ABANDONED Page 5

  A sudden movement at the rear corner of the box made him pause and pull back slightly, his breath catching in his throat as he did.

  In a blur of motion, something scurried up the side of the box. John jolted back, his heart trip hammering in his chest. He was a large man, not prone to sudden frights, but this was something different, something large, something terrifying.

  The creature paused near the top for a moment, clinging on long, spiny legs. Multiple eyes regarded him with curiosity. Frozen in his light’s beam, was a wolf spider so large, it looked as if it had just escaped the Paleozoic era and was now getting ready to catch something warm and juicy for its dinner. After a moment, the giant arachnid scuttled around to the back of the box out of sight.

  Shuddering, Harder stood back from the bar, hesitating for a moment. He moved around the end and shone his light behind the mysterious box, the bar, and its shelves below, but he could see no further signs of the creature. The sweat from his forehead steamed into the preternaturally cold air, and he shivered once more. Where had it come from? Inside the box? But there was no way to open it that he could observe. He knew now he would have to examine it further.

  On the floor, near the edge of the bar where the box sat, an obsidian gemstone glinted darkly in his light’s beam. Had the stone come from the box just now? He didn’t remember seeing it earlier. If he had, he would have bagged it as evidence. He picked up the gem, studying it briefly. His hand spasmed, and he dropped the stone to the ground. It had been freezing cold. A red mark now formed in the spot where it had briefly made contact with his skin, despite the rubber glove. He had used up his supply of evidence bags and pulled a linen handkerchief from his uniform jacket. He wrapped the gemstone inside with a sigh of relief and dropped the small bundle back in his pocket. He flexed his hand, still feeling the sting from the cold in his palm.

  A tentative knock came from the service door across the room, and Harder jumped slightly. Corporal Jansen popped her head into the room. Hesitantly, the young woman said, “Inspector?”

  Still vibrating internally from the shock of the oversized arachnid and the burn to his hand, John said, irritably, “Yes, what is it?”

  With eyes as large as saucers, the corporal replied, “Inspector, there’s something you need to see.”

  “Is it important, Corporal Jansen?” John could see the woman looked uncomfortable. He didn’t know if it was because of what happened at the resort, or if perhaps she was still learning to be comfortable in her new rank within the RCMP. She was one of the first women in the RCMP to ever rise to the rank of corporal and had done so in just the last year.

  “Yes, very important, Inspector.” Jansen seemed to shrink back a bit as she spoke as if expecting Harder to bite.

  Seeing the look on the girl’s face, John softened his stern expression slightly, saying, “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

  “I can imagine, sir.” She smiled slightly, her unease seeming to lessen a little, then concluded, “Please follow me, Inspector.” With that, Corporal Jansen turned and left the room.

  Though he came across as stern and unforgiving in his demeanour as well as his standards, Harder was quite pleased with the young corporal’s performance within the RCMP so far. Until 1975, not a single member in an active front-line position as a peace officer had been a woman. When John had first learned that Jansen was being assigned to the Entwistle detachment, he was surprised and somewhat concerned. But Corporal Amanda Jansen proved her worth and abilities many times over in the ensuing months, and John was now proud to work alongside the young woman.

  Jansen led John along the dim, concrete corridor to a small service elevator at the end. She pressed the call button, and after a brief moment, there was a ‘ping’, and the door to the elevator opened. Scowling into it before entering, John could only think of its interior as coffin-like. For some reason, the ornate fittings adorning the inside of the elevator reminded him of the brass handles and railings on the outside of a casket, something he’d become far too familiar with over the past few years, unfortunately.

  “We need to go to the third floor,” Jansen said, pressing a large, brass number three on the control panel. After the elevator doors slid shut, there was a squeal from one of the pulleys as the cage started to move upward, as if the ageing lift was protesting a man of John’s 6’ 3” stature being crammed inside its small space.

  “The third floor? Why? What happened there?”

  Amanda Jansen glanced up at Harder, her eyes seemingly wider than before, and said, “It’s not what happened on the third floor, Inspector, it’s what’s still happening there.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  December 23rd, 2021, 2010 hours

  Lively examined the intricate patterns adorning the massive, twin doors currently standing ajar before him. Intertwined leaves and vines were carved into their ancient, oaken panels. At first glance, it looked like a pattern befitting royalty, welcoming guests to the Sinclair. Looking more closely, Lively saw human faces filled with anguish and torment had been skillfully inserted amongst the entwined foliage. “Well, aren’t you lovely,” Lively said, shaking his head to the contrary. He wasn’t surprised to see something like this, however, considering the history of this resort.

  A self made-millionaire, Sinclair had the financial wherewithal to move huge sections of an ancestral castle in Scotland to the mountains of BC and incorporate them into his brand-new hotel. It would have cost a small fortune to have it hauled from such a distance, no doubt, but Sinclair could afford it.

