Does that make him haunted...or hunted?
George paused outside the elevator door, then continued his hop-skip shuffle down the hall.
It would have been easier, faster, to travel in that gilded cage, but his hysteria had him convinced that the elevator was some kind of time machine.
It would either bring him back to the current era or awaken the rest of the ghosts who had it in for Marsh. That would be bad and this George March wasn't taking any chances.
Down the stairs, bare feet pounding wooden treads. He limped into the lobby, stopped. Coffee, he smelled coffee. A freshly brewed pot from a perfectly ordinary coffee maker. He could see it, smell it, almost taste it.
Maybe that should have scared him more, the continued juxtaposition of vintage and modern, but the sight of that unit tucked into a nook next to the stairs soothed him, sliced a giant edge off his panic.
He could have a cup of coffee.
He could leave the hotel (hospital), and head back to Phoenix, try to catch an afternoon flight back to Portland. Down here in this brightly lit, somewhat dusty room, he felt somewhat safe. Sane.
His room was awful, a lurid nightmare.
The lobby not.
He grabbed a paper cup, the pot. Poured, already, hungrily anticipating that hot, bittersweet taste. His mouth watering, he reached for the sugar bowl, the fake creamer. Extra sweet, extra fat, that would shake the last of this madness, clear his aching head. Normally he preferred his brew black, but not today. He'd drink his coffee, and then, claiming an emergency, ask them to send his luggage later.
By the time he reached the front desk, he knew how utterly ridiculous he'd sound if he pleaded with them to pack his sole bag and mail it to him. They'd think him a neurotic, goofy tourist, spooked by a not-yet-haunted hotel. George was an engineer. His trade was critical thinking, facts over fantasy. He'd have to see this thing through.
With a steady hand that amazed him, he sipped the too-hot coffee, relishing the burn in his mouth. Then he frowned, swallowed hard despite the urge to spit. Even sweetened, the coffee carried an overtone that was unpleasant, but he kept drinking anyway. Bad coffee in any hotel setting was normal, he would buy a better cup before he left town.
George greeted the clerk. "Good morning. You sure work a lot of hours. Didn't you check me in last night?"
"Yes, I did." She sneezed, grabbed a tissue, wiped her nose.
"I thought so," George took another sip.
Glancing out the front windows, at the flow of cars and foot traffic, he slugged the rest, tossed the cup in the trash. Spied the box of donuts; Winchell's finest. He knew what those were, where the store was located, down the street, half a block over. Relieved, he took one, bit into the glazed shell.
Calmer now, he strolled around the lobby, favoring his sore foot. It was as he remembered, same as when he'd checked in. Part historic, part tourist kitsch. Standing there in his jeans, barefoot and bare-chested, George wondered what the hell had happened in his room upstairs.
"More coffee?" The clerk handed him another cup, a thick gob of cream floating on the top.
He drank, wondering what drip they used. It tasted awful. Grimacing, he set the cup down on the counter. Studied the clerk in her white dress, short sleeves. She had on a fitted apron, blue over white, with a few smudges and smears down the front. She probably did double-duty around here; dusting and vacuuming when things got slow.
"You told me this place was haunted."
"It is." Her hands busy out of sight behind the desk.
"But when I went to dinner last night, I spoke with some locals. They didn't know anything about it." He sounded belligerent, even to his own ears. He tried to tone it down, she only worked here. It was probably her job to push ghost stories.
"Locals don't like to talk about it much." She began shuffling the check-in cards, sorting them into a metal filing box on the counter.
He nodded absently. There was something familiar about this woman, he felt like he had seen her before, recently...but where?
"The video I got is narrated by a ghost. Ghosts and ghost towns don't always go together." Still an edge to his voice. That wasn't going to stop until he was certain the nightmare in his room was over.
"Sure they do. Everyone thinks so, and that's enough to make it true. Besides, the hotel is haunted. We just haven't gotten our ghost yet."
George laughed. Despite everything, that was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard. So naive. As if wishing would make an old building, newly remodeled, sprout a ghost.
Fully convinced he was the victim of a PR stunt, George tapped his fingers on the counter. "You can't order up a ghost. It has to be someone attached to this place, some kind of death by misery. Besides," he added loudly, almost shouting, "There is no such thing as ghosts."
She flapped her hands at him. "Ghosts come from people who die an unhappy death. You just said as much, and we all know it's true. Find someone who died hard and there's your ghost!"
