The Reaping (The Fahllen #1)(48)
Author: M. Leighton

A bell chimed as I pushed through the door. I was instantly assaulted by bright lights. The harsh fluorescents hurt my eyes and worsened the headache that I’d developed half way through West Virginia. I assumed it was a result of the climate and/or altitude change because my nose was stopped up, too. Between that and the puffy face from crying a river of tears, I felt pretty rotten.

As I approached the front desk, I saw the back of a maroon vest-clad attendant as she rounded the corner into the mysterious place behind the reception area. I leaned on the counter to await her return.

Several minutes later, the attendant still had not re-emerged. I had begun to get impatient, my fingers hovering over the little service bell threateningly, when a man materialized through a door behind the desk. He straightened his little maroon bow tie as he approached me at the counter.

“May I help you?”

The man’s face was narrow and pointed. His sloped nose was dramatically exaggerated by a weak chin that resided beneath a row of overly-prominent front teeth. His tongue flicked out to wet his already-glistening lips, making me shiver in revulsion.

He had combed all that was left of oily brown hair over his balding scalp in one long swoop from left to right. I was sure from the looks of it that he couldn’t possibly have washed it even once in the past week. All in all, my immediate impression was one of a weasel (if a weasel was pink, walked on his hind legs and talked in a whiny, nasal voice that is), right down to his beady eyes. They looked out at me from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, watching me more like those of a hawk, sharp and cunning.

“Yes, I’d like a room please. One night, king bed, non-smoking,” I said confidently, as if I’d done this a thousand times.

The man nodded and asked to see my identification. I handed it over, hoping that he wouldn’t note my date of birth. When he began typing the information into the computer, I slowly released the breath I’d been holding.

When he was finished, a form printed out and he had me sign the bottom. After tearing away the perforated portion of the paper, he handed me a card key and directed me to my room on the third floor.

“Enjoy your stay, Carson,” he said with a creepy smile.

“Th-thank you,” I said. The way he said my name triggered some visceral response that made me distinctly uncomfortable.

I could feel his eyes on me as I walked back out to the car. I shook it off and chastised myself for such ridiculous suspicion. Being alert and aware was one thing; being cripplingly paranoid was quite another.

Dragging from the car my bag that once weighed about twenty pounds but now felt like it weighed about a hundred, I carried it inside to the elevators and punched the number three button.

Once I got to the room, I was thankful it was a Marriott and not a really cheap motel. I’d had the misfortune of staying in those before with Dad and that just wouldn’t do tonight. I ached from sitting most of the day, I was tired of the road already, and I was emotionally exhausted from life in general. The only things I wanted were a hot bath and sleep and I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing either of those in a lesser establishment.

After I’d locked and chained the door, closed the curtains and pushed a chair up against the doorknob, I took my bag to the bathroom and turned on the water in the bathtub.

When the mirror was steamed up from the heat, I peeled my clothes off and slipped into the tub. I sank down as low as I could, which left the water just grazing my chin. I closed my eyes and listened to the steady drip of the water from the leaky spigot, letting the rhythm soothe my overtaxed mind.

I must’ve dozed off because I could’ve sworn I heard someone whisper it’s almost time and touch my cheek. I awakened with a start and looked around. I was relieved to see that I was alone.

After my bath, I put on clean underwear and went around turning on every light in the small room. Much to my surprise, when I laid down, I went to sleep almost instantly.

That night I had the same dream I’d had many times before, the dream about the black house in the field. I would awaken in the hotel room then for some reason I’d go outside and find myself right back in the field, walking toward the house with no windows. It was all part of the dream this time and it ran on an endless loop. Three times I dreamt of waking before I actually woke and the last time, I saw the girl who looked just like me. She was whispering, “It’s almost time.”

When I awakened (for real), it was six minutes after three. I was still tired, but I was edgy, too, like something unpleasant and unavoidable was just around the corner. It was a very unsettling feeling, but one that had plagued me quite regularly for the past few months, only not quite as intensely. I knew after about thirty minutes that I wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep tonight so I got up to hit the road early.

Once I was dressed, I wasted no time packing my bag and heading to the lobby for check out. There was a young girl behind the desk this time. Though she looked bleary-eyed, she gave me a bright smile as I approached.

“How can I help you?”

“I’d like to check out please.”

“And so early, too,” she said pleasantly and waited for me to comment. When I didn’t, she continued. “Your room number?”

I handed her my key and told her my room number. When she punched the number into the computer, a frown came over her face. “Did you say ‘three-o-six’?”

“Yes.”

She typed the number in again and her frown deepened. “We don’t have anyone checked into that room.”

“Can you type in my name and see if it comes up that way?”

“I can try, but it should still be associated with that room number,” she said skeptically. “What’s your name? I’ll give it a try.”

“Carson Porter.”

She typed my name in the computer and still nothing came up. “Who checked you in?”

“Um, I don’t know his name, but he was an older man with glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Yeah. And thinning brown hair,” I said, opting for that description rather than saying he had a hideous comb-over.

She pursed her glossy lips. “The thing is, I can’t think of one person who works here that wears glasses.”

Something tickled the back of my mind, like I was missing something, but I just couldn’t pin it down.

“Alright, well how can we work this out? Do you want to just check me in again or…?”

The girl looked left and right then leaned across the desk and whispered conspiratorially. “You know, it’s not your fault. And it’ll be a mountain of paperwork for me. Why don’t we just call it even? You can just consider it an early Christmas gift.”