Theodore Jones was an old soul, although that was a bit of a misnomer. He had witnessed the rise of countless empires, followed by their inescapable decline to ash. This intrinsically linked cycle was sure to leave a path of carnage in its wake. After all, empires were built atop the bones of rulers and their victims alike.
The passage of time, the source of all decline, would grind everything down to a fine dust. Perhaps that had been the premise for the sands of time analogy Theodore thought? The great temples of past-religions were a testament of society's transformation. These great centres had once been the focal point of communities, the forges which powered empires. Now these marvels of architecture, which had taken generations to build were hollowed out or reduced to rubble.
"Now that is progress," he said before adopting a smirk that made all but the surest men uneasy.
Many empires had collapsed because he played a part in manipulating key events. It was not by accident that weaknesses were incorporated into the Great Wall's design then leaked to the Mongols. Nor was it a coincidence that the Mongolian horde later used river boats for their invasion of Japan. A seemingly insignificant risk, which cost them the bulk of their fleet when a typhoon hit.
"Divine wind my ass," he muttered.
He was responsible for the disappearance of the Ninth Legion, a loss that prevented Rome from taking all of Britannia. That particular mishap also bled the empire dry and heralded their decline.
Not all actions needed to include grandiose plans or sinister plots. His greatest achievements had been to load trade ships with plague ridden rats to spread the Black Death. That singular act unleashed a death toll that escalated beyond his wildest dreams, leaving the sweet smell of death lingering in the air for nearly a decade.
These feats were never done as a means to accumulate wealth. When one lived this long, there was a thirst for entertainment, a desire to live through chaos. What incentives did he have in seeing society running like a well-oiled machine?
Even straightforward acts of terror had the potential for a popular uprising and violence. What better way to stimulate the mind then watch as wealthy industrialists were dragged into the street so they could be tarred and feathered?
He had been there to sow the seeds to dissent in France and witnessed the decapitation of every blue blood. That turned out to be one hell of a party.
Of course, such events were nearly impossible to plan with precision. Nothing as complex as the human psyche could be quantified with any real accuracy.
After a few centuries, one got the knack for anticipating the actions of tyrants and despots. They tended to be the simplest to identify since their thirst for power was mixed with an innate distrust of everyone. Two weaknesses which were easily manipulated to override reason and logic.
Zealots were the real problem, with Joan of Arc being a clear example. To think how he inadvertently created that monstrosity by ordering his troops to rape and pillage to their hearts content. This archetype proved difficult to control as the divine path often went against all rational thought.
In the end, all it took was a king-size greed to have the Maid of Orléans burnt at the stake. The smell of her burning flesh made up for all the trouble she had caused. A shame that the collapse of the French and English empires would have to wait for another time. The world was one big powder keg waiting to go; it just needed the right set of conditions to set it off in one fell swoop.
His thoughts were interrupted when another drink appeared before him. As the world came back into focus, his gaze glided over the drink then focused on the bartender.
"The dame across the bar felt that you needed another drink sir," the bartender said.
Theodore turned to have a better look at the patron and saw a dark haired woman dressed in the latest fashion. It was as though the jane's dark eyes were looking right through him and not at him; a distinction he found oddly disturbing.
"Really now," he asked before turning his attention to the drink. Theodore then noticed its distinctive colour and bouquet of vodka within, "A Bloody Mary?"
That particular name brought about quite a few good memories. He rather enjoyed the barbarism of that period. Particularly how men discounted and discarded one another as though they were nothing more than filth. Bloody riots, massacres, killing fields filled with impaled heads were some of the greatest works in terror that mankind ever produced.
London prominently featured the heads of those caught circumventing their laws. The state's warm welcome was a constant reminder of the barbarism that lurked underneath the thin veneer of civilisation.
He turned to face this generous patron, but found the seat empty. Despite his eyes reassuring him that she was gone, he felt as though he was being watched. Whatever the cause, he sensed what appeared to be centuries of blind hatred; so much so that he imagined it burning a hole through his skull.
He caught himself shivering and fought to regain his composure. Whatever this hotel of the damned harboured, he would not let it win!
In one quick motion Theodore raised the fresh drink high in the air then toasted, "Cheers!"
His words roused no more than a few drunken patrons up from their stupor. It was fortunate for him that buying a round really got them going. No one was going to ruin it for him tonight.
* * * *
Days passed by at the Grand, which provided ample opportunity for Theodore to relax. This hotel was the cornerstone of decadence, the kind Theodore expected from any burgeoning empire and one that would soon need to be culled. He enjoyed their luxuries, the privileges that came with wealth. He had spent countless hours in surroundings that were anything but comfortable, so that more than made up for this hypocrisy.
Besides, better to know one's enemy, see into the heart of their corrupt society before his coup de grâce relegated them to footnotes on the tome of human history. Rome and London had burned in the chaos he sewed, but not before he gorged himself on their addictions and debauchery.
