed to the doorway behind him. “In that room.”
