“There are two individuals I’d like to report missing, Mister….” Ez glances down at the sun-weathered sign-in book. There are dozens of spills decorating the nearly moldy signatures. “Hansen, Richard Hansen, and Ms. Elizabeth Clay… Seventy-two hours ago… the Hollingsworth Hotel…. Yeah, same thing…. Okay, thanks.” She hangs up the phone before turning to me and Maria. “Police will be here today or tomorrow to check in.”
Maria barely acknowledges this, and Ez doesn’t push because Maria wasn’t even supposed to be here today. She’d only come in to hide from some high school douche who cheated on her and was now borderline stalking her in an attempt to ‘apologize.’ I don’t miss high school. I have a feeling I won’t miss college either.
“I’m going to print the security footage,” Ez says, and she rolls away from the front desk to the small office space that houses the 15-year-old printer. Ez is ten and eight years older than Maria and me, respectively, and even though we all have the same job, sometimes I think she wants to believe she’s in charge. She’s the only one who works full-time, so I let her have it. That and I think she needs it.
I don’t really need anything; I just want to get out of here, but I can’t focus on that because I have a biology test tomorrow. I need biology to graduate and run away, even though my therapist says that won’t work. The lady’s obsessed with the expression: no matter where you go, there you are.
There’s a hard thump from outside, and the door slowly pushes open. The person on the other side pushes hard against the wood, but it’s no match for the rug that always gets caught underneath it. They finally succeed, and a young woman steps in, carrying a notebook and purse in either hand.
“Checking in?” I ask, grabbing the sign-in book from where Ez left it. She’s around my age, most likely a year or two into college. She’s not our typical audience, but I’m not one to turn down paying customers.
“No, actually, my name’s Anna Hoffman,” she says and sticks her hand out to me like that name should mean something, “I’m a student journalist from Simon-Dale. I write for the SD News” Maria looks up at this, but Anna’s wide eyes make it seem like she’s the most confused of all of us. She’s trying hard not to look like she’s memorizing everything in sight.
“Uh, I’m Wendi.” I take her hand awkwardly. Her army of rings scratch my fingers.
Anna flashes a tight smile as her shoulders roll back. Her muscles tense. “I was wondering if I may be able to talk to your management for a potential interview.”
“Good luck,” Ez interrupts from the corner. I jump at her voice – I hadn’t even realized she came back into the room. “Management hasn’t been around in months.”
Anna blinks – or maybe twitches — at this answer, and her head slightly tilts like she doesn’t quite believe Ez. She also keeps staring like she’s never seen anyone in a wheelchair before, so according to history, Ez was about to get real pissed. Thankfully, Anna comes up with a response, “Oh, okay, is anyone else high up available?”
“Just us,” I answer.
“What do you want?” Ez asks, coming closer to Anna who jumps back a little when she approaches. Anna’s bulging eyes dance between us, and when she inches closer to me, she kind of smells of laundry detergent.
“Well, can I interview one of you? Or all three?”
Something shifts upstairs. The ceiling vibrates.
“What was that?” Anna asks. Her big brown eyes panel the popcorn ceiling, as if trying to see through it.
“Are you stupid?” Maria randomly says, “do you not know where you are?” She spits out the words like she intended them for someone else.
“You should probably get going anyway. The police will be here soon,” Ez adds, nodding to the door behind her. We all know this isn’t true, but neither Maria nor I bother to correct.
I don’t say anything only because I feel bad for Anna, who was probably just trying to get an assignment done for class, and she looks like she’s about to burst into tears. I wish I could help her, but she’d be better off finding a new hotel to interview. Maria was right, though. She should’ve done her research.
Anna tries to straighten herself up, but it’s obvious she’s downright horrified. Her hand keeps twitching, her French-tips rapidly tapping on her notebook. “Was that someone dying?” Her voice shakes. She has done her research.
“Why would you say that?” Ez quickly jumps in. I’m not sure her words help though with Maria gawking at Anna with her mouth open.
