Hotel California
The western regions of the United States have a character unmatched in the rest of the country, or perhaps the entire world. The drive of Manifest Destiny, extolations to “Go west, young man,” and the dream of making one’s fortune conspired to lure men into places where they would not otherwise have ventured. And so the western states, California in particular, have about them a strange aura of disappointment as though, after having labored so hard to win a prize, the winner is unsure of its value but clings to it out of habit and despair rather than any true desire.
The western states are famous for their cities in the desert, places which have grown to richness and fame in a seemingly impossible environment. But for every shining success–if one can consider cities dedicated to gambling and debauchery a success–there are dozens of failures. The highways are littered with small towns which, had the whims of traffic been different, might have exploded into large cities. There are grand hotels in almost complete isolation, leaving unfulfilled their builders’ dreams of creating tourist destinations.
It was to such an establishment that I was driven one evening in November, 1976, by chance and exhaustion. I had taken it upon myself to discover first-hand the habits and livelihood of the people of Southern California, and thus had embarked upon a driving tour of the state in a vehicle whose practical virtues far outweighed the aesthetic. Now I found myself on a dark desert highway, every bit as lonely as might have been inferred after consulting a map of the area. Under different circumstances, it might have been a charming location, but on that night I could not appreciate the cool wind in my hair, nor the sweet desert scents rising up through the air. In my fatigue, I gave not a thought to the supposed beauty of the desert, to which I was the sole witness, but rather it seemed that I was surrounded by an environment wholly alien to human experience, a hostile place filled with unmentionable evils. At one juncture, I nearly ran off the road, only barely lifting my heavy head in time to steer back onto the highway. I resolved to stop for the night, if necessary simply parked beside the highway until sufficiently rested to continue without fear of mishap, but at that moment I caught sight of a shimmering light in the distance. Though my sight had grown dim, at that moment I fancied this sign of civilization to be a beacon of the divine.
As I drew closer, I recognized that I approached a hotel which, like many I had seen in my tour of the region, had seen better days. Even in the darkness, I could see that the landscaping and paint required attention, and the hotel’s neon sign was damaged to the point of uselessness. Yet I pulled into the driveway of this establishment, for the presence of electricity held forth a promise of shelter, food and human contact.
By the time I had extinguished my headlights and exited the vehicle, the door had opened. At first, I could discern no details about the person who stood there, as the backlighting from the hallway threw the figure into deepest shadow. But as I approached, I realized that the figure was a woman. In the distance, a bell sounded, and from its tone I knew it sounded from the tower of a mission. I could not recall such a place on my map, but I dismissed this fact as California is filled with many such artifacts of its Spanish settlers. As the mission bell faded, the woman before me smiled, and though she was at least a decade my senior, I realized that had I been less fatigued I would have been most interested in engaging her in private discussion of a personal nature.
Of a sudden, the lights in the hallway flickered and went dead, as did the hotel’s neon sign. Such electrical problems did not recommend the establishment, but I reminded myself that I had few alternatives. Whether the hotel was heaven or hell, I reasoned, it was surely better to sleep surrounded by the trappings of civilization, however mean.
The woman in the doorway gestured, and I watched as she lit a candle. I followed with little hesitation. “I am sorry,” she said, in an appealing contralto. “The wiring is old, it seems a day doesn’t go by that we don’t blow a fuse.”
I shrugged, making polite comment to the effect that such minor difficulties are the common burden of civilized society, and added that regardless of the condition of the fuses, I was still interested in obtaining a night’s lodging.
“We have plenty of room at the Hotel California,” she said, leading me through a maze of corridors that I was certain I could not easily navigate even without the pressures of fatigue. Her words seemed to echo, and for a few moments I had the disconcerting impression that I could hear other voices down the corridor. These voices also welcomed me, and I shook my head to dispel the auditory illusion. My hostess stopped before a door and held it open for me. “Your room,” she said, and the light from the candle she held cast upon her face a demonic pattern of light and shadow. I suppressed a shudder and thanked her, quickly entering the room and shutting the door behind me, relieved to have regained some modicum of privacy. Only then did I realize that I had no means of navigating the room, except by touch, and I wondered if perhaps I should call out to my hostess and request a candle of my own. But at that moment, the lights flickered to life once more. I was confronted with an unremarkable room, filled with furniture and decorations which were worn but serviceable. I did not linger over my surroundings, however, but climbed into the bed and fell almost instantly into a deep slumber.
