Outside
in the rain, I rubbed the deep scratches on the back of my hand and looked
about, wondering what to do next. All around stood closed and lightless doors
and windows, offering no refuge; the only light not descending from the
heavens, spilled out from the Gilman House across the way. Seeing this, I
paused and stood upright. A little tiddler of a thought wriggled at the base of
my brain: would anyone connected to the E.O.D. think to look for me inside the
bastion of the Gilman legacy? Fearful that Remora would soon be back in
business, I decided it was worth putting money down on that number and I loped
off across the square.
Not
that I intended to waltz through the front doors of course – that would truly
be madness. Instead, I circled around to the deliveries entrance to one side
and loitered there in the shadows. Here, on the unseen and largely dilapidated
back end of the hotel, stood a series of tacked-on outbuildings, reeking of
bleach and mould with an undertone of wet dog: obviously the laundries. Peering
out from below the eaves, I discerned that I might well be able to climb up
onto their roofs and then make my way into the hotel via one of the windows.
I
crouched, then jumped cautiously upwards, gripping the guttering that ran the
length of the overhang. It groaned beneath my weight as I hung there, trying to
gain purchase with my toes on the brick wall. Using a burst of thunder from
overhead, I pulled myself up onto the corrugated iron. The metalwork shrieked and
complained, but otherwise stayed in place. I lay there momentarily letting the
rain wash over me, checking the wall of the hotel for lights suddenly
illuminating the windows. Nothing happened.
I
staggered to my feet and walked gingerly up to the peak of the laundry roof.
Beyond, there was a sharp slope downwards until the steel sheeting met the
brickwork of the hotel wall. Where the two structures met, there was a series
of metal pipes that ran upwards to the hotel roof far above. Along the
ascending line of these pipes, a number of windows indicated possible access
points.
I
gripped onto the strongest-looking of them and slowly let it take my weight. I
was rewarded by a small shower of brick fragments but, on the whole, the
project seemed worth pursuing. Slowly, hand over hand, I began hauling myself
upwards, trying as much as possible to keep my body as still as I could and not
swing about too much.
After
a few nervous minutes and many groans and pops from the metal struts, I reached
the first window. I hooked a toe onto the window ledge and let it support me.
Reaching for the window frame I tried to haul it upwards: no joy. The pane was
locked tight. Growling under my breath, I swung as gently as I could back to
the pipe and began squirming my way up to the next level. The next window also
proved to be shut tight, but I perceived something through the glass, due to
the fact that it was cleaner than the one below, which lightened my mood a
little. These windows all seemed to open into a stairwell, something which
would make staying hidden a bit easier. Another bright note was that I could
see from here that the next window up was slightly open.
I
muttered an invocation to Dagon and began shimmying up the pipe once more.
After a few awkward minutes when my trouser cuff snagged on a projecting nail,
I managed to just get into range of the window ledge when the inevitable
happened: with a prolonged moan and several alarming cracks, the pipe gave way
and began to swing out away from the wall, releasing all of the water which had
been sluicing away inside of it. Cursing, I launched myself towards the window
and grabbed hold of the frame, my shoes sliding crazily across the brickwork as
I desperately tried to gain some kind of purchase. I managed to wedge my shoulder
into the gap offered by the open window, then I forced my way inside rolling
wetly to the linoleum floor, a sodden, panting mess. Lacking a downspout to
carry the excess water down from the rooftop, a cascade of water was blown in
from outside, guided by the wind. Angrily, I reached up and slammed the window
fully closed. In the sudden silence that followed, I heard a disturbing noise.
It
was like someone was slowly letting the air out of a bicycle tyre. The light in
the stairwell was limited to the erratic bursts of lightning from without and
shadows writhed deep in every nearby corner. Eventually, I seemed to place the
hissing as emanating from the bottom of the steps leading to the next floor and
there seemed to be two dully glowing points of light hovering there. I very
slowly slid my hand into my coat pocket, grasping the small but powerful torch
I carry around with me. In one smooth motion I produced it and snapped it on:
There,
cowering against the wall, was a bizarre creature at which I peered closely,
trying to comprehend. Initially, I thought I was looking at some weird,
emaciated and drug-hazed parody of Mickey Mouse. It seemed to have two enormous
ears – triangular instead of round – and its feet and head were oversized in
proportion to the rest of the body. I blinked, then realised that I was looking
at a small woman – she would barely have cleared my knee if I’d been standing –
of a strangely wizened and pinched Asian appearance. She was dressed in one of
those completely functional dress uniforms which hotel cleaning staff are wont
to wear, accessorised by pink rubber gloves which went up to her elbows, and
white sensible tennis shoes. What I had taken for ears was actually her hair,
styled ornately into two triangular wings off the back of her head. Then I
tuned in to what she was saying:
‘Forgive
me!’ she whined in a shrill mousey voice, ‘I didn’t mean to disobey! But the
urges, they are so strong...!’
I
didn’t get what she was on about until I saw the myriad cigarette butts crushed
beneath her feet. I added this fact together with the partially opened window I
had just entered by and came to a solid conclusion. I pulled my smokes out of
my pocket, pulled one out of the packet with my lips and held the rest out to
her.
‘Have
one on me,’ I offered.
A
slow light of realisation crept across her features and soon a cunning smile
appeared to replace the look of dismay and horror which had been there
previously. Her teeth were blunt and spaced widely apart in her pink little
gums. She struck me kind of like some peculiar breed of demented rodent,
harmless if caught alone, but possibly dangerous in numbers.
I
lit both our cigarettes and we spent a moment inhaling gratefully. Then she
began chuckling crazily, a breathy, gurgling mirth that definitely sounded like
it belonged in a padded room. She was acting like a schoolgirl delighting in
being deliberately out of bounds. She savoured every moment of that coffin nail
like it was a Cuban stogie.
When
I felt that we’d enjoyed enough pleasantries, I held out my hand. ‘Benson
Waite’, I offered.
She
cringed as if she thought I was going to wallop her, then gingerly took my
fingertips with her rubber paw. Leaning forward conspiratorially she looked
left and right and then declaimed sotto
voce:
‘I,’
she waited a beat, ‘am Madame Klopp.’
Lightning
cast gruesome shadows across her face, and thunder added the necessary
emphasis.
To
Be Continued...
Just so you know, at least one person is keeping tabs on this tale. I am, however, waiting for you to finish before I dive in and read it. Could you give me (us?) a clew as to how many parts there will be?
ReplyDeleteHi Konrad! I'm kind of writing this as a spontaneous thing, seeing where it will take me. My goal is to try and throw in as many Lovecraftian tropes as this Raymond Chandler style will comfortably accommodate. There is a projected finish (I'm not just waffling-on here!) but I'm enjoying the journey towards that point. I'm thinking it will be maybe 15-20 parts?
ReplyDeleteIn the meantime, thanks for your interest - it's good to know that there are readers out there in the void!
Cheers!
Craig.
Hi Craig!
ReplyDeleteI've been reading this story as it comes out. Enjoying the journey as well. Look forward to what happens next.
Cheers, James