George stared at her again. That feeling of familiarity was back, stronger now. Something in the way she moved her hands, and that laugh, where had he heard it before? It was hoarse, a cold gone to her chest. She coughed suddenly, turning her face into her sleeve, but nothing could mask that deep wheeze.
George froze. "You—it was you. Why? Why were you in my room this morning?"
"I wasn't." Mouth tight; impossible to forget those full lips.
"You were!" George slammed his fists down on the counter. "You were playing nurse!"
She laughed at him. "Oh wouldn't you love to think so! Playing nurse? To you? Why I'm barely old enough to be your daughter, Mr. Marsh. Shame on you!" She straightened her collar, wiped her hands on the apron.
Her rudeness, her denial: infuriating.
Generally an even-tempered man, his recent breakup with Janine ripped at him like a torn cuticle. He'd come here sore and bleeding and only slightly (okay: maybe slightly more than slightly) drunk; since then nothing had gone as planned. He'd been unsteady for days, he continued to unravel now.
Sputtering, "I know what I saw. I was out on the balcony and you came out and grabbed my arm. Scared the hell out of me. You were wearing this uniform." He waved at her dress.
"I didn't. I wasn't." She backed away slowly, standing out of reach.
"You did. You were. You offered to bathe my head with a cool cloth! And, and...you called me Mr. Marsh. Just now, I heard you! And upstairs. I told you, I'm telling you: I'm not Marsh, I'm March. George March.
"You wouldn't listen. You said I was some kind of supervisor, talked to me like it was 1920-something."
She said nothing and the silence grew.
The day was hot, the lobby warm. George's heart picked up its pace, thudding in his chest, his pulse beating in his ears. Dizzy, prickles of sweat beaded his armpits. The fever was back. He gripped the counter, tendons bulging in his forearms, his neck. He could feel his jaw tighten. In a moment he'd be grinding his teeth, a habit from his youth, coming back to haunt him now.
Haunt. Haunting. Haunted, he thought wildly. Am I being haunted? Then the clerk (nurse?) spoke again.
"But you ARE Mr. Marsh."
Or am I being hunted?
"No." a raw whisper.
"Yes, sir. I have it right here. You were admitted as Mr. Marsh, first name George, middle initial B. See, right here?" she turned the card to him.
Same name alright. Even the loops of his signature, but George wasn't confessing to that, not on a bet. "I'm a registered guest at this hotel, not a patient."
He spoke slowly, sweat running freely down his back, pooling in the waistband of his jeans. He could smell himself: sour, unwashed. Like he hadn't bathed in days, but how could he? No private bath in a hospital room, only a bedpan and—
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "I'll show you," she said, pulling another file from a cabinet. It squeaked when she pulled the drawer and whined when she closed it. Wheezy, like her breath.
"Hospital records show you had a conk on the head, Mr. Marsh. It was pretty nasty, you lost consciousness for a few days. There was a riot in the mines...after you, well! You know what you did. Anyway, someone threw slag at you. Got you good, right here." She leaned forward, caressing George's temple with a cool hand.
Satisfied she'd made her point, her long, tapered fingers danced over the file, closing it, slotting it away. "You're due to go home today. Your wife will be here sometime this afternoon. We sent a note over, saying you're ready to go."
An odd emphasis on that last phrase.
Her gaze was steady, calm. Then a twinkle appeared, a cheeky something that pushed George over the edge.
Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a white linen cap. Expertly pinned it over her sleek up-do, no mirror needed to set it straight. Clapping her hands together, she said, briskly: "Mr. Marsh, you are looking a bit peaked. Why don't I take you back to your room?"
With an effort, George loosened his fingers, one by one. His hands were cold. He felt clammy; icy shivers wracked his body. He looked past her and out the door. He could see the street, but it was telescoping, pulling in and out of view. Hard to tell if he was looking at cars or horses, if he was hearing everyday traffic or miners dragging their gear.
It was all a red haze, confused and boiling, but reduced to one fact: "I am not Marsh. My last name is March. M-A-R-C-H." He spelled it slowly, dimly remembering a family rumor that the name had been changed, out of shame, some years before. A rogue relative, someone gone crazy in the high desert. The family steering north, then west, after some kind of tragedy.
The nurse (clerk?) slid around the counter, firmly grasped his arm. "Let me take you back to your room."
George flung her aside, staggered for the door. "Get away from me! I'm checking out, right now. I'm not going home to my wife, because I don't have one. I'm not going to the mines tomorrow, because I'm an engineer." And one final yell: "I live in Portland, Oregon, not Cottonwood. And you can go to hell."