Precious Memories

There's no place like home.

Note: This story is part of an anthology about the 9 Hotel. Murder, mayhem, monsters, and mistakes. A place where assassins, thieves, lunatics, and lost souls wander the halls. Some never leave.

This is what growing up in the 9 was like for a little girl named Althea.

Visit the 9. Where everyone gets what they need.

I’m seven eight nine and I’m watching someone die for the first time. The first time I can remember, anyway. Odds are I was playing in blood before I read my first picture book. Finger-painting with the leftovers. Look, Mr. Valentine. I painted a pretty flower. A sheep. A man with no eyes. A human heart, bloody and raw and still beating. A kitty.

The dying man is in the basement. I like the basement. It’s cool and dark here. I can hear the hotel. I can hear it whispering. It sings me to sleep. The voices are clearer here. 

I like to come down here and talk to the ghosts. Talk to the hotel. Sometimes Mademoiselle comes and checks on me. I smile and nod and keep my eyes down, just like Mr. Pinch says to. Says too. Toodaloo.

The dying man is full of holes. Bullet holes. I know bullet holes. The hotel walls have some. They’re mostly papered over, but I can see them. I can see the metal, burrowed deep inside. I can see the people the bullets trapped here.

I have a lot of friends at the hotel. 

The man is already halfway dead when I show up. He’s tall and thin and has a scar over his eyebrow and a pointed goatee. He’s wearing a fancy business suit. The front is soaked with blood. The bullet holes almost make a star on his chest. It’s pretty.

There’s a bowler hat laying by his side. Some blood has splashed on it. It makes the hat look cheerful.

‘You’re not supposed to be down here,’ I say, because it’s true. The man’s glassy eyes fix on me. His mouth opens and shuts like a fish.

‘I need help,’ he says in a scratchy voice. I put down my lunchbox. It has ‘Alf’ on it. One side has dents in it from bullets. 

‘You’re gonna get in trouble,’ I say. I kick my foot against the ground. My sneakers are falling apart. ‘Guests of the hotel do not go in the basement,’ I say just the way Mr. Pinch says it. The man groans.

‘I’m already in trouble,’ he says with a laugh. He’s looking at me with wide, puzzled eyes. ‘What are you?’ I don’t like this question. 

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Blonde hair tied into a ratty ponytail. Big blue eyes like a doll. Oh doesn’t she look like a doll she’s such a doll shame about the doll. Ripped overalls that are too big for me. Missing front tooth. In need of a good bath, according to Mr. Valentine. 

‘I’m Althea Parker,’ I say. ‘I live in the hotel.’ 

‘Althea,’ he says. ‘I’m hurt real bad.’ I nod. 

‘You’re going to die,’ I agree. ‘You’re already dead. It just takes some people time to notice.’ I open my lunchbox. It has a mashed, messy peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a ziploc bag, two of my favorite knives, and some broken crayons I found in the trash.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask, because Mr. Valentine says you have to be polite to the guests. I like Mr. Valentine. He doesn’t treat me like a ghost or a pest or an inconvenience. He lets me ride the elevator and push the buttons and tells me which guests to stay away from.

‘Bill,’ he says. I take out a pocket knife. I found it in my room under my bed. Maybe it’s from the tooth fairy. It’s my favorite. It has a sharp, slender blade and a lovely black handle that looks carved out of bone or marble. My hands have cuts all over them from practicing.

I like the cuts. I like practicing. It makes the hotel happy too. 

‘I’m going to be a famous knife-thrower,’ I tell him.

‘Althea,’ he says. ‘I need you to get a doctor. A policeman. Someone. Please.’ I shake my head. I use the tip of the knife to write his name in the dirt in big block letters. Bill. Still fill hill mill pill grill. 

‘That’s against the rules,’ I say. ‘There are lots of rules. Did you see the rules when you came in?’ Bill shakes his head.

‘I must have missed them,’ he says. I nod sagely.

‘Maybe that’s why you got hurt,’ I say. He huffs out a surprised laugh.

‘You may have something there,’ he says. He drags himself a few inches across the floor. He leaves a path of blood.

‘After you die, we can play hide and seek,’ I say. ‘I’m really good at it. I know all the best spots.’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Bill says. He lets out a cry as he tries to drag himself across the dirt floor.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask. I pick up a piece of cardboard and prop it against the wall. Tall wall mall ball fall. It’s moldy and faded and already littered with puncture wounds. I practice a lot.