“Is it true everyone who stays here goes missing?” Anna spits out, and I see her hand twirling inside her purse. Probably trying to set up a recording device of some kind, and I would warn Ez, but at this point, I really shouldn’t get involved. I only have an hour left of this shift. An hour left to study the tree-like patterns in the beige wallpaper that’s partially ripping off. An hour left until I go home and study the snowflakes rippled through my ceiling. An hour left until I’m one hour closer to never coming back here again.
“Yeah, wanna stay here? I’m sure no one would miss you,” Maria snarls. She’s really not usually this mean. In fact, she’s sweet, and she volunteers a lot and loves animals and her little siblings, and she only started cursing when that asshole wrote slut all over her locker.
Ez cuts in again. “If you’re not checking in, you can go.” She then rolls past Anna and physically opens the door for her.
Anna looks at all of us, and finding no allies, she trudges to the door. She keeps looking back as if one of us will change our minds, but Maria is already stalking her ex’s new girl on Instagram, and Ez is waiting to slam the door behind her, and I’m just trying to remember any kind of biology term or equation.
She finally leaves, and Ez shakes off her hands like she ran off the devil and wants us to cheer. We sit in the silence.
*
I end up leaving before Maria who had since moved on to stalking her ex’s new girl’s mom on LinkedIn. Ez told me she’d see me tomorrow which was a little cruel, but I need the money. “Excuse me, Wendi right?” a shy voice interrupts my walk home. I can barely hear it over my eardrum-ruining music from my headphones, but still, I turn to find Anna. I’m kind of impressed and also embarrassed at her determination to get this story.
“Uh, yeah?” I say, pausing my music. Cars whizz past us even though it’s only 35 mph here. With only a jacket on, standing still makes me realize how cold it’s starting to get as the fall sun starts to descend. It’s actually pretty here, something I hate to admit.
“Sorry, hope I didn’t scare you,” Anna says, as if I didn’t watch her almost shit herself earlier that day.
“You’re fine.” We stare at each other. I wonder if she’s recording now, or if she’s about to dive into her purse again.
“Do you think I could interview you really quickly? About the Hollingsworth Hotel?”
I look down the street and think about biology and how much I enjoy walking with only myself and my music. But I haven’t talked to anyone besides Maria and Ez in a few days, and Anna did wait all this time. “You can, but I’m going home, so you’ll have to walk with me, if that’s okay,” I finally say.
“Oh! That’s so fine!” She quickly walks to me. I guess I don’t look like a serial killer based on how quick she is to agree.
She wasn’t recording before, so she goes through her purse before starting. She then opens up the notebook she had on her earlier. I can’t quite see it, but she seems to have already written out the questions she wants to ask.
“Can you address the rumors about the missing guests at the Hollingsworth?” she reads off in a flat tone without making eye contact.
“Uh, not really a rumor, I guess. People go missing, yeah.” I follow her stance and keep my eyes on the ground.
Anna looks down at her notebook. Her finger lightly traces over her questions, and I get the impression she wasn’t fully ready for that answer.
“What do you think happens to them?”
“I don’t know,” I say, which is the truth, “Jump out the window, maybe? They just go upstairs and never come back.”
“Does that not worry you?” “What do you mean?”
Anna pauses for a moment. “Because you could go missing too.”
I think about this for a second. I have worked at the Hollingsworth since I was sixteen. I only stay because I go to college nearby, and bills stack up quickly. Yet, despite four years of working there, I suppose I never thought about it that much outside of my shifts. It’s never been more than a part-time job. Finally, I answer as best I can, “I never go upstairs, though. So, no, I guess it doesn’t worry me.”
Anna frowns slightly and stares at the ground. She slowly lowers her notebook to her side then looks up at me, biting her lip. “I don’t get it. Do you not care about the people dying?”
The word dying catches me off guard. Although never formally announced, it’s pretty much understood by all three of us that we don’t talk about things that way. “They’re not dying. They’re missing.”
At this, Anna almost laughs. “You believe that?”
