The faceless clock chimed midnight.
The sound seeped through cracks in the building's foundation, piercing the roof that had sheltered more strangers than friends over the decades. It crawled down the oak trees whose trunks inched closer to the walls every year. It kept moving, running across the clearing clotted with fallen leaves toward the road that carved a switchback path down the mountain. The chime seemed hell-bent on bursting past the treetops that blocked out the horizon and flying on for all to hear.
But instead it died in the ears of a woman stepping out of a car in the darkness.
Other chimes dutifully followed the first, announcing to all who cared to listen that it was now a cold Friday morning in the Amaranth Hotel.
The woman wore a long green coat that failed to shield her body from the chill and a hat that barely concealed strands of unwashed hair. Her shoes were so worn she could feel every piece of gravel beneath her feet.
The woman appraised the sagging three-story building. It wasn't much. The hotel was isolated, hard to get to, and—judging by the few cars parked outside and the few lights in the windows—unpopular. In other words, perfect. She glanced back at the driver tapping at his GPS. He had driven a long way through the Appalachian foothills in the last few hours—his only instructions to keep his foot on the gas till city lights were only a memory—and was clearly eager to get back to civilization.
She handed him an extra wad of bills for the unusual distance he'd been asked to cover. And, her eyes made clear, for his discretion should this trip ever be brought up in the future. The woman slung a canvas bag over her shoulder, crossed the parking lot, and yanked open the door to the Amaranth Hotel.
The arched entryway probably seemed stately back in the hotel's heyday, but any sense of luxury in the wilderness had diminished long ago. Threadbare rugs were layered across the floor, piles of jackets weighed down the coat racks by the door. The reception desk was scratched from years of suitcases knocking against it, and the handrail of the sweeping marble staircase hung crooked on one side.
The only real grandeur left in the lobby came from the grandfather clock against the wall, which was still chiming its midnight announcement. The clock was remarkable not only because it was beautiful—intricately carved from top to bottom—but because it had no face. No circle of numbers marked the hours, no hands moved around in their customary circle. A soft ticking did accompany the passing of seconds, but the time itself was indiscernible until the hourly chime rang out. It was a seamless pillar of wood, broken only by a pendulum that had not for a moment stopped swinging in over fifteen years.
The clock finished its final chime as the woman passed. She didn't notice the ticking. It only blended in with the similar sound measuring out the moments in her head, her own internal clock always aware of how many hours had passed since the incident she came here to escape. Her feet kept silent time against the tile as she crossed to the reception desk.
A red-headed boy lay face-down on the desk, drooling on a stack of papers. From his pocket protruded a beer bottle that threatened to spill its last drops across his ill-fitting uniform.
The woman rang the bell on the desk, and the boy jolted awake and squinted up at her. But before he could blink the sleep out of his eyes, a round, middle-aged man hurried into the lobby from the hall, tying a robe over his pajamas.
"Oh! Uh, good evening, ma'am. Or, I guess..." He glanced at the faceless clock out of sheer habit, for it was just as unreadable to him as it was to his guests. "...good morning might be more accurate? If you could wait one second, we'll be right with you."
He turned to the boy behind the desk, who tried to push the beer bottle deeper into his pocket. The robed man leaned down and spoke in what he must have thought was a whisper.
"Bobby, your shift just started. Were you already asleep when this guest came in?"
"Uh, well, I was just getting some rest so I'd be, like, super alert later on, you know?"
"I specifically told you, you cannot be goofing off tonight, not when we're actually expecting an important guest. Now check this woman in like a professional, it'll be good practice."
"Uh, I actually kind of have to pee, Mr. B. Could you maybe take this one?"
The man made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. "If you so much as think about sneaking a bottle from the bar, I swear to God, Bobby—"
"Thanks, Mr. B!" Bobby stood up too quickly and bumped hard into the corner of the desk. He swore and retreated down the hall to the bathroom. The man sat in the abandoned chair with a sigh.