While Theodore enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, he looked out over the valley until that awkward sensation washed over him. This time there was a girl smiling at him as though she were a tuxedo cat about to feast on a canary. The man returned a smile of similar effect, but that did little to ease the sense of dread flooding over him. He had seen this particular girl before though her clothes were different and this time she was not caked in blood.
"Last I checked you were dead," he said.
Theodore turned his attention to his steak and eggs, cut off a fresh piece and chewed noisily. His smile grew so wide that bits of food slipped through.
"You're not exactly on the up and up when it comes to that subject either," the girl asked in the most peculiar tone.
Peculiar only because a child her age would never talk to an adult like that. Her tone carried the experience of a hundred lifetimes and hinted she would never surrender to his will.
The tone she used with him turned out to be the least of his concerns. Those eyes burned with centuries of experience and more importantly hatred. Until now that had been something he saw only in the mirror. To see it reflected in someone so young struck him as disturbing.
Either way, the girl had a point. He should have died long ago when a sworn enemy ran him through. The attack had been devastating considering how the blade pierced his chest and severed his spine.
Theodore remembered how blood stained the surrounding snow and saw steam rise from his wound. It was the first time he felt the chill touch of the grave.
Hours later he woke up in a pit, covered in lime. He was also surrounded by a mass of corpses (friends and foes) who had all grown cold. That moment became his genesis, an opportunity to start life anew and repay those who caused him misery.
"No," the saboteur said before taking his time to formulate the words in his mind while details of that girl's death returned to him. "I suppose not," he said then smirked in hopes that it would throw her off.
When his plan failed Theodore added, "Thanks for that drink by the by. I must say you do look much better than the last time I left you."
He last saw this girl during a spring Viking. A time where rampant violence, rape and pillaging were the staples of a young warrior who worshipped Loki. With every landing came the opportunity to make a name for themselves. The good life came to those who worshipped a god that really knew how to party. Besides those stupid enough to be in their way deserved their fate.
To classify this girl as special would have been a gross misuse of the word; there was nothing noteworthy about her or her nameless village. Settlements and fortifications were nothing more than mere obstacles for their promised booty, which included women and children.
He enjoyed the whimpering, the crying and the bloody mess that followed his encounter. Not a bad night; fine food, drink and a fresh virgin to top it all off. There was nothing better for the soul than to corrupt another life in the name of eternal boredom.
While he slept off the sex and alcohol, Theodore heard her scurry about. This act of defiance did little to bother him, however her hand sliding along the handle of his axe required a brutal response. He ended up slicing her throat before she could even whimper.
It satisfied him greatly to take another's life, watch their time run out before it was ordained by some greater power. The stunned look in their eyes, the shock their minds felt when their body ceased to function. Their souls trapped in a decaying corpse until Death came to claim his prize. This girl had been the same as all the others, even her pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. He remembered hearing the soft thump she made when she hit the ground like a rag doll.
At the time he was sure they would never cross paths again, so Theodore kissed her blueing lips longingly. It was this final act of indignity that really made the event memorable. It was not every day he had the pleasure of stripping a victim's innocence and deny them a chance for revenge. Ironically it was a life taken by someone who did not deserve what he had in excess.
If this girl was surprised by his venomous comments, she hid it with the grace of a queen. Instead, she wore a radiant smile that did little to conceal her hatred as though the fires of hell itself were burning close to the surface.
"I'm glad you enjoyed that drink, rather near and dear to both of us. Is it not," she asked while sitting across from him.
"Really," Theodore asked since he could not recall having seen her again.
It certainly seemed implausible that she could have followed him all this time without his knowing. How odd was it for her to avoid confrontation until now?
While revenge could cross the boundaries between life and death (as it had for him), it tended to be his preference to make sure his opponents remembered who he was before striking them dead. There was no better high than vengeance, especially when emotions were heightened.
"Oh you are far too ignorant to see the world you live in," she leaned forward as though she were about to divulge a secret.
Unable to help himself, he leaned in closer to see what vicious lies she would conjure up. This was going to be good he thought. Would she invoke the will of God?
The girl added, "You raped me, stabbed me, burned me at the stake, betrayed me countless times, left me beaten and bruised after drunken brawls. You even had me executed in the public gardens for an entire city to watch."
When she spoke of the ways, he destroyed her the man recounted all of the events that may have fit such descriptions. To be honest there were more than a few of each.
Betrayal was a very common tool in his arsenal, rape an art refined over centuries and executions were used when sowing the seeds of dissent. There were however no other instances he could remember seeing her graphic and pleasurable death.
She leaned back, grabbing a piece of bacon from his plate then nibbled upon it. People were beginning to stare, something he liked to avoid.