I don’t know how to answer her question. I see now why Ez declined her, and I’m starting to think I might be stupid for doing this, “I just don’t like talking about that.” I start to walk a little faster, regretting the decision to let this girl walk me home. Why didn’t I consider the idea that she could be a serial killer?
“But that’s the reality, don’t you think?” She says, matching my pace, “you work at a place where people disappear, in your words. But they don’t come back, so they’re as good as dead, and you just sign them in like it’s nothing. Why?” She hasn’t looked at her notebook in over a minute, and she’s starting to lose her anxiously friendly tone. It reminds me we’re not friends; this is her job.
“Hey, look,” I say, suddenly stopping, causing Anna to lurch back, “it’s my job. I don’t want to do this interview anymore.”
I try to walk away, but she keeps following. “But don’t you think you’re complicit in it?” Her shoes strike hard against the pavement.
I try to ignore her. I’m so tired; all I want is to go home and skip biology tomorrow and dream about running away on a train or hopping a plane. Have some great adventure and give Anna something else to write about. I never wanted anyone to die, really, if that’s what they’re doing. I just want to survive long enough to get out of here.
“Wendi!” Anna trots after me, and I haven’t even realized that I’ve been speeding up. “Why haven’t you been upstairs? Why haven’t you tried to help them?”
I pop in my headphones, and at some point along the way, I’m alone again. Eventually, I get home to a dark apartment and eat boiled mac and cheese, and I never do study for biology.
*
When I come into work the next day, Maria is checking an elderly couple in, and the man takes the woman’s bags for her before starting to climb the steps.
“You look like hell,” Maria calls to me, even though she’s not one to talk. She reeks of rubbing alcohol, or maybe just alcohol. I don’t ask.
Ez is playing solitaire on the computer and barely acknowledges me coming in, so I take my normal seat and attempt to read a book for English I’m supposed to have a six page paper on due in two days.
The door swings open, propelled by a great force on the other side, and Anna walks in, notebook firmly placed under her armpit. I feel my heart sink as Maria groans.
Ez is the first to respond. “Hey, no, we don’t want to interview okay. Don’t make me put out a ‘no soliciting’ sign.”
Anna isn’t shaken by this and makes her way to the center of the desk. “Have any of you been upstairs before?” She asks, even though she already knows my answer.
“Yeah, I just wheel up there every day just for kicks and giggles. Get the fuck out.” Maria nods with Ez’s words and crosses her arms as if ready to square up. These days, Maria’s just looking for a fight.
Anna’s posture somewhat tightens, but she doesn’t allow herself to get choked up. “Does that elevator not work?” She gestures to the steel metal box a few feet away. I honestly forgot we had that.
“You know, no one has to come here,” Maria snarls.
“Why do they come here?” Anna asks, though I’m not really sure who she’s addressing. I don’t want to look at her – not after yesterday. “I noticed your website has all five star reviews; I’m guessing those all come from management. The dead can’t leave reviews.” Again, she says this to no one in particular, but it still feels like she’s blaming us for something. Her spitting words burn my face. I wasn’t accepted into Simon-Dale. I guess I’m not this aggressive.
“Why don’t you take this up with the police?” Ez asks, “people come here on their own free- will. We aren’t doing shit to them.”
“You’re standing by and letting them die.”
“Missing, they’re missing,” Ez says.
“Lady, I’m seventeen,” Maria cuts in, “you want me to die for people I don’t know? I’m a fucking kid.”
Right on schedule, something shakes the ceiling from above. Anna stares at the stream of cracks in the ceiling and shakes her head.
“Why not report it?”
Ez is quick to answer this, “we do. The police will be here later today.”
“You need to close this place down.”
“Do you have any idea how many Hollingsworth Hotels are around the world?” Ez asks, “whatever hero you think you’re playing here isn’t working. We can’t change it. We quit; they’ll hire new people. We close this location; they’ll open a new one. We turn people away; another hotel will get them. So, I might suggest finding another place to harass and stop villainizing fucking children.” She says this to mean me and Maria, and maybe even herself.