  Some of the work crew at the time had considered the resort to be cursed or haunted. But how, Lively wondered, could a new building have been haunted? He supposed it depended on several factors, including its location, building materials, as well as the person who designed and constructed it — they all could play a part. After several workplace accidents and disappearances, perhaps some of these things had left a psychic footprint behind? Possibly, but he couldn’t know for sure at this point. He suspected that it may have more to do with Thomas Sinclair and whatever his ultimate intentions for this hotel had been.

  One of Sinclair’s first business ventures in Canada had been in the West Kootenays of British Columbia during the area’s gold rush boom in the late 1890s. His saloons, casinos and brothels located around the town of Lawless and other gold mining communities had made him a very wealthy man. Back in the day, it truly seemed that everything Sinclair touched did indeed turn to gold.

  As the boom faded, he’d diversified his holdings and constructed a luxury ski resort outside Lawless which had done exceedingly well for many decades. About ten years after the ski resort was completed, the Second World War broke out, providing more opportunities for Sinclair’s enrichment. Like Coca-Cola, Bayer and Ford, the Sinclair corporation sold equipment, munitions, and supplies to both sides in the conflict — the Allies and the Axis powers. Of course, like the other corporations, Sinclair’s involvement in supplying the latter didn’t come to light until many years after the war. However, thanks to that extra bump in income, Thomas Sinclair had gone from millionaire to billionaire almost overnight.

  After the war, he decided to try his hand at another resort, but this time near Entwistle, BC. With his newfound extreme wealth, the Sinclair Resort Hotel had been the result, a mega-resort, constructed to be the ultimate destination for the rich and famous on the West Coast of North America. And so it had remained — up until New Year’s Eve 1981.

  Lively peered into the beckoning darkness. After the door latch had popped open, he’d been on high alert for something else to happen, but it had remained quiet. He reached tentatively toward the large, brass doorknob, intending to push the door open a bit further.

  He jerked his hand back suddenly, his fingertips numbed by intense cold. If he’d grasped the knob with any more solidity just now, he might have fused the skin of his fingers directly to the metal. He pulled on a a pair of leather gloves that had been poking out from the oversized pockets of his
bomber jacket. The temperature outside was well below freezing right now, but not so cold as to make the metal knob feel like it had been dipped in liquid-nitrogen.

  Pushing the door open a little bit further with one now-gloved hand, he stuck his head into the gap and said, “Hello?”

  He waited for a moment, then called out, “Anybody home?”

  After several patient seconds of waiting and no response forthcoming, he took a half-step back, placed both hands in the middle of the large door and prepared to push it open. Without warning, the hinges squealed in protest and the heavy door swung inward, opening of its own volition as if an invisible doorman were bidding him welcome to the resort.

  Standing in front of the now open door, Lively called out, “I’m Lively Deadmarsh. I was sent here to investigate what happened, and to hopefully help re-open this hotel.”

  No response appeared forthcoming and Lively felt a bit bolder, and he said, “Oh, I see. So now it’s the silent treatment, huh?” With no immediate threat apparent, he stepped through into the hotel, then checked immediately behind the door, but no one hid there, as he suspected. He would have been surprised if someone had actually been here at the hotel. As far as he knew, no one had been inside this hotel since the police investigation had been put on hiatus almost forty years before.

  “Is there anyone here?” Lively called out, his breath pluming from his mouth.

  “Anyone here? Anyone here? Anyone here?” A series of shadow Livelys echoed his query from the building’s cavernous depths, but only that and nothing more.

  With a flash, Lively turned on an impressively bright mini-LED light he’d extracted from an inner pocket. He shone it along the wall behind the open door but didn’t see what he was looking for. After a quick scan near the opposite door, he said, “Aha!” A series of clicks echoed throughout the vast lobby as he flipped a series of switches. Numerous lights flickered to life for the first time in decades. Unfortunately, they only illuminated the immediate foyer, and the Sinclair’s furthest reaches still hid in deep shadow.

  Lively’s breath caught in his throat, feeling like Jonah inside the whale as he took in the grandeur of the massive hotel that had engulfed him. In a low voice, he said, “Spared no expense, apparently.” He’d seen pictures of the lobby of the Sinclair from historical photos online, as well as crime scene photos, but they didn’t do the actual interior of the building justice.

  Three stories up, ornately painted ceilings vaulted across the massive lobby, disappearing into darkened recesses. Off to the left sat the front desk. A long and imposing piece of wood, it was set back underneath an airy mezzanine one floor above, with offices located at its back

  Kitty-corner to the front doors, an elaborate cast iron and brass elevator sat with its doors open, patiently waiting for unseen guests. Directly opposite the entrance, a cobwebbed Christmas tree bereft of most of its needles wilted next to the closed doors of the Snowdrop Lounge. A faded banner ran overtop its doors, declaring in capital letters, ‘SEASON’S GREETINGS!’

  With a small smile, he said to the hotel, “Nice to see that despite everything else, you’re keeping things seasonal around here.”