When I awoke the next morning, I at first assumed that the day was overcast, or that the hour was earlier than half past ten, which my watch revealed to be the time. The thickness of the chamber’s curtains, combined with an unhealthy film coating the window panes, insulated me from the bright morning sun. Now that I was rested, I was embarrassed to consider my conduct the previous evening. Not only had I indulged the fantasies of my fatigued brain, but I had not checked into the hotel. I resolved to correct this breach of business etiquette, but at that moment there came a knock at the door.
My hostess entered, bearing a food-laden tray. Now hunger, rather than fatigue, distracted me from the lady’s physical charms. Nonetheless, I did note that she was indeed attractive, now that I had the opportunity to view her in natural light rather than the flickering flame of a candle. I had perhaps underestimated her age the previous evening, but it was difficult to be certain and I was not about to begin a conversation with such a question.
“We provide breakfast for all our guests,” she told me, settling the tray over my body. “I hope the food is agreeable.”
In truth, the meal before me was innocuous–toast, coffee, eggs and sausage–and normally I would have eaten such items without a passing thought. But I discovered that I was possessed of a stronger appetite than was my wont, and quite looked forward to devouring every morsel. Only basic courtesy prevented me from breaking my fast at that very instant.
“Thank you,” I said, “it is quite appetizing. I apologize for last evening. You were most kind to bring me here, and now I should like to make proper arrangements–”
My hostess nodded. “When you have finished, come downstairs to find me and we can discuss your stay with us.”
Had she remained in the room, and had I been less hungry, I might have found her words odd, since I had not given thought to any arrangements beyond paying for the past night’s lodging and proceeding on my way. I ate quickly, though I savored the food, and wondered if perhaps the lateness of the hour had contributed to my appetite. When I had finished my meal and my toiletries, I wandered the corridors for a time, eventually finding the stairs and proceeding to the ground floor. There I heard voices, and was reminded of my impression the previous night. I must indeed have been very tired, I decided, or perhaps one of the other guests had simply been speaking or playing a radio.
I followed the voices outside, and was confronted by a large group of people, all men save my hostess. I noticed her across the courtyard, crouched beside the pool. The young men–little more than boys to my eyes, though surely they and I were of an age–paid me little attention, as they were already engaged in conversation with one another, and some were dancing. Though there were men of varied racial extraction present in the group, such physical differentiations seemed less pronounced than usual. If I looked carefully at an individual, I could identify specific characteristics, but my eyes were unwilling to focus sharply for any length of time, and instead insisted on merely seeing a group of boys sweating in the summer heat. I wondered if my recent exposure to groups of men not of my own race had led to this odd blind spot, or if my powers of observation were simply dulled this morning.
“I’m glad you’ve joined me and my friends,” my hostess said as she rose. In her hands she held a sample of water and a small bottle, and I assumed that she had been testing the chemistry of the swimming pool. While the tiles of the pool belied its age, the water was clear and the pool seemed to be at least competently maintained, contributing to the hotel’s aura of decaying greatness.
“Perhaps you will stay with us for a time,” the lady continued. I found her choice of words rather odd, as a hotel is typically the residence of transients. Of course, the boys in the courtyard seemed better acquainted with one another than would be expected of travelers whose paths intersected for a night.
She smiled at me, and I wondered why I was in such a hurry to leave. After all, I had specifically arranged matters so that I would suffer from no set agenda. Spending several days at a lonely desert outpost might provide valuable perspective when I returned to the world of my fellow men.
I spent the afternoon exploring the land surrounding the hotel, though my hostess had warned me not to wander too far. I needed no such encouragement, remembering my apprehension the previous evening. But by the light of day, the desert seemed less threatening than I had fancied, and I cataloged a varied array of flora and fauna adapted to the environment. I had neglected to bring any provisions, save a bottle of water, so when I returned to the hotel at dusk I was again quite hungry.