The robe straining to cover this man's belly smelled faintly of perfume—a scent he leaned down to inhale every once in a while whenever he wore it; although lately the scent was fading from the fabric. His eyes were those of a man who had long ago gotten out of his depth but wasn't quite sure how to swim back to dry land.
In his pockets were a sweat-stained handkerchief, a single brass key, and a tiny model train whistle he had yet to attach to his beloved motorized creation, which chugged in a constant circle down by the basement steps.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, ma'am," he said, wiping drool off a red-marked budget sheet. "He's not a bad kid, Bobby. Just needs a little...extra encouragement sometimes. Doesn't take a genius to be the night watchman for this place, so..." He looked up at the newcomer's blank expression. "Uh, but I digress. My name is Mr. Briggs, I run the Amaranth. How can I be of service?"
"I need a room for a few nights. Preferably a corner room in the front. One of the ones up top with the wide windows."
"Ah, unfortunately, both third-floor corner rooms are occupied at the moment, but we do have some lovely second-floor options with great views of the trees and mountains, if―"
"Fine, I'll make it work."
"Wonderful..." Briggs was just now taking in the woman's tattered appearance. He cleared his throat. "And how will you be paying tonight?"
She pulled a bulging wallet from her pocket and extracted six large bills.
An alarm sounded somewhere in the crevasses of the manager's mind. His hand hovered in the air between the desk and the money.
Briggs may not have had a head for keeping track of figures or giving orders, but his instinct for trouble was the one thing that always served him well as owner of the Amaranth Hotel. This woman may have been young, but that didn't mean she wasn't trouble. She glanced out the window for the second time since their conversation began. She somehow managed to seem both completely in charge of the present situation and completely distracted. There was something odd in the way her eyes darted out at the road through the glass. Something not quite fearful, but cautious. Yes, cautious was the word for it. A word with which Briggs was well acquainted.
He held his breath and reminded himself what his old partner used to say whenever something like this came up. In the hotel game, you don't look too closely. You don't ask questions. Especially when you can't remember the last time you've seen that much cash.
Mr. Briggs took the money and pulled out a form.
"And what name should I put down, Ms...?"
There was only a tiny hesitation—barely noticeable, really—before she replied, "Barrow. Agatha Barrow."
"Been traveling awhile, Ms. Barrow?" Briggs scratched away on the form, still eyeing the woman's ragged features every few seconds.
"Seems like years."
The pen started leaving white grooves instead of black lines.
"Damn cheap things." Briggs scribbled on scrap paper to get the ink flowing.
"Here." Agatha reached in her pocket and fished out a blue fountain pen.
"Ah, thank you." Briggs took the pen and finished his entry, filing away the form and the money. He reached behind him to a rack of brass keys and took one down. "Everything seems to be in order, then. I've put you in room 200, which has a great view of the garden and other scenery, so I hope that's satisfactory. Complimentary breakfast is served from seven to ten. I'm afraid the elevator is out of order right now, but you don't have far to climb, I promise. The repairman's coming on Monday, so we're all just getting a little more exercise till then."
He gestured toward the elevator by the staircase, an old-fashioned metal door topped by a half-circle dial. The light behind the dial flickered, its little arrow stuck between "1" and "2."
Briggs then took out his handkerchief and rubbed it along his forehead, suddenly avoiding Agatha's eyes. "And, well, one last point of interest...I'm sure you're wondering about the Wi-Fi password, but I'll go ahead and tell you we do not have our own internet access, and cell service up here is spotty at best. You'll be best served using the landline in your room. I apologize for any inconvenience."
Briggs spoke fast, as though hoping to lessen the pain by ripping off the bandage quickly. More than one guest had simply left the way they'd come after being told the news.
"I don't have a cell phone, so that's fine."
Briggs looked relieved. "Oh, is that so? Well, one less thing, right? Good. So, I think you're all set. If you need anything at all during your stay, please don't hesitate to ask." He tried for a smile that came off as a tired grimace. "Have a restful night, Ms. Barrow."
She took the key without a word. Briggs watched the coat tail of the Amaranth's newest guest turn up the staircase and disappear behind the peeling yellow papered wall.