‘Elevator,’ he grunts. ‘Help me.’ I shake my head hard.

‘Mr. Pinch won’t like it if you make a mess,’ I say. ‘He’s the concierge,’ I add. I love that word. Concierge. It sounds fancy and exotic and adult. Con-see-yairj. Can see air. ‘Sometimes if I stay out of trouble he lets me ring the bell at the front desk,’ I add with a touch of pride.

‘Mr. Pinch helped make this mess,’ he says. His hands are shaking.  ‘Althea. Please. Is there a phone down here?’

I turn away from him and pick up my knife. Run my fingers up and down the handle. Press the pad of my thumb against the blade. Then I throw it at the cardboard. It hits at an angle and bounces off, clattering away. 

‘Shit,’ I say. Bill makes another sad crying noise of pain. I know those sounds. I hear them sometimes, when the hotel lets me. ‘There’s a phone,’ I say. ‘But I’m not allowed to use it.’ 

You mustn’t touch the phone, Althea. There’s nothing out there for you. Nothing no one nevermore. Stay on this side of the door. There’s no one to call. You belong here. This is your home. This is your family. 

‘Get it for me,’ pleads Bill. There’s streaks of dirt on his face. I retrieve my knife and throw it again. It hits the cardboard and doesn’t stick. 

‘Fuck,’ I say. Bill chuckles.

‘You curse a lot for a little girl,’ he says. 

‘I’m not a little girl,’ I say. I’m a monster I’m a mistake I’m a mobster I’m a master I’m malicious I’m marvelous I’m home I’m home I’m home. I pick up my knife and lick dirt off the blade. It tastes like ash and bone. 

Bill tries to pull himself again, but he doesn’t get very far. His breath is coming in shallow pants. 

‘Where are your parents?” he asks. I frown.

‘What?’

‘Your mom and dad,’ Bill says. I shrug. I’m confused. I don’t like this question.

‘Depends,’ I say. I walk over to his bowler and pick it up. ‘Can I have your hat?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Don’t think I’m going to have much use for it soon.’ I put it on my head. It’s far too large and slides over my eyes. I push it back so I can see. 

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Everybody dies. All the time. Some people die lots of times. That doesn’t look very fun,’ I add after a second. ‘But there’s worse things.’

‘Worse than dying?’ Bill asks. His voice is getting lower. There’s blood on his lips. 

‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘On the eighth floor.’

‘What’s on the eighth floor?’ he asks. I crouch down next to him and touch his cheek with the tip of my knife. 

‘We don’t talk about the eighth floor,’ I say. ‘It’s a secret.’ I push harder with the knife. His flesh gives under it like a peach. He winces as a dot of blood slips down his cheek.

‘What the fuck?’ he asks.

‘There is no eighth floor,’ I say. ‘Except when there is. I’m here all the time, though. Every time. All the times.’ I look up at the ceiling. There are a few cracks that I know by heart and a damp stain in one corner. 

‘You’ll see, when you’re dead,’ I add. I wipe the blade against my finger, leaving a trail of blood. ‘Then we can play. But only if you’re good. If you’re bad, then the bad things come and you go away forever.’ 

‘What bad things?’ he asks. His voice is even softer. He sounds sleepy. I sit down criss cross applesauce and draw lines with my fingertip until it is coated in dirt and blood.

‘All the bad things,’ I say. ‘There’s all sorts of bad things if you don’t follow the rules. There’s a room of mirrors where everybody screams. There’s a shadow man. There’s the room with no walls. And the hanging man. The lost man in the boiler room. But they won’t hurt you if you follow the rules.’

There’s a lot of blood under Bill now. His mouth is open like it’s hard to breathe. I lean down. His breath smells like toothpaste. I sniff it to learn what dying smells like. He lets out a gasp like he’s surprised. I watch him go away. 

I hear the thud of the elevator in the distance. I scramble to my feet. I don’t want to get in trouble. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to talk to Bill. Maybe he was a bad guy. Maybe I would get punished. No please I don’t want to go in the dark room the sharp room don’t put me in the dumbwaiter sorry sorry sorry sorry.

I try not to get punished.