Instead of finding my hostess, I spoke to the old gentleman who sat behind the hotel’s desk. His appearance was quite startling: though obviously in good physical condition, he appeared to be quite old, more suited to a retirement community than employment at a hotel. I wondered if he was related to the lady of the place, but dismissed the notion. Whereas the lady was possessed of some ethereal quality beyond that inherent of her sex, this gentleman was decidedly earthy in appearance, and I would not have been surprised to learn that his previous career had been spent on a farm or a ship at sea. His cheeks were ruddy, though not with sunburn, and his eyes bloodshot. Age had not thinned his hair, though it had turned it a shocking white, and the gentleman cultivated an impressive beard.
I wished the gentleman good evening, and inquired about the possibility of ordering a meal. He assured me that the kitchen was well-stocked, and that a suitable repast would be forthcoming. But when I requested wine, he shook his head.
“It’s been a good seven, eight years since we had that spirit here,” he replied. I thought it rather odd that a place which clearly aspired to refinement and boasted an impressive kitchen should labor under such a restriction, but I did not give the matter of the wine cellar, or lack thereof, further thought. I returned to my room, with only one or two wrong turns in the corridors. I saw not a soul, though voices teased me from the limits of my hearing, and I assumed the other guests to be closeted in their rooms, perhaps talking to one another or using the telephone, radio or television. I found myself too fatigued to consider such entertainments, and instead ate my dinner and went to sleep once more.
I did not sleep soundly, however. I was troubled by dreams which I was later unable to remember in any detail. At one point, I was roused from my slumber and fancied that I heard voices. While the words seemed to be innocuous, encouraging and even welcoming, I was nonetheless disturbed. I wondered what trick of acoustics carried greetings from neighboring rooms. Though I could not fathom their motivation, I reasoned that my fellow guests must surely be the source, as the voices could certainly not be coming from between the walls, or the very air. It was strange, but eventually I forced myself back to sleep, and the next morning I decided that I must simply have dreamed the voices as well.
Once again, my hostess greeted me with my breakfast, though the hour was late enough that it was more properly termed lunch, and then offered to give me a tour of the venerable hotel. I agreed readily, for the building did interest me, but I will confess that I was at the moment more intrigued by the woman than the architecture. She proved herself a charming tour guide, and seemed quite knowledgeable about the history of the building. My questions about the building, and the region in general, were readily answered, though she demurely turned aside questions of a personal nature. I was uncertain as to her disposition toward me, though she had been kind and did not wear a wedding band, or any jewelry for that matter. But then she showed me to her own rooms. Once inside, she bypassed the verbal games men and women typically play with one another, and led me to the bed. I was quite willing, and did not question my good fortune. The experience was enjoyable, though I at first found the mirrors on the ceiling rather disconcerting.
Exhausted by our recent exertion, my hostess called for refreshment. While I self-consciously buried myself in her bedclothes, she answered the door in a thin silk gown and returned with a tray bearing two glasses and pink champagne on ice. I almost commented upon the beverage, as I had been under the impression that such items were unavailable at the hotel. But I held my tongue, thinking that perhaps the gentleman I had spoken with last night had merely been mistaken, or that perhaps such beverages were reserved for the whim of the staff and not typically available to guests. It seemed to me that I detected a more ferrous quality than I had previously found in champagne, but I did not wish to be rude or display ignorance by inquiring further, and as the flavor was not unsatisfactory I finished my glass.
My hostess seemed melancholy, and I wondered if she was gripped by post-coital regret. I gently inquired after her feelings, but she merely smiled sadly. “We are all just prisoners here,” she murmured. But then, with a determined shake of her head, she dispelled her mood. “Of our own device,” she said, “for who would choose to be elsewhere? I hope that you will stay with us.”
Her words were very strange, but in the context of her previous behavior, and the oddness of this place, I did not find them so disturbing as I might have under other circumstances. At that moment, I had absolutely no desire to be anywhere else at all, and told her so. She seemed pleased, and invited me to dine with her that evening. I returned to my room to wash and change, and she promised to fetch me at the proper time. I confess that I spent rather more time making myself presentable than was my wont, despite the fact that the lady had already demonstrated her approval by taking me to bed. Nonetheless, I wished to make a good impression, and assure my hostess that her good will, and not merely her body, was of concern to me.
