We’re near the beach, in what might be the oldest hotel in Washington State. That’s what they claim, anyway, and it’s creaky enough that I believe them. It sits at the center of a small peninsula in the Willapa Bay. None of the rooms have a direct water view but I can hear the waves and that’s good enough. Is the place haunted? Doesn’t matter. I bring my ghosts with me.
Like the ghost of Damon Clemens, who’s never going to speak to me again.
I’m a couple hours south of Seattle. I should have gone farther, and I would have, except Dorothy May likes her gasoline and I’d rather spend my money on comfort than feeding her.
Though I do enjoy the way her eight cylinders accelerate.
I have a plan, sort of. Generally, I work at a place until something weird happens and then I leave. Simple. The familyfund gives me the freedom to do what I need to do. I spend one week drunk off my ass, the second week mildly inebriated so I can plan my next incarnation, and the third week actually putting those plans in place. The only variation this time is that I let Dr. Chen talk me into taking a leave of absence, a strategic error I already regret.
That wasn’t my only hiccup. I got stuck in Seattle, unable to book a decent hotel for most of Thanksgiving weekend. That totally interfered with my schedule, and instead of drunk-off-my-ass, I stayed mostly drunk while threatening to pack up everything I own.
Mostly I sat around feeling sorry for myself.
I finally found myself at a faux-rustic hotel, in a room with a double bed, a dresser, and a small table that sits in front of the window. The décor is a little shabby chic for my taste, improved slightly by the blanket and pillows I brought from home.Home. Is that what I’m calling Seattle now? Either way, the second floor room has a view of the sky and the storm squalls that roll off the ocean on the regular. Wind, rain, and the distant sounds of crashing waves fit my mood perfectly.
If I focus on the plan and stay drunk, wrapped in my blanket, I won’t think. Much. And if I don’t think, I won’t feel.
Much.
I’m in no shape to drive and this place is far enough down the Washington Coast that there’s no place to go anyway. No clubs nearby where I could lose myself on the dance floor. It’s the off-season, so when the rooms next to me are empty, I crank the Bluetooth and wiggle around my room.
My ghosts dance with me.
I’m not dancing now. Instead, I’m sitting at the small table, blanket around my shoulders, my room service dinner tray covering most of the tabletop. I even ate some of it this time. The hotel’s restaurant is fancy af, and I’ve been picking at anorder of shrimp and grits. Outside it’s totally black, no moon, just the occasional pair of headlights rolling along the road. It’s not raining hard enough to splash the window, so there’s that. I’ve got half a bottle of 15-year Red Breast at hand and a couple more in Dorothy May’s trunk, and yes, they were $250 a bottle, and yes, that’s indulgent.
So is room service and so is rethinking all my life choices.
There is one thing that gets through the fog I’m creating, the way a blister bugs me no matter how many bandages I put on it. That one thing is my phone, or rather my text app. I told Damon I blocked his number, and I will, at some point, but he hasn’t even tried to message me. Like, how petty is that? He could at least try, to see if I’m okay or something.
Then there’s Micah. Fucking Micah, man. He texts me every damn day, some variation ofhey, just checking in, how are things, what’s up, where are you, man?
I’m nowhere, nothing’s up, and things are not okay.
I’ve only ever had one rule for living, and that is to keep the sin eater thing a secret. No one can know. I spent hours on my knees, listening to my father lecture and my mother rant. No. One. Can. Know.
And those assholes figured it out in like ten minutes.
My glass is empty. I need more ice. I stand, sway, grab the edge of the table to keep my balance. The blanket slides off my shoulders, puddling on the floor, and when my head stops spinning, I take a step.
The ice bucket’s on the dresser, which is four, maybe five steps away. Might as well be a country mile, as Grandma would say. I manage to reach it and navigate to the door. Go me. Close the door. Check my pocket to make sure I’ve got the key. I do. Good.
I have to go down to the lobby, which from here might be on Mars. Clutching the railing, I navigate the stairs.
The dude behind the reception desk has danced this dance with me before. He knows better than to expect witty conversation, wordlessly taking the empty ice bucket and returning with it full. He’s maybe forty, with a comb-over and an unfortunate mustache, and even if he gave me the secret gay handshake, I wouldn’t.
Because Damon, goddamn it.
I stagger up the stairs and even choose the right direction to get to my room. Victory is mine. Almost. I unlock the door and open it into a different place. The faux-Tiffany lamp is gone, and the room is lit by a candelabra with real, actual candles. The bed is gone, too, and worse, so is my blanket and pillows. Instead, there’s a round table with a lacquered top and two cosplayers seated at it.
I back out, check the number on the door. It’s mine, right? I mean, my head is pretty fucking scrambled so maybe I’m wrong. But my key worked to open it. I close the door and unlock it again. Right room number, right key, wrong—
“Come in, Daniel, and shut the door. You’re letting the heat out.”
The woman’s voice is firm and I find myself obeying, even though the name’s wrong. She and her friend are dressed straight out of about 1890, in long skirts, high collars, and way too many bits of lace. Beyond the table, there’s a small fireplace that wasn’t there when I left, with a happy little fire that is in fact giving off some heat. Despite the candelabra and the fire, the corners of the room are darker than they ought to be, making the scene familiar in a way I can’t quite pin down.
“Were you able to find Patrick?” the other woman asks. Her dark hair is twisted into an elaborate updo and her eyes are dark, almost bottomless. Her friend’s hair is simpler and her eyes are disturbingly light.
Okay, so this isn’t real. I don’t know where I am or what is happening, but Victorian women with weird eyes aren’t a thing in twenty-first century America. They’re both looking at me expectantly, though, so I say, “No.” I don’t know who the fuck Patrick is and I certainly didn’t find him.
