Young Writers Society

4.

The building wasn’t large, or small, or particularly new either. It sat, hunched over and brooding, the grandiose title of ‘Hotel’ – missing letters, dirt encrusted remains and all – stamped atop the entrance. Few buildings surrounded it, and those that did were in just as bad a shape. The town was little more than a deserted outpost, with two paths of mud serving as the main streets; it had long since been forgotten by the world.

Rain slashed down on the buildings, and the croak and groan of tired timber went unheard beneath the pounding.

Within, the caretaker finally rested his mop, placing it into the bucket with a gentle splash. The tiled floor was clean, or as much as it was possible to be. Some stains could never be erased. He sighed, resting his chin on the handle. It had been a long day. To his right, a small brown desk sat, behind which rows upon rows of keys hung. The walls were covered in a faded, peeling wall paper. It had been his home for the last thirty years.

As he dozed gently, he heard something he hadn’t expected to hear ever again: a roaring engine. Some time passed before the blazing headlights lit up the night, and the burning tires squealed through tracks of mud.

Gone was the tired old man; in his place stood an attentive landlord, with sparkling eyes. He watched, as a giggling young couple descended and rushed inside.

The young man’s jeans were unbelted, his step jaunty, as the half-clad girl with him clung heavily to his arm. Clearly, the preliminaries were over; the stench of lust billowed out from them. The caretaker’s nostrils flared, but he hid his disgust. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening as he saw mud carelessly trailed across his just washed floor.

James stared at the old man, in dirty overalls, and his contempt was palpable. He looked away, surveying the place.

“Welcome to this here Hotel, my name is Clarence and I will be your concierge, chef, handyman and just about anything else you need.” He smiled, displaying a perfect set of strong white teeth. Inwardly, however, he seethed.

The young lady smiled, “Hi, uh, could we –stop it –please get a room for the night?” James was sucking and kissing at her neck, hands roving desperately.

Without a word, Clarence walked over to his desk and grabbed a set of keys, returning to the lovers. “There you go, missy. Just go up them stairs, first door to your right.”

She snatched them away and in haste, they both walked past him. “Sorry about the mess,” she called over her shoulder. Her scent wafted back to him; nice, and clean too. Clarence entertained notions then, briefly, of mopping his floor with the boy’s red, red, blood. His hands tightened on the wooden haft, whitening. His own blood was boiling madly, and visions of fire and death and sex filled his mind. He took out his mop and calmly began to clean away the mud, starting from the stairs behind him. The raging beast inside him gradually subsided, lulled by the steady, continual movements. If I was younger though… He chuckled grimly.

Behind the old man, another stood: tall, covered by a wet, black trenchcoat, face shadowed by a wide brim hat. Clarence straightened. “You never were much good at sneaking."

The steady swish, swish of the mop never slowed. Around them a faint music chimed.

There was a blur, a rush of phenomenal speed, and the cloacked man stood before Clarence.

-I have need –

The old man sighed. It had been a long time since he heard that sinister slither in his mind. “Don’t you always?” He moved around the whistler, and continued to clean. “I see your condition has worsened,” he remarked.

-Yess, but I feel strong yet. Better than ever- He stood to the side now, watching closely the man who had the power to end the world. A power he wanted.

“So it is worse than I feared.”

-I want the key- His tone hardened, stance aggressive.

“I know you do,” Clarence said calmly, then changing the subject, “You know Phyllis’ is after you, yes?”

A mirthless snort came from the other. –What of it?-

The mop stopped. He turned, surprised. “You’re not worried? You stole his nephew, his last living relative. You have angered a man gifted with the knowledge of every space, on every plane and world in existence. There is no place you can go, where he cant find you. It’s not a matter of it, but when he will catch you.”

A hiss sounded then, briefly overcoming the strange melody that still floated about them. -I can take him, should it come to that-

“I’m not so sure”—he began to mop again, dipping it into the bucket and slapping it on the floor—“but that’s beside the point. Are you sure you know what your doing?”

-Yes, Father- Concilatory now his goal was at hand, he glided closer.

The old man snorted. He hadn’t heard that honorific in a while; a surge of memories threatened to overcome him them, but he shut them down. He had reached the door and stood now, watching as snow began to drift down, replacing the rain. The cold didn’t affect him and he moved out into the midst of it. His feet were planted in water and earth, his body and heart were aflame with life, as one arm reached upward in benediction to the sky.

And slowly, a feather drifted down, pure and perfect in every little way. He brought it to his chest, a glow of satisfaction on his face, and went back inside. From out of his pocket he took a gleaming back case, opened it, and placed the feather inside. It clicked shut with a sound of finality.

Silently, he handed it over to the waiting figure. “You shall leave the boy with me.”

The whistler started. He hadn’t expected that… the boy was important… still, it would be best not to push his luck, he knew. –Take him-

“I already have.”

A sibilant laughter echoed then, and Clarence was alone once more. Upstairs, two humans fucked as the end of the world began.

*****

If confused, know that this has been moved up to replace the chapter, 'Detective.'