Cutting through the cornfield on your way home from the Halloween party had never seemed like a good idea, but your aching feet and cotton mouth insisted on finding a shortcut. You had nothing else to lose in this cursed town anyway. At best it's a pit-stop. But at its worst, this town is a suffocatingly familiar embrace that coaxes all who try to escape back with the promise of stability. It's silly to keep thinking like that, you berate yourself. Ten years ago, you'd been the rebel that swore this town would never see you again. And look at you now -- A twenty-eight year old screw-up trudging through the mud and maize, stuffed in a Wonder Woman costume best left in your teenage years. You scoff and roll your eyes at your cynical thoughts. Angst was never a good look on you. A stalk of corn rustles up ahead. You pause. The air is still tonight and you know that you should be the only person braving this field. Maybe it's Mr. Fedderman doing a midnight check of his crop, you try to convince yourself. Attempting to insert as much false bravado in your voice as possible, you take a few steps toward the sound and yell out "Hey Mr. Fedderman, it's Syd Richards -- Charlie's kid! Sorry for cutting through, I'm just trying to head home. Um, is that you rustling around?" Silence. The only response is the sound of your strained breaths. As your eyes scan the endless labyrinth of corn stalks, you come to the devastating realization that you've lost your sense of orientation. Afraid to make any move in the wrong direction, you plant your feet in the ground and wildly swing your head in every which way, desperately searching to find where your footsteps were last headed. The shine of the full moon is your only source of light, but it works well enough to retrace, reorient and restart your journey.
You take a few steps forward and stop, cocking your head to the side and listening. Experimentally, you take two more steps. The crunch of a second pair of heavy footsteps is unmistakable. Without looking back, you break into an all-out sprint. You can't hear anything over the sound of your wheezing breath and the whistling as your body cuts through the air. You know you're being chased. You can feel it as surely as you can feel the sharp stalks scratching into the exposed skin of your arms and face. You don't bother to hope that you're still going in the right direction. Get away, get away, get away. Your vision has been reduced to a pinpoint, and the only thing looping through your mind are those two words. Your heart is pounding like a drum; or is the pounding coming from the ground? Yes, your heartbeat is erratic, but beneath that you can hear a steady, deep, and impossibly entrancing pulse. The more you focus on this foreign rhythm, the more insistent it seems to become. Your eyes glaze over and your mouth falls slack as you let yourself be enveloped in the comforting thumping. As your feet slow to a stop, you mindlessly lower yourself to your knees and press your ear to the ground, straining to get closer to the sound you can feel vibrating through your entire body. Your arms give out and your cheek smashes against the ground. The dirt is frozen solid, but you can't feel much of anything in this moment. Directly in your line of sight is a fallen ear of corn, discolored and bulging. Huitlacoche, your mind offhandedly supplies. This harvest is fucked, just like you if you don't get up. A small part of your conscious tries to break through the haze. You almost want to ignore it. Listening to that voice meant willingly throwing yourself back into that terrified state. You could think of a thousand reasons to stop fighting against your fate and really only one to start moving. To surrender seems so peaceful.
Faintly, you hear the sounds of footsteps getting closer. Suddenly, as if following an unheard cue, you hear the dulcet tones of a guitar in the near distance. You glance up startled, and see a shimmering flicker of light through the stalks. Fear floods through your body again as you unintentionally snap out of whatever trance you had fallen prey to. Dragging yourself to your feet is harder than you expect. Almost like the ground beneath you is grasping at your limbs, averse to letting you get away from whatever is closing in. You rush forward, focusing solely on the light and the music. Anything to keep from losing yourself in the pulsating beat you could still feel in your fingertips.
As the music crescendos, your pace quickens in response. The growing light is pulling you in. You don't have the mental fortitude to think about the almost other-worldly call of what's ahead of you. Whether it feels similar to the thumping below is a thought you don't have the luxury to explore. Whatever is behind you is closer than it has ever been before. You can nearly taste its steady exhales on the nape of your neck. You feel chills, like the being is reaching its fingers down into the curve of your spine and scraping each vertebrae on its way back up. Instinctively, you flinch forward to escape the phantom sensation. Catching a glimpse of a break in the tangle of stems, you will yourself forward faster.
Bursting forth from the unforgiving corn field, the thing behind you gives one last attempt to snatch you back. A clawed hand grabs at your neck, but cannot find purchase. Feeling the sharpened nails cut into your skin makes you wince, but all you lose to your pursuer is a bit of skin and a few strands of hair. The second your feet leave the dirt and step onto the grass ahead of you, the creature lets out a deep, yet wailing screech. You somehow know that It can not follow you here.
Slowing to a brisk walk, you gaze ahead to study the beacon of light and music that called to you so clearly. In front of you looms an impressive hotel that you've certainly never seen before. Hotel California is etched into the weathered, stone face of the building. Entering the double doors cautiously, you find yourself in a brightly lit lobby. The music is playing softy in the background. As an afterthought, you wonder how you could have heard it so clearly from such a distance.
There is a single employee occupying the lobby. A man, standing tall behind the receptionist's desk, with a placid smile on his face and frighteningly blank eyes.
"Welcome to the Hotel California, Syd Richards, we are so pleased you've chosen to stay us"
The front door gently pulls closed, and you hear the fading words:
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave
