I've got to fast forward three years now. It's not that nothing happened for three years – heaps did – it's just that I want to get to the part about the key, and I didn't remember it until the week me and Sophie were both twelve. You'll just have to believe me that we managed to survive on our own for all that time. If you don't believe me about that, you're not going to believe anything else, so you might as well stop now.
It was cold that week. In the mornings the grass was frosty around Ambrose, and me and Fred would go outside and crunch through it. I lit a fire in the fireplace in the lounge room, and we sat on the rug watching the TV and listening to the fire crackling and the hot air moaning up the flue.
Fred was three now. He followed me everywhere. I didn't mind that he stayed with me, because I liked to know where he was. I worried that he'd fall down a hole. I worried that he'd get some gross disease. I worried that his real parents would show up and take him away. I dreamed about him escaping from Ambrose. I'd chase him down the Lane screaming at him to come back, but he'd be laughing, thinking it was a game, then he'd run out onto the street and a bus would come roaring past and swallow him up. I never told Sophie about the dream. Sometimes, when Fred was throwing a tantrum, I'd catch her eye, and I'd know we were thinking he same thing
(bad parents)
and we'd look away from each other quickly. I figured we were screwing up his childhood and he'd end up either a retard or a monster. But to speak about it would have made it real or something, so we didn't.
Then there was that weird connection between him and the hotel. It had been like that from the start, but as he grew up it seemed to grow stronger. Sometimes I'd come across him having a conversation in an empty room. I know kids talk to themselves – hell, I still do – but there was something creepy about it just the same, and as soon as he realised I was there he'd stop talking, as if he didn't want me to hear what he was saying.
Sophie had changed too. She never hugged me like she used to, you know, when I did something she approved of. And instead of getting poisonous when I said the wrong thing, she'just stalk off somewhere. I missed the old Sophie. I wanted things to stay the same, and never change. I figured I hadn't changed at all. Everyone figures that.
Anyway, the thing with the key happened the same night Death arrived, so I'd better tell you about him first.
His full name was Peter Death. I always wondered if he came from some country where people have weird names, like Poland or something. Anyway, he didn't mind being called Death. He seemed to think it was hilarious actually.
Death brought his wife with him to the hotel. Her name was Margaret Death. As far as we knew she was just an ordinary old woman.
But Peter Death really was Death.
It was always exciting when new people arrived. Especially for Fred. He was old enough to watch the TV with us now. His favourite by far was the Ape. He called it The Yape, and he was always asking me about it, as if I knew what the Ape was up to at any given time.
"What's The Yape doing?"
"Um... ironing his socks," I'd say. Or, "Taking a bath," or "Eating a watermelon." It's okay to lie to little kids.
Fred would look in the direction of the lounge room, imagining the Ape in there doing these things.
"Where's Woof?" I'd say. The toy dog I'd bought for Fred had gone from being Oof-oof, to just Oof, and finally, Woof. Fred would race off to find Woof, all thought of watermelon-eating Apes gone from his mind, and I wouldn't have to take him in to flick through all the TV channels looking for the Ape. Usually there'd be nothing happening on the TV anyway.
Anyway, Fred was there with us when Mr. and Mrs. Death first showed up.