Despite her mouth being full she said, "You have known me as that Bitch Maiden from Orléans. You knew me Annie Chapman when I worked Whitechapel."
The girl winked then said, "You remember Marie Louisa de La Maison de Savoie during La Révolution? That Bloody Mary that I gave you, did it remind you of her blue blood pouring on the cobblestone at La Place de La Concorde?"
She never gave him a chance to talk because she added, "Those are just a few of the times you and I crossed paths."
"You see," the girl paused long enough to swallow then tore off another strip of meat. "When one has a soul that crosses the veil or whatever baloney you subscribe to; an angel of death comes to claim your soul. In my case this angel has never looked kindly on your actions. This time she intervened directly and rewarded me with a chance to right the wrongs you wrought."
"Really now," Theodore said with a smirk since the pieces of this puzzle were falling into place.
So not only did he have the pleasure of destroying her once, but time and time again? Certainly there was someone up there who looked after his entertainment.
"Not so fast with your fantasies there," she interrupted before falling into a smile, one which could have chilled the mood at an orgy. "There are conditions to being granted a new life. All who do, shall not recall the last, but experiences shape the soul prior to their next passage."
Before he could say anything, she cut him off and said, "The odds are astronomical for two people meeting again and yet you managed to show up every time."
For her this was the equivalent of small talk. Chatting about the weather came as easily to her as talking about being eviscerated or raped for the hundredth time.
In his mind such topics were to be kept out of polite discussion, especially when crowds formed. Then again, he sensed Freud would have a grand ole time with this one.
"So rules were waived," the girl added while showing her perfect pearly whites and for a split second looked like any other child her age. "Now tell me. Are you feeling anything right about now," the girl asked with a furrowed brow.
The whole time this child was looking at him as though she were waiting for a cake to cool. At first he considered laughing off the comment, but he did feel off. It was as though something was stirring from the depths of his stomach; bile was building up, bubbling over then forcing its way up past his throat.
"I poisoned your drink," she said while leaning back to enjoy the show. "Something nice and slow that required a reactive agent commonly found in the eggs you are eating," the girl added.
The feeling pushed onwards until he upchucked. Instead of the familiar yellow followed by an acrid odour, Theodore saw chunks of flesh rush out past his lips. His own, in fact, marking that moment in time once he realised this little bitch had chosen today among all others to set things right in the world.
With a skilled jump, she easily evaded the mess then waited for a brief reprieve before saying, "The Georgians tripped over themselves to provide me with this particularly potent poison. It seems they want your body for study."
The girl moved in close then ran a hand over his trousers before fondling his groin. This was her way of informing him that he would no longer have any control over her body (or his).
The girl said, "When you wake up, I will be sure to enjoy watching you die over and over again during their experiments."
Before another wave of nausea could wash over him, the world grew dim. The girl with no name turned about and then walked away like the Queen she had once been. All the while the breakfast crowd was cheering her on, even as waiters approached to deal with the mess.
* * * *
Max was not having a good shift. There were complaints in the South wing of beds shaking and walls sweating blood. He would have to put out some feelers to make sure no one was practising dark incantations within the hotel.
The Grand prided itself on catering to all of the needs of their clients. There were places dedicated to such matters, sacrificial altars, torture chambers and other rooms dedicated to needs so ghastly that even he dared not think about. All of these were of course hidden beneath the hotel.
Without much notice, a lobby boy ran out of the elevator then headed straight for the front desk. The concierge sighed, knowing that anyone from the evening shift acting in such an impulsive manner meant trouble.
"What now," Max asked to dispense with formalities. "Did one of our guests leave a mess," Max asked.
The boy paused looking wild eyed. Great that meant things were about to get worse.
Just then a girl no more than eight came by the desk from the same lift. She looked at him with piercing blue eyes that contained no youthful innocence. Yet her heart beat as regularly as any other daytime guest. The concierge furrowed his brow and noted the lobby boy shaking like a leaf when she got close. Once she passed, the girl looked up at Max before her smile grew warm and welcoming.
"Maximus," she exclaimed with the slightly shrill tones of a child's voice. "You really knew how to neck back in the day," she added.
This girl then headed towards one of their juice joints. This caught the concierge off guard as very few people knew his real name, let alone ever implied they had been lovers.
"Georgian," the boy spat out just before he collapsed.
Given that girl's bizarre behaviour and how students of arcane magic and technology were present at the hotel. Max knew he would be very busy tidying up loose ends.
Without saying a word, staff converged on the boy, they would look out for him. For now he needed to get on the blower and resolve this before the day staff took over. When Max saw how the sun's rays were at the far end of the valley, he knew there was little time.
* * * *
It had been a little over a month since John ran into the wall surrounding the abandoned hotel. The wall he swore contained names of its victims. The list had been so clear in his mind, but after Elmer spoke those names were gone. Repeated visits to the site proved fruitless.