Footsteps coming down the hallway. I pick up the knives and crayons and throw them into my lunchbox. I stand there, suddenly uncertain whether or not I should hide. There’s nowhere to hide. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I put my hand against the wall and try not to cry.

It’s Mr. Malick. I let out a breath that sounds just this side of a sob. I like Mr. Malick. He loves the hotel and the hotel loves him. He stops when he sees me. He has a toolbox in one hand and a big bag in the other. His eyebrows go up in surprise when he sees me.

‘Althea?’ he asks. ‘What are you doing down here?’ 

‘Playing,’ I say. I don’t mention the knives. Mr. Malick glances over at Bill.

‘He bothering you?’ he asks. He goes over and nudges Bill’s body with his foot.

‘No,’ I say. ‘We were just talking.’

‘He’s not talking anymore,’ says Mr. Malick with some satisfaction. ‘Still, messy job. Very unprofessional. He say anything interesting?’ I shrug one shoulder. 

‘He asked about my parents,’ I say. ‘I don’t think he’s going to like it here.’ 

‘What he ask you?’ Malick puts his hands on his hips and studies Bill. He’s got that tone adults use when they’re asking serious questions but don’t want you to know. I kick at the dirt again. There’s blood everywhere. ‘Althea.’

‘He asked where they were,’ I say. I don’t like these questions. Sure I have a mom and dad. More than one of each, even. Got a whole collection like other kids collect action figures or horse models. They come and go like the ghosts like the customers like the noises at night of people fighting and dying and drinking. They pat me on the head and fuss over me and tell me to mind my manners. They give me bits of candy and books and markers. Sometimes they slip me money. They answer my questions and tell me what to do and I sometimes listen.

But the hotel takes care of me. The Proprietor. Mr. Valentine. Mademoiselle. Malick. Sometimes Mr. Balthazar. Even Mr. Pinch, who smiles too much and stares through you with eyes like bullet holes and a face like a mass grave. 

Saw this movie on TV, once. Old movie. About a killer shark. It was pretty good. These three guys are on a boat hunting the killer shark. Because it keeps eating people and ruining their time at the beach.

I’ve never been to the beach. Or the ocean. I’d like to go one day. One of the three guys on the boat gives this big speech about shark eyes. How they’re dead and lifeless and always watching you. How they look right before the shark attacks.

Mr. Pinch reminds me of that. 

Not Mr. Malick. 

Mr. Malick smiles at me sometimes. He makes sure none of the guests are giving me trouble. Sometimes he’ll give me a piece of candy. He asks how I am and listens to my answers. 

I wonder why Mr. Malick has never been my dad.

‘Did he do something bad?’ I ask, pointing at Bill’s body. 

‘Everyone does something bad,’ says Mr. Malick. He puts down his toolbox and takes out a small bone saw. He’s let me hold it before.

‘He seemed nice,’ I say. Mr. Malick smiles.

‘It’s not hard to seem nice,’ he says.

‘What are you going to do with him?’ I ask. Mr. Malick crouches down by Bill’s body. 

‘Boiler room,’ he says. I nod. The boiler room is one of the places I’m not allowed to go. Most of the hotel is mine. It belongs to me the way I belong to it. It takes care of me. I return the favor, best I can. Protect it honor it do its bidding. 

That’s one of the reasons I need to practice with my knives.

But there are places in the Nine that you don’t go to. Not if you want to stay there. And I need to stay here. Here is the only real place left. Everything else is just smoke and mirrors. Visions. Lies. 

So I follow the rules. I can say them by heart, the ones in Mr. Pinch’s office. Learned to read off of them, practically. Sounded out the letters, learned the words. Words words words. So many words. They don’t mean much. I like the silence between them more. Then you hear the things that matter.

‘Can I come to the boiler room?’ I ask. Mr. Malick chuckles.

‘You’re a bit young for that,’ he says. ‘Besides, there’s things down there you don’t need to worry about.’

I wonder if he means the man in the boiler room. I can hear him. Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he screams and screams and screams. He talks to the Nine, too. Tries to, anyway. I can hear him at night when I’m in bed. Jumbled thoughts, like a game where you have to pick out the letters to make words. I don’t think the Nine hears him. I don’t think anyone but me can hear him. 

I stay away from him. Everyone stays away from him. 