Anna shakes her head, but I don’t think any of us have anything left to say. There’s no saving the world from behind this desk.
After she leaves, Ez, Maria, and I don’t talk much for the remainder of the shift, and no one else comes to check in. For a little bit, there’s an awkward stillness in the air that we all pretend isn’t there as we scroll mindlessly through Twitter and TikTok. There’s no more shakes or thumps, no more crackling from the ceiling, but I swear I can still hear them, and my body almost seems to miss them. My muscles tense as if waiting for that hollow shake, the last moment of a total stranger, that never comes. At least not today.
Anna is not there when I walk home, and although she only joined me that one time, it feels weird to be alone. I couldn’t get her words out of my head. I’ve never killed anyone before, never felt blood on my hands, but I still felt dirty. A deep sense of dirty I couldn’t remove from scrubbing my palms under boiling water until they turned a rugged red.
I sit down by my computer and stare at the darkness outside. I wonder what other girls my age are doing, and my mind keeps drifting back at Anna. I wonder if she wanted to stay in this town. Probably not. She seemed passionate. She was going to move away to New York or something and become a hotshot writer. I was going to move away to some shithole without cell service and wipe myself off the map so completely my old high school classmates won’t know where to send the five year reunion invite.
Mindlessly, I type “Anna Simon-Dale University Journalism.” She told us her last name, but it didn’t seem too important at the time. Nothing really seems important around here.
As it turns out, Anna Hoffman is quite active on LinkedIn and a freshman. Jesus, a year younger than me. She has a resume linked to her account that has her university email and what appears to be her personal phone number on it. I hover over it for a split second, but I don’t even know what I’d say or if she’d answer. She has some other stories published and seems really involved, and I don’t know why I care. My hands still sting from the handwashing earlier, and I can’t seem to sit comfortably.
I don’t call. Or email. Instead, I put on the fan to create some form of noise and take four melatonin gummies before passing out till morning.
*
Shit hits the fan the next day. We don’t get media often – at least, we haven’t in years and that was before my time – but Anna must’ve written a story with the “interviews” we gave her because management is already there when I arrive for my morning shift. They never bothered to learn my name, so I forgot theirs, but there’s three men dressed in their finest suits in various shades of black. One is talking to Ez while another is on our computer, and the third going through the sign-in book. Not a single one even glances at the stairs. On the desk is an overflowing pile of newspapers from Simon-Dale with our hotel on the front page. The newspapers themselves are slightly ripped in different places, and there’s tape hanging off the corners. A quick look at the smudges on the window confirms they were once hanging there.
“Wendi, you see what that skank wrote about us?” calls Maria as she rounds the corner of the printer room, security footage prints in hand.
“I didn’t read it,” I admit.
“No need. It’s basically just her calling us bitches and murderers,” she explains as she hands over the prints to the man at the computer.
“Oh,” is all I can say as one of the men starts explaining PR strategies. Maria’s pissed to hell, and Ez keeps fidgeting with her wheels, but I can’t help but stare out the window. I wonder what Anna’s doing now or if she’s coming back or if this will actually change things, but it probably won’t. There’s always other hotels.
Eventually, the men leave and tell us not to worry. These things happen. The company is here for us. They offer ten free mental health services for all employees if we’re full time. Ez leaves early, and Maria has a meeting with her ex to talk, so by noon, I’m alone.
As it turns out, Anna didn’t put any of our names in the article itself, even when quoting us we’re just cited as employees. I don’t know if that’s proper journalism, but I doubt it. The whole thing’s accurate, but I still want to throw up. I still want to say it’s incorrect or leaves out key details, and I don’t know why. I don’t know why I feel so horrible about something I didn’t do, and the article doesn’t even blame me.
I set the newspaper back down and walk over to the edge of the stairs. We’ve had no guests recently, so there’s no screaming. The red carpet going upwards is faded with shoe prints, and there isn’t a speck of dust on the handrail. I look behind me, and even though I know no one will be checking in today, I retape the newspaper on the outside of the front door and lock it just in case. Then I return to the bottom of the steps.
