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Two oversized doors made of carved oak waited beneath a great black canopy, up a short series of stairs.
Juan Miguel Quintero Rios stood still, and listened.
Gulls shrieked greedily back and forth, squirrels scurried and scattered, and shorebirds called their softer, sweeter calls back and forth to one another. Out on the water a loud, low whistle blew, so another ferry was either coming or going, signaling to the lighthouse at the island’s southernmost point.
He listened harder.
Under his feet the sandy earth shifted as moles, rats, and snakes cut their passages from place to place; the men at the docks dropped freight as heavy as mules, rattling the pier and startling the stray cats. Beyond the far edge of the horizon, clouds whispered against each other, coiled up, and collected together. Butterflies flapped their feather-light wings and dusted the bright pink azaleas.
He closed his eyes.
Bricks settled and shifted, cornerstones grumbled. The great oak doors swelled and shrank in their frames. Below, much farther down than the oil-specked sands or the paved, angled walkways that flanked the hotel and led to its gardens, something enormous and very dark rolled over.
It turned, restless as a fevered sleeper. It did not breathe or whisper, but it moaned. It hummed. It growled.
***
He opened his eyes. Snapped them open, only to narrow them again at the curved black canopy and the doors beneath it.
“So there you are,” he said.
But nothing answered.
The padre adjusted his satchel, sliding the strap up higher on his shoulder. Despite the breeze and the damp he was warm from the walk, and a bit uncomfortable though there was no sun to bake his black cassock (which was only made of cotton, anyway).
He put one foot forward, and felt only a very slight, very faint resistance…so he took another step. Feeling resistance there too, he pressed harder next time. Kicking against something thick and unwilling, below the earth itself. Left foot, right foot, pushing against whatever waited inside, underneath.
Against whatever did not want him there.
By the time he reached the steps, he was almost smiling. The hotel would have to do better than that, if it wanted him gone. The growl and the unwelcoming start did not frighten him. They only told him how much attention he ought to pay, and how frightened he might wish to be later.
But not yet.
The main door knockers were round and ornate, cast with decorative jacaranda blossoms at the top. A nice touch, he thought. He lifted one, then changed his mind and reached for the lever instead, opening the door to let himself inside.
The lobby was bright and clean.
A sweeping pair of staircases made a statement and an arc, leading to a mezzanine at the top, from whence the late Mrs. Darnell had no doubt fallen some years ago. The padre looked up at the ceiling and saw the fans turning, roaming on their tracks. Three at a time on each side of the room, trundling back and forth like toy trains, to keep the air moving. Their chains clacked together like teeth.
Yes, this was where the Darnells had died.
But when he listened, he heard only a stain: a gargling sound and a crash, and the dribbling noise of blood collecting into a pool. He did not hear any anger, any hatred. He heard no murder, only death.
A great desk and a long counter awaited him along the far wall, and behind them was a mirror—the sort he’d seen behind bars, in the occasional saloon…back when he’d frequented such places. It had been awhile, but not so long that he suspected the style had changed.
In the mirror he met own eyes, and then he looked elsewhere.
He saw a young woman in a crisp blue dress, ready to hear his name and give him a room if he’d only sign the guest book and arrange his payment. He saw the fans running along the ceiling, performing their mechanical ballet back and forth, back and forth. He saw the gleam of the floor and the fixtures, and an elevator he hadn’t noticed at first.
He looked harder.
There was a blur, a flash of arms and legs and blood, falling. Crashing. Falling again, in a cycle as true as the fans above him. No sound at all. Only the shape, the impression of flailing and fear, horror and the quick, messy shine of brains on tiles. And up there, another shadow. A smudge with less definition than a thumbprint. Riding along the tracks, keeping company with the roving, mindless fans.
He blinked. He blinked again, scrubbing the images away.
The young woman behind the counter smiled at him. “Can I help you?”
He stepped forward and placed his satchel on the floor beside his feet. “I would like a room.”
