The Ninth Floor, Part Three

I opened my eyes to darkness.

            Rachel lay next to me on the floor. I pulled her close. “Rachel? Rach? Are you all right?”

            Her eyelashes fluttered. “Uhh . . . yeah . . .”

            I did something I’d never done before. I slugged her arm.

            Her eyes shot open. “Don’t ever do that to me again!”

            “Sorry.” This probably wasn’t the time to mention how often she’d hit me over the years. “Are you awake?”

            “I think so.” She rolled up. “What happened?”

            The table leaned to one side as I pushed my head up. Rubble from the ceiling lay strewn over the floor. I brushed dust and dirt out of my hair.

            Most of the tables were covered with shards of ceiling tiles. Some had collapsed beneath large chunks of plaster. Whatever chandeliers still hung from the ceiling were burned out.

            I helped Rachel stand up.

            Peppers lay on the floor, moaning. DeWolfe was slumped over the tilted table, her arms slack. Jaime Kinsman sprawled in her chair, her head drooping back.

            Catman staggered to his feet. “What was that?” He grabbed his smartphone. Then he saw Spears on the floor. “Jeremy! What happened? Are you all right?”

            I leaned against the table, catching my breath. In the darkness I could only see shadows and silhouettes. But I could feel Rachel beside me, which helped my nerves.

            Spears got up, holding onto a chair. “I’m fine. I think. What was that?”

            I lurched away, staggering to the hotel lobby to check out the weather outside. Rachel followed me.

            The windows were soaked with rain. The sky outside was black.

            The clock over the check-in desk read 11:30 p.m. We’d been unconscious all day?

I trembled on my feet. “That wasn’t just any lightning strike.”

            Rachel leaned against me, fumbling with the buttons on her denim jacket. “The hotel is getting angry. Or the things inside it. I don’t know . . .”

            I held her. “Sorry about slugging you.”

            “Shut up.” She peered through the rain-streaked windows. “Getting away is going to be a problem.”

            The ground outside looked like a sea of mud. And I could only see a few yards out the window. The rest was gray, rainy mist.

            I took out my phone and tried to hit 911.

SERVICE UNAVAILABLE AT THE PRESENT TIME. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.

            Goddamn it.

Catman emerged from the hallway, holding his smartphone up and a long flashlight. “What’s going on?”

            “We’ve been asleep for 10 hours, and—hey!” I grabbed at his arm. “Is your phone still working?”

            “No.” He pushed me back. “The wi-fi router is smashed. I can’t get a signal, but it still keeps shooting. I’ve got a battery-powered router out in the car, but—come on, what’s happening?”

            I wanted to hit him. But I managed to keep my voice steady. “Something knocked us out. And now we’re stuck here. Look outside!”

            Catman stared at the downpour. “Wow.”

 I tried to make a call again.

             SERVICE UNAVAILABLE AT THE PRESENT TIME. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.  

            The rest of them made their way into the lobby—Spears, DeWolfe, Peppers, and Jaime Kinsman. Holding flashlights and candles. “What’s going on?” Peppers demanded.

            “We were just . . .” Kristen DeWolfe wobbled on her feet and looked over her shoulder at the clock. “What the hell?”

            Spears looked nervous, but he kept shooting. Jaime Kinsman leaned against the check-in desk, staring at the pouring rain outside.

            Wait a minute . . . I blinked to make sure I wasn’t missing anyone. “Where’s Alan?”

            They all looked around. Catman’s smartphone roamed over our faces.

Yeah. Alan Miller was missing.

“Okay.” Catman handed out flashlights, candles, and matches, and then held his smartphone high. “We’ll go through the whole place again. Fast. Kristen and Jurgen and me, Martin and Jaime and Jeremy—”

            “What room was Gibbons in?” Rachel blew out a match. “I want to check that first.”

            “Shouldn’t we just start looking for Alan?” Jaime Kinsman’s voice quivered as she lit her own candle.

            My heart was pounding. I had a big black flashlight, heavy enough to bash in a man’s skull—or a monster’s, I hoped—but I wanted to get out of there, 5 million dollars or not. The rain made that impossible. “We should listen to Rachel.”

            “Fine.” Catman pointed his phone at me. “Eighth floor. Let’s go.”

            The eighth-floor room was empty. And immaculate, as if the maids had finished cleaning it five minutes ago.

            Rachel handed her candle to me and stood in the center of the room, her arms at her sides.

            I aimed my light at the floor, casting a glow across the room.

            “He was terrified.” Rachel spoke her eyes closed. “He saw something—or experienced something—that drove him over the edge.”

            “Where was it?” I asked.

            She pointed up. “Up there. The ninth floor.”

             “Is she for real?” Spears looked at me.

            I handed her candle back. “Yes.”

            DeWolfe held a thick candle of her own as we trooped upstairs. “Jordan was always a little unstable. I was surprised he lasted through the first night.”

            Thunder boomed, shaking the walls—and my nerves. “This place is plenty spooky. Even for a fairly well-adjusted guy like me.”

            Rachel snorted.

            On the ninth floor we broke into our groups—Catman with DeWolfe and Rachel and me, and Spears with the others. We went to separate ends of the hallway and started opening doors.

            Like before, one room was thoroughly trashed, and the next one looked freshly made up. We searched closets, dressers, and bathrooms, finding nests made of ripped-up sheets filled with dried raccoon poop, or only dust and mildew.

            “Do you feel anything?” DeWolfe looked at Rachel.

            Rachel sneezed, almost blowing out her candle. “Just an allergy attack.”

            We walked to the next room, but before we could open the door, Jaime Kinsman shrieked from down the hall. “Oh my god—oh my god . . .”

            DeWolfe took the lead, Rachel and me behind her, with Catman coming up behind,  getting footage of us running in the shadows.

            Pepper stood outside a doorway, gasping. DeWolfe pushed him out of the way.

            Jaime Kinsman stood just inside the room, breathing hard. Spears stood next to her.

            A human foot lay on the floor.

“Is it Alan?” I asked.

            Jaime whirled on me. “How the hell should I know? I didn’t look at his feet!”

            Oops.

            Catman and Spears caught us on video. While they were doing that, DeWolfe pointed. “Look.”

            A portion of the wall had been ripped out—wallpaper torn, the wood underneath splintered. The jagged hole looked like a gateway into darkness.

            Just like on the fifth floor. Where the growling thing—whatever it was—had plunged between our legs.

Spears took a cautious step forward and aimed his flashlight and smartphone into the gash.

            “Looks like it goes up and down.” He backed away.

            “Maybe that’s what Gibbons saw?” Peppers was in the room.

            “More likely he saw something inside it,” I said. “Or coming out.”

            Jaime leaned against the doorway. She held both her mini-flashlight and a candle. “So do we go up or down? Attic or basement?”

            No one suggested running. Not even me, much as I wanted to. “We’re already on the ninth floor. The attic is right above us, isn’t it?”

            None of us moved or spoke for a long minute. Then Kristen DeWolfe turned. “Come on, Martin.” Her voice was a whisper.

            Peppers nodded. “Yeah.”