The Lost Man

Sweet dreams.

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 can hear the Lost Man in the walls. I’m lying huddled in my bed with the blankets pulled up to my chin. Pillow over my head with one eye exposed. 

If you hid your face you couldn’t see them coming. 

The Lost Man is something I don’t know. He’s not a ghost, I don’t think. When I was little I was sure he was. There are ghosts in the walls. The hotel is lousy with ghosts. Ghosts don’t scare me.

The Lost Man scares me. 

I don’t see him all that often. That suits me fine. There’s something wrong with the Lost Man. 

He likes to walk around in the walls. Talking to himself. Maybe out loud. Maybe in his head but so loud I can hear him. Other people don’t listen. He has a funny walk. Like one of his legs hurts more than the other. 

I’ve seen him in flashes. I try not to see him at all. But then he’s peering at guests through the eyes of a picture or lurking behind a door or sneaking into an empty room. 

He has bad eyes. There’s something wrong with them. Something is wrong with him. 

He sees things upside down. Inside out. Through a glass darkly. 

We made eye contact once. He was at the bar with Mr. Bishop. I don’t go into the bar that much. Mr. Bishop says seeing a wee cunt fucking about the place makes people disinclined to imbibe.

Mr. Bishop says a lot of things. All the time. 

But I was looking for Mr. Malick because there was a lady in room 803 who wouldn’t stop screaming. Nothing was going on, she was just standing in her room screaming and screaming. It gave me a headache. One of the guests asked me to run and get some help and Mr. Malick is who I go to for help. 

The Lost Man was hunched over the bar, drinking with Mr. Bishop. Mr. Bishop was talking. Quicksilver words about god or fate or something. I try not to listen to Mr. Bishop too much. But I do like the books he gives me to read.

I sped up. I could see the Lost Man with his grizzled beard and his wild, messy hair and I didn’t know what he would do. I’ve heard the Sisters whisper about him. 

I asked Mr. Pinch about the Lost Man once and his face got slack and ugly, distended until I couldn’t recognize him. He told me not to worry about nonsense. He told me not to eavesdrop on guests. He told me not to make up stories.

I don’t make up stories.

And there he was, at the bar, the Lost Man. I picked up the pace, shoulders up around my ears. He turned in my direction. Our eyes met. My eyes are blue. His eyes are the color of cancer and ashes after a firebomb and what’s left at ground zero. 

I see things that really are there. He sees things how they actually are. My eyes jerked away from him. I lowered my head and bolted. My heart was pounding by the time I found Mr. Malick, angry at some faulty wiring. 

When we went through the bar a few minutes later, Mr. Bishop was by himself polishing a glass. 

He nodded at me in passing but he didn’t mention the Lost Man. Neither did I.

I don’t know why I’m scared of the Lost Man. He’s not like Mr. Bosch. Or the Horseman. Or even Mr. Balthazar, who lots of people are scared of but not me. 

I don’t know what the Lost Man could do. I don’t think he does either.

I don’t think he’d hurt me. I really don’t. 

But this is the Nine and gambler’s debts get paid in full, like Mr. Balthazar said. I think.

So I stay away from him. When I hear him moving through the walls, I don’t follow the sound. I let him pass by on his way, eyes down. I pretend I don’t see him. It’s hard. I don’t know how other people don’t see him. But I look away and I look down and out and he leaves me alone. 

I don’t talk to anyone about the Lost Man anymore. We have an understanding. He wants to be by himself. Even the ghosts and monsters and guests give him space. 

I wonder if he’s lonely.

Sometimes I think he knows the Nine almost as good as I do. Maybe even better. I’m not allowed in the boiler room. 

I hear him in the basement sometimes. I don’t want to run into him down there. I don’t know what I’ll find.

For now I listen as he continues on his journey, passing by rooms, stopping and checking in. Seeing what people are up to. I burrow under the blankets and wait for the noise to fade.  

I can’t tell if he’s checking in or hunting.

Because I don’t think he’s lost. Not really. I think he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.