The Macedonia Hotel, Chapter 6
The Macedonia Hotel
A NANOWRIMO
Relay writing project
By the Wayne writers Guild
Completed July 2016
The Macedonia Hotel
(This fictional piece is the product of a relay writing project by the Wayne Writer’s Guild In honor of NANOWRIMO-2015. Any resemblance to real events, people, places, or things is a coincidence and neither intended nor implied to be real and accurate.)
I extend my thanks and gratitude to the contributors who shared their time and talents to make this NANOWRIMO Relay Writing Project possible.
The individual chapters are the intellectual property of the author.
Special thanks are extended to John Cieslinski for his generous use of the book store’s back room.
–Kate Chamberlin, Coordinating Editor
July 20, 2016
Wayne Writers Guild
Meets at 7:30pm – 9:00pm, on the 2nd and 4th. Tuesday of each month
Books, Etc. of Macedon, NY
John Cieslinski, Owner
78 W. Main ST. Macedon NY 14502
Phone 585-474-4116
Chapter 6
Dark Times
By Mary Stanton (aka Claudia Bishop)
Ivory jerked awake into darkness, and for one terror-stricken moment, she was back in that house, and he was coming, she knew he was coming and there was nothing she could do to save herself or her sisters.
She gasped and sat up. The lights on her laptop glowed orange/white in the gloom. The familiar, musty smell of the cupola at the top of the Macedonia hotel washed over her. She wasn’t home. She’d fallen asleep over her work, and her shabby room, her refuge, was just two floors away.
She sighed and stretched. She was safe. For now.
Or was she? The sounds of the party below had reached shrieking heights. Somebody had turned on a boom box, and the bass rumbled of unidentifiable music shook the floor under her feet. Wild laughter spiraled up the stairs.
Ivory picked up her cell phone, hesitating. Should she call the cops? Even that fat police chief ought to be able to do something about it.
Ivory had discovered the cupola the first week she’d moved into the hotel, and quickly made it her own. The space was small—no more than eight feet square, and the only furniture were a shabby velvet arm chair, and a wobbly card table. She’d shoved the table in front of the little window so she could look out over Main Street while she worked and dreamed of better times.
She looked out the window now; Chief of Police Wardle spent a lot of time at the Hungry House Café across the street, scarfing up French fries doused in gravy and if all he had to do was stump across Main and wave his badge around, the reprobates would go home and she could go to bed in peace.
But she couldn’t see Main Street. She couldn’t see anything. White fog obscured the air outside. She rubbed heavy condensation from the glass with the sleeve of her hoodie.
Snow. Inches and inches of snow. Not unexpected in an upstate New York November, but a real pain in the butt nonetheless. The snow plow hadn’t made it out yet, and the street was slushy with tire tracks and ice. The few cars parked in front of the Hungry House were draped with sheets of white. Nobody trudged down the snowbound sidewalks.
A faint yellow glow from the cafe windows told her the place was still open. Ivory sat back, scrubbed her face with both hands, and then closed her lap top. The thump of the bass beneath her feet changed to a faster beat. She had to do something. There was that pretty girl, Grace, to think of; Ivory wasn’t at all sure Randy had gotten her out of there safely. And there was that constant, maddening maelstrom of noise. Ivory hated noise. Noise meant her drunken step father cranking the TV volume up to intolerable heights, her sisters screaming when he swung his fists, her mother sobbing helplessly. Nope. That wasn’t going to happen here, in her refuge. Ivory wouldn’t let it. She’d shut that bunch of fools up herself.
“Reprobates,” the Lady’s voice whispered in her ear. “In my hotel….”
With the suddenness of a slammed door, the party stopped. The voices and the laughter cut off as if a knife had severed them. Somebody jerked the electrical plug on the music, or it sounded like it.
Reprobates….
Ivory smiled to herself. It’d be pretty darn cool if she could depend on the Lady for a bit of help now and then. Maybe she’d stop at Big Bertha’s 3rd floor ‘suite’—and what the heck had Social Services been thinking of to get that sloppy little witch a suite?!—and see if the Lady had struck them all mute, or something.
She tucked her lap top under her arm, slipped out the door, and paused at the top of the landing.
The lights were out along the stairwell. Billy Beckwith was a slob, but he was more scared of the Macedon code officer than he was of a little work, and the forty watt bulbs along the stairwells were always on at night. She sighed. So maybe the Lady hadn’t worked some magic after all; maybe it was that reliable upstate New York phenomenon, a power outage. She’d have to go down to the lobby and roust Billy out of bed so he could get the generator going.
Ivory tucked her laptop more firmly under her arm and felt her way carefully down the stairs. She figured the last time the carpet at the Macedonia had been replaced was maybe 1902, or even earlier, maybe, and the worn spots could trip you up. The last thing she needed was a broken leg. No way to help her sisters if she was laid up in a cast.
The third floor was dark, quiet, and silent. Ivory hesitated, not sure if she should check on the party-goers. If Grace were still there—Ivory laughed a little. Of all people, Grace would be just fine.
Ivory crept down the next two flights, pushing down panic. She didn’t like the dark, She’d never liked the dark. She stopped on the first floor. She’d been in the lobby earlier that afternoon when that salesman had checked in. Brad? That was the name he’d given Billy. He’d looked like a pretty decent guy, and Ivory was sucker for a Southern accent. Billy had put him in 13B. If she tapped on his door, maybe he’d be willing to give Billy a hand with the generator.
And maybe not, Ivory thought grimly. She’d watched that sequel to the X FILES and Agent Muldar had it right: Trust No One.
She made it to the lobby, and heart slowed back to normal. A pale light steeped in from the front windows, and she could see Billy at the front desk, slumped over, fast asleep, the slug, oblivious to the blackout. She stepped up to the desk, and thumped her knuckles on the splintered top. “Mr. Beckwith.”
He sat there, unmoving.
“Mr. Beckwith!”
Exasperated, Ivory pulled out her cell phone and switched on the flashlight.
There was a very good reason Billy didn’t answer. He wasn’t asleep.
It looked like he was dead.
Author Bio:
Mary Stanton is a well-traveled American author known for her children’s fantasy series Unicorns of Balinor and adult mystery series Beaufort & Company. Writing as Claudia Bishop, she authored The Hemlock Falls series. Born in Florida, raised in Japan and Hawaii, and educated in Minnesota, Mary has lived in the Rochester area since the mid-1970’s. Prior to her writing career, her experiences include being a nightclub singer, medical examiner, claims adjuster, and Director of Volunteer Services. www.marystanton.com
mmwstanton@aol.com
Wayne Writers Guild
Meets at 7:30pm – 9:00pm, on the 2nd and 4th. Tuesday of each month
Books, Etc. of Macedon, NY
John Cieslinski, Owner
78 W. Main ST. Macedon NY 14502
Phone 585-474-4116