At last, there came a knock at my door, and I faced my hostess. In the intervening time, she had clearly showered and applied makeup and, though she scarcely needed to enhance her beauty artificially, the cosmetics and formality of her dress emphasized that this evening’s meal was in some way special. I offered my arm, naively supposing myself to be the special element, and proceeded through the corridors under her direction.
She stopped before a door that seemed somehow grander than the others. “The master’s chambers,” she said in a voice tinged with reverential awe. I was somewhat confused, having supposed her to be the owner of the establishment.
“Is the master here?” I wished to meet a man who could inspire such emotion in this woman.
She shook her head. “But He will be. We patiently await Him.” And with that ambiguous statement, she opened the doors.
We were not alone in the room. The boys I had seen earlier in the courtyard were seated at a long table, gathered for the feast which I had supposed would be an intimate affair. I stifled my disappointment, smiled at my hostess and the other guests, and took the indicated seat. The china, crystal and silver were of the highest quality, but there was no food in evidence. My hostess took a seat at the head of the table. Or perhaps it was the foot of the table, for opposite her there was an empty space with a chair so grand as to almost be a throne.
I made no comment. As the grand chair, as well as the seat across from me, were both empty, I assumed that we were waiting for more guests. The silence stretched, and I began to feel uncomfortable, though my hostess and the indistinguishable boys did not seem to suffer.
Finally, a different door opened, and another boy stepped through, followed by the gentleman I had met last evening. I barely noted the older man’s presence, for the boy demanded my attention. He was completely naked and shaved bald from head to toe. My hostess and the other guests clapped, and I felt pressure to join them though I could not guess what manner of thing was being celebrated. The old man moved around the table, giving a napkin-wrapped item to each guest before exiting the room. Cued by the others, I unwrapped the napkin and found a sharp steel knife. A great horror welled up in my chest, and I wished to suddenly awake in my bed, sweating from this nightmare. But such relief was beyond me, as this situation was all to real.
Almost before I realized what was happening, my hostess stood and the other guests rose. With a great cry, they fell upon the smiling boy, stabbing with their knives. I recoiled in horror, certain that the cruel injuries must have killed the victim, but to my greater horror he was still alive, though I knew not how.
“We are of one flesh, we sustain one another,” my hostess said, and I could not tell if the words were explanation or benediction. “We do honor to Him and await His return.”
The boy writhed on the floor, though he had not cried out. I watched as the others continued to cut away regular slices of his flesh. My gorge rose as I realized that they intended to eat this foul meal–and they wished me to partake as well. I could scarcely comprehend how any man could do this to another, let alone how any man could willingly submit to such treatment.
As one, the boys looked up from their victim and fixed their eyes upon me. I could barely distinguish one from the other as though, in the words of my hostess, they truly were of one flesh. Desperate to escape the pressure of their combined gaze, I looked to my hostess, who seemed unperturbed by what she witnessed. I would find no help from her, the one who on multiple occasions had invited me to stay in this hideous place.
I ran from the room, expecting to be pursued and slaughtered, but neither my hostess nor the boys followed. The maze of corridors confounded me. In my hurry, I continuously fell and rebounded from the walls. In my terror, it seemed to me that the hotel itself was my enemy, that the walls of the building were changing position to thwart my escape. But finally, I reached the ground floor, and tore past the desk. I scarcely noticed the old man seated there, the man who had led the boy to the cannibalistic feast. “Relax,” he urged, as unperturbed as my hostess, uncaring of my flight or confident of my return.
And as I stumbled outside, I did not exult at having survived. Dusk had fallen, once more rendering the desert alien and threatening. I fell to the ground in despair. Whether inside the building or outside, I was trapped all the same. Having witnessed the horrors that lurked within the hotel, I comprehended the hideous truth that the other residents had learned long ago.
I could never leave.
© 2001 Megan Powell
Originally appeared in The Night the Lights Went Out in Arkham