  Turning on the lights seemed to have helped somewhat with the cold, and his breath no longer steamed from his mouth. It was noticeably warmer in here now. The only sound was the slow drip of water. Looking down, Lively saw he was the cause of the precipitation. Snow from his fall near the gates had remained stuck around his jacket’s collar and had just now begun to melt, dribbling down onto the floor. He brushed the remainder from his bomber jacket before the water soaked all the way through and stained the leather. The slush spattered onto the Italian marble floor at his feet, disturbing a thick layer of dust as it fell.

  The Sinclair Hotel smelled old. Not just stuffy and unaired after forty years of closure, but ancient, like Tutankhamen’s tomb must have smelled to Carter when he first opened it after millennia of isolation from the outside world.

  “Let’s hope there’s not a curse in here, like ol’ Tut’s crib,” Lively joked aloud, smiling slightly.

  As if it had heard him, the hotel responded, and one of the bulbs in the decorative brass fixture over the front desk suddenly brightened, going supernova, then died and went dark.

  “First it was power outages, and now it’s power surges — what is it with this place and electricity?”

  With unsure glances at the remaining lights in the fixtures, Lively moved behind the front desk, walking through a small breezeway at its side. A darkened office doorway stood open next to a plethora of pigeonholes where the keys and messages were kept. The hotel register lay on the desk, currently closed. Lively cleared some of the dust from the book’s cover with a dramatic blow and opened it to the first page. After an explosive sneeze, he said, “Bless me,” and began to leaf through the book.

  The first page declared the register to be from December 1981. He let out a low whistle as he read through the list of celebrities and dignitaries that had filtered through the resort during the month. He flipped ahead until he arrived at the twenty-third of December — forty years ago this very night. He ran his index finger down the list of names and stopped short on the final entry, his breath hitching in his throat as he did. Filled in at the current time, but dated 1981, was a name he knew very well, written in a familiar hand, most likely using the pen chained to the mock inkwell on the desk in front of him. The darkened lightbulb above his head flickered and began brightening, returning to its former fully lit glory, spotlighting the name in the book for his viewing pleasure. In a low and unsteady voice, with all traces of mirth now gone, he read the name aloud, “Lively Deadmarsh.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  January 1st, 1982, 1705 hours

  The elevator rose slowly toward the third floor, making John wonder if it was perhaps on its last legs. When the doors finally pinged open, he began to step out of the elevator.

  Corporal Jansen put her arm out, saying, “This is only the second floor, sir.” Across the large common area from the open elevator door, reflections of Harder and Jansen stared back at them from within a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

  Harder stood confused. She was correct, they were indeed only on the second floor. However, the floor indicator overtop the doors inside showed a large number three brightly glowing, indicating they were supposed to be elsewhere.

  “Things don’t always go where they’re supposed to around here,” the young woman said, her voice hushed. She pressed the button for the third floor, and the elevator door slowly slid shut, With a small jolt, the car began to move upward.

  After several long, silent seconds, with a slight jerk, the doors pinged open a second time. Despite the arrow inside indicating they were on the third floor, they found themselves all the way back down on the first floor. Harder frowned, this was making no sense. He’d felt the elevator move upward, and yet here they were, back where they started.

  “There obviously must be a short in the button.”

  “It was working fine when I came down here to get you. Did you want to try the stairs?”

  “Yes, hopefully, they’re not out of order.”

  “You never know around here.” Jansen stepped into the corridor once more.

  Harder looked around the inside of the cramped elevator for a moment before exiting, then said, “But it is interesting, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  Stepping from the elevator back into the service corridor, Harder replied, “This is the same elevator that was in regular use last night, and none of the staff mentioned any issues or impairments of its function in their interview. One of them noted a chill inside of it, but that was the only thing.

  “And yet it’s acting up now. Perhaps it was affected by the power outage?” Jansen suggested.

  “Perhaps...”

  The service staircase to the upper floors was unremarkable. Stark concrete echoed their booted feet as they climbed the narrow stairs. On the third-floor landing
, John paused, slightly out of breath and sweating lightly. “So — what exactly — is happening here?” he puffed questioningly.

  Still appearing fresh and well-ventilated after the climb, the corporal replied, “I think it’s best to just show you, sir.”

  Exiting the stairwell, they moved down another short, bare corridor that opened out into the hotel’s guest area. The royal suite was at the end of a long hallway. Doors to dozens of suites were located along either side with branches leading to other wings of the hotel. A constable stood guard outside a door at the far end of the hall, his hat beneath one arm. The rest of his uniform looked like it fit him correctly about twenty pounds ago. Pudgy and balding, a single tuft of Tintin hair poked out from the top of his head. For some reason, constable Eric Eggelson looked very disturbed. When he saw Harder and Jansen approaching his location, he stood a little straighter, patted down his tuft, and placed his hat back on top of his head.