Still I linger. Mr. Malick is using the bone saw for its intended purpose. I can hear it slicing through meat and bone. I take the peanut butter sandwich out of my bag and chew on it.

‘There’s a room on the third floor that’s alive,’ I say. Mr. Malick chuckles. He throws what looks like an arm into the bag. 

‘Which room?’

‘617,’ I answer. ‘It likes to move. I think it’s hungry.’ If you open the door the carpet is a thick, undulating tongue and there are teeth as big as me and a long dark channel leading into oblivion. The walls move. Sometimes I feed it leftovers.

‘I’ll be sure to keep an eye on it,’ he says. I hear him grunt and curse and the saw shriek against bone. 

‘Mr. Malick,’ I say, ‘who’s the Horseman?’ Mr. Malick freezes. Goes rigid and stiff, one hand poised to throw a foot into the bag. The foot drips, but otherwise nothing happens. I chew the last of my sandwich.

‘Where did you hear that name?’ he asks, like he doesn’t care. Which means he really does. 

‘Around,’ I say. Under a table in the bar. Mr. Balthazar and some other men were playing poker. I sat under the table surrounded by a forest of legs. Two of them had knives in their shoes. I took them. A few had guns.

It was nice down there. Peaceful, as long as nobody started fighting or shooting. Sometimes I dozed off and would wake up in my room tucked under the covers.

I never found out who would put me to bed. Sometimes I would smell violets. 

This time, the men were all talking in serious voices about this guy. The Horseman. Only they said his name like a swear. Like a whisper. They looked over their shoulders and laughed nervously. Their toes tapped and they shifted in their seats.

‘Althea,’ says Mr. Malick. He turns to me, his face serious and stern. I wipe a smear of peanut butter from my chin. 

‘I wasn’t bothering the guests,’ I say. He puts a hand on my shoulder. There’s blood and dirt on it, rinds of grime around his fingernails. 

‘You know how we don’t talk about some things here?’ asks Mr. Malick. ‘How we have to follow the rules?’ I nod, unhappy and knowing what comes next. ‘He’s one of them. Just pretend you didn’t hear anything.’ He smiles, but it’s a phony smile. ‘He’s just a rumor, anyway. A myth. He’s not real.’

‘Yes he is,’ I say before I can stop myself. Mr. Malick tilts his head to the side.

‘Althea,’ he says in a warning tone. ‘Have you seen him?’ There’s fear in his voice. Real fear. I don’t know what to do if Mr. Malick is scared. I shake my head so hard it makes me dizzy.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Never. But the little boy with no fingers told me about him. And the lady with her eyes missing. They’ve seen him. They say he talks to Mr. Pinch.’ 

‘I need you to listen carefully,’ says Mr. Malick. I nod. I always listen to Mr. Malick. ‘Don’t go looking for him. Don’t try to find him or talk to him. You’ll be alright if you leave him alone.’ 

I hate when Mr. Malick lies to me. 

That night when I’m lying in bed, watching the lights outside burn and flare, I think of the Horseman again. I think about what could scare Mr. Malick so badly. And Mr. Balthazar, and all his friends at that table. Tough guys, like Mr. Pinch says with a sneer. Dangerous men. 

But they were scared. Scared in a new way, a strange way. Scared because they didn’t know. What he could do what he wanted to do what he would do. Not knowing is alway scarier.

Mr. Balthazar said he’s something worst than a ghost. The man with one eye who chewed on his cigar until it was damp and slimy looking said he wasn’t real. He didn’t sound convinced. The other men didn’t want to talk about him. Changed the subject to women and booze and money. But they kept glancing over their shoulders.

I’m not afraid of the Horseman. Either he will kill me or he won’t. Destroy me or not. I don’t have much say in the matter. He’s part of the hotel, whether Mr. Malick likes it or not. The Horseman is part of this world, more than I am. If he breathes and lives it’s because of the Nine. If I live and breathe it’s because he lets me. 

I’m not afraid of him, the way I’m not afraid of venomous spiders or dead bodies. But I’m not stupid. I won’t seek out the Horseman. I won’t tempt him won’t attract his attention. If he comes for me, he comes for me. And I will bow my head and accept whatever punishment I deserve. If that is the cost of living in the Nine, then I will welcome it and make sure it is paid in full.

I roll over, and let the screams lull me to sleep.