I only make it to the third step before someone starts pounding on the door. I jump backwards and find myself staring at Anna through the window. I slowly descend and pull the door open just enough to see her face.
She’s missing her normal notebook, but she’s still got her purse. Her signature clean scent hits hard with our faces only inches away. “Hey, Wendi,” she says politely, “are you the only one here?”
“Yeah,” I answer, even though I can tell she wants more than that.
“Oh, well. Is the hotel closed now?” I wonder if she’s here for a follow-up.
“Not yet, but it’s going to close soon.”
At this, she smiles slightly then immediately retreats to a poker face. “I see,” she says, “I suppose you’re not going to give me another interview then. Did management close it down? Are they still around?”
I shake my head, and the disappointment leaks onto her face. “Wait for me a second, Anna. I’ll give you an interview, just wait a second.”
“Oh really!” she exclaims, hand already moving to her purse. I nod and close the door on her. When I look back, she’s pulled out her phone and appears to be scrolling through something. I lock the door again, but she doesn’t seem to hear the click.
I go back to my spot and slowly climb the stairs, placing my feet into the indented groves waiting for me. I slow down once I disappear from Anna’s view, and my heart begins to thump in my chest. The top leads to a well-lit hallway with numbered doors on either side. This carpet is complete with mud stains and dirt that’s well ingrained in between the red and yellow fabric. It’s colder up here. With every breath I take, the inhale of air stabs my throat. I imagine this is how it feels to breathe on top of a mountain, but I wouldn’t really know, I’ve never been.
The first door I try is unlocked. I feel the knob loose in my palm, but I can’t bring myself to open it. I imagine what’s behind this door. Would the carpet be blood stained and molding beneath my feet? I envision the carpet as green or maybe dark blue, something that almost blends in with stains, or at the very least, makes blood look like polka dots. Will the bed have an imprint? Or, worse, a body?
But when I finally get the courage to open, the bed is already made. Two pillow-shaped masses lay hidden under a ruby red comforter, which is perfectly tucked in at the sides. The frame itself is a dark brown, almost black. There’s no scratches. No tally marks scratched into the side.
It is freezing, though. The furnace in the corner looks purely for decoration. No ash or wood sits in its opening. I wonder if any guests noticed that. If anyone was even assigned this room at all. I can’t remember now.
I was wrong about the carpet. It’s a light beige, clean and pristine. Nothing bad has ever happened to this carpet, no dropped coffee mugs or loose plant dirt.
As I approach the window, I’m startled by a sort of rumbling downstairs. Anna. From the sound of it, I can surmise she’s whacking her palm against the door to no avail, and she’s screaming my name. I make my way to the doorway, to scream down at her to wait, to say something, but when I get there, I don’t remember who I’m supposed to be shouting for.
There’s a definite rumble outside. I don’t dare leave the door frame. Is this what it sounded like when me and Ez and Maria were downstairs laughing? But as soon as I think that question, I can’t picture Ez or Maria or even myself. The room has a bathroom, so I head towards it, eager to find a mirror, but it’s foggy, like someone just took a hot shower, and no matter how many times I rub it, it won’t come clear.
“Wendi!” A voice shouts, now closer.
I leave the bathroom as the voice repeats itself, shrill and hollow. I cautiously approach the window. I look down and all I can see is a blurb, a figure of a person I once knew. I can no longer make out what they’re saying, but the shape of their mouth opens and falls with rigid movements.
I step away from the window near the center of the room. I see my hands out in front of me, but I no longer feel them attached. Through no command of my own, I’m walking back to the door, closing it, before turning back to the bed. The comforter is now peeled back. A white pillow waits for a head. The floor vibrates underneath me.
For once, I don’t think I’m all that bad, and I sleep.
Gretchen Troxell is a third-year undergraduate student studying creative writing at Bowling Green State University. She is the fiction editor and treasurer of their undergraduate literary journal, Prairie Margins, and an intern at their graduate journal, Mid-American Review. She is also published in Fleas on the Dog and Quirk.
Euphony Journal 