How odd was it for him to discover the existence of the site only after he came directly in contact with the wall? Why had he never noticed the existence of this structure built into the cliffside before? Did he have blinders on?
To feed his curiosity, John made attempts to find Eleanor, the woman who led him to the wall. But she never seemed to be at work or in town when he made inquiries.
Whenever he asked for her whereabouts, people got evasive, providing him with vague responses. Some of the townsfolk seemed to be genuinely confused by his questions, so much so that he began to question his sanity.
One evening, while exhausted from trying to get to the bottom of this vision, he slid into a deep sleep. It was rare for John to give into sleep so easily; since he needed to wage war with the sandman before his mind capitulated for the night.
Tonight was different, he saw a vision of Eleanor entering his mind, walking about in a long flowing dress which differed greatly from the one she wore when they first met.
The world surrounding her seemed ethereal, lacking any real substance. It helped him focus on her. Why was it that he never got around to undressing her with his eyes?
In his dream her motions were slow and deliberate, witnessing every piece of her dress being discarded until all that was left were her unmentionables. Of course those would not stay on for long, it would take no more than a moment for her to cast them away. Eleanor would soon be left with nothing more than her angelic body glistening in the ghostly light.
Before his dream turned into a fantasy, she winked then said:
Suddenly I knew that the sound was not in my ears, it was not just inside my head. At that moment I must have become quite white. I talked still faster and louder. And the sound, too, became louder. It was a quick, low, soft sound, like the sound of a clock heard through a wall, a sound I knew well.
Startled awake John quickly learned just how much an effect his body could respond to certain particularities of the dream.
"Dang nabbit," the barrister exclaimed, growing tired of that woman finding ways to frustrate him, even in his dreams. "That has got to be a first," he said before he slid off the bed.
So why would anyone quote something from Edgar Allen Poe? Never in his life did he come across a situation where the words from a morbid poet intersected with his fantasies. Either there were some unresolved childhood issues at work or something else was at play.
Then he heard something, at first John thought it was his imagination running wild. That made sense given the context of that bizarre dream but the sound did not fade away. In the distance, just barely audible he heard the muffled sound reminding him of a deranged clock. Whatever it was, the sound originated from down the hall.
He turned on the lights and was temporarily blinded from the white light. John pried his eyes open, forcing them to adjust prior to venturing into the hall. With every step, the sound became sharper and more pronounced.
"Surely Elmer and Ida would have picked up on such a sound in their years of working here," John asked.
Then he realised how that statement also applied to him. This was the first time he had been aware of this rhythmic beat.
Once he reached the end of the hall, John realised the sound did not originate from either of the side-rooms. No, this sound clearly originated from dead ahead, but he was greeted by a wall.
"Great nothing that a sledgehammer could not solve," he said while asking if there was one in the tool shed.
His question for the moment remained unanswered. Since the long shadows from his bedroom exaggerated details on the wall. John saw how the corners were not seamless. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to hide this particular door.
"Why", he asked, though could not help but remember what Eleanor had said the first time they met.
"Sometimes doors are locked for a reason," she told him.
Fortunately this door was merely hidden and not locked. With a firm push against the wall, the panel opened to reveal what looked to be an old storage closet. Within, there was a three-drawer filing cabinet and as judged by the dust it had not been disturbed for a very long time. The sound originated from the middle drawer.
"Swell," John said sarcastically. "Must still be dreaming up a scene from that story," he added as he opened the drawer.
Unbeknownst to him the contents were well above his pay grade. The object looked like an aquarium with thick iron edges and rivets to keep its liquid contents from spilling. It was small even for a fish bowl, but something moved and pulsated within.
The barrister was not a qualified medical doctor though he felt capable of identifying this anomaly as a human heart. Unfortunately, that was not the most startling aspect of the discovery. Within, the organ continued to beat out rhythmically as though it were attached to its host body.
While his mind sought to rationalise what was taking place, John searched the drawer and found a slip of paper tucked away in the back. The barrister noticed it was an evidence record sheet. Inside were details on how this particular object had been retrieved from the Grand a month or so before Black Tuesday in 1929.
"The Grand," he said while wondering how anything like this could be found in an abandoned hotel. If this is what Edward Locke had found then it may explain why he embraced madness.
A cursory glance of the bottom drawer showed that it was empty, at least it was now. From what he could tell moths had found their way into that drawer, then feasted on the contents. If it were not for the fact that there were mothballs in the middle and top drawers, those documents would have suffered the same fate.
As for the top, he found an old key and a journal. The tome caught his eye as it was leather-bound and filled with words written in precise penmanship.
Just what he needed to get his mind off of Eleanor for this evening. Nothing better than the journal from a raving lunatic to keep any fantasies at bay. Shame this dream had veered so far off course.