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Mar. 2nd, 2007 01:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyfirestarterMarch 2, 2007
9:30 am
She leaves a message with the front desk for Goodwin, and another on his voice mail. Nothing too elaborate, just her name and a reminder of the last time she called, and a reiteration of her request to speak to him for her research if he has any time over the next twelve days. A tour won't be necessary, she assures him. Just an interview. If it's convenient.
It's possible that he hears what she doesn't say: that the sooner he gives her what she wants, the sooner she'll go away.
The front desk calls up with a message for her, shortly after noon on Friday. Will Saturday morning do for an interview? He'll be in. That'll be fine, she tells them, and please thank Mr. Goodwin for me?
Saturday morning. That was fast, she muses ruefully; he must really want her out of here.
Well, all right. That gives her the rest of today to look around a little on her own.
-----
1:40 pm
1404.
1406.
1410.
1412 - wait.
Charlie turns and scans back along the hallway, counting her way down the odd-numbered doors. 1413, 1411, 1409, 1407, 1405. Back up the even numbers: 1404, 1406, and then a slightly longer stretch of hallway before 1410.
The wallpaper between the two doors is seamless. There's nothing to indicate that there ever was a door there, not even an irregularity in the hallway carpet.
Very slowly, Charlie puts up a hand and touches the wall with the very tips of her fingers, suppressing the almost instant urge to recoil; a tremor goes up her arm with the effort. Dusty-dry, unpleasantly slick beneath the dustiness, and -- does it yield ever so slightly to the pressure of her fingers?
It's the last thing she wants to do, but she presses a little more firmly. No maybe about it this time; the wall gives sickeningly under her fingers, as though she could push just a little harder and thrust her hand right through the wallpaper into the fetid void beyond.
Shuddering, she pulls her hand away (and do her fingertips adhere to the wallpaper, just a little, like pulling free of a Post-It note?) and steps back involuntarily.
The click behind her makes her jump and swing around before her ear can identify it as a door opening. 1409 stands open a crack, and a pair of suspicious dark eyes glares through at her. "What?" a harried male voice demands from behind the eyes.
"Sorry," she says automatically, retreating a pace down the hallway. "I didn't--"
"I'm checking out tomorrow, okay?" The voice isn't just harried, she realizes; it's fraying on the edges, and close to tears. "In the morning. Just go away."
"What...?" Her shoulder brushes the wall. It's just a wall. "What happened?"
He laughs, a terrified lost sound that reminds her chokingly of Johnny. "Lady, this is the day nobody knows that. Fuck off. I didn't see anything, okay? I didn't see anything and I never want to see it again." The door of 1409 slams shut, and she hears the deadbolt scrape into place.
-----
March 3, 2007
10:30 am
"But there was a room 1408 at one point, wasn't there?" Pencil poised over the college notebook, Charlie raises her eyes to Goodwin's, trying to project a bright academic curiosity.
"Oh, yes. We only closed it off about eight years ago, when we renovated." He gives a polite little social laugh. "So many people were coming to see the famous haunted room, it was starting to interfere with business. Mostly kids, who weren't interested in booking the room and probably couldn't have afforded to if they had been -- they just wanted to see it. We were getting complaints from the paying guests, and finally decided to just put a stop to the whole thing."
"Has anyone asked to book the room since the story was published?"
"I'd have to check our records." He pauses. "Why?"
"I'm interested in the popular response to King's work," Charlie explains. "Especially what you might call the lunatic-fringe response. It's an important part of my thesis. People coming in wanting to see the room, that's exactly the kind of thing I'm looking for. Have you had any, any debunkers or ghost hunters or the like?" Any other debunkers, she almost said. Any since Mike Enslin.
"Not that I recall," Goodwin says pleasantly. "Most people of that type tend to seek out real legends, if you take my meaning. Places that have a genuine reputation for strangeness, deserved or not. The Dolphin has never had the kind of notoriety King attributes to us -- at least not prior to the story's publication."
"But no amateurs. Inspired by the story."
"Honestly I couldn't tell you, Ms. McGee."
She nods dutifully, and jots it down. "That actually brings up my next question. Obviously there was a great deal that King invented for the purposes of his fiction, but I'm curious about how much he drew from the real Dolphin Hotel. I notice the decor in the lobby and in this office --" she waves the pencil around illustratively -- "is almost exactly as he described it. And of course, the prior manager...."
Goodwin nods, with a little go-on wave of his fingers.
"Were there other members of the hotel staff he used? Veronique and Celeste, for instance, the chambermaids...?"
Even as the words are out of her mouth, she can see she's gone too far. Goodwin straightens in his chair, the pleasant professional smile sliding off his face like melting ice cream, leaving behind almost no expression at all.
"You believe that story, don't you," he says, in a tone that might be wonder, might be contempt, might be dread. Might be all three. "You believe every word of it."
There's no point in dissembling; the interview's about to be over, either way. Charlie lowers the pencil, and nods without a word.
"And you take it seriously." A new might-be emotion comes into his voice: incredulity.
"I do," she says quietly.
Goodwin abruptly stands up, walks past her to the open office door, glances through it up and down the little hallway, and closes the door firmly. Circling back around his desk, he taps the intercom button and says quite calmly, "Jess, hold all my calls for the next ten minutes, would you?"
Well. Maybe the interview isn't over after all.
Only then does he turn back to Charlie and lean forward, lowering his voice to a hiss. "Are you completely insane? If you know what's up there, what the Christ are you doing here?"
She lifts her chin and meets his gaze, keeping her voice level. "I'm here to put a stop to it."
Goodwin stares at her.
"How long have you known it was true, Mr. Goodwin?"
He jerks back as though she's drawn a weapon, and his mouth works for a moment before he speaks. "You're out of here. I don't know what you think you're doing or what kind of legal action you're planning, and I don't care. You've got exactly twenty seconds to get out of my office and exactly twenty minutes to get out of my hotel." The anger is a thin shell over desperate fear, and the finger he points at the door shakes visibly.
Charlie doesn't move. "Don't be an idiot," she says, low and sharp. "I am your best chance at destroying that thing in the wall, and there is nothing legal about what I'm planning. I'm getting rid of it one way or another. You want the Dolphin to still be standing when I'm done? Work with me."
He rises from his chair again. "What makes you think we need --"
She cuts him off. "It's spreading."
Goodwin's face, which has already been pale, goes a sick shade of yellow; he sits down slowly, looking suddenly exhausted, beaten, and badly scared. A second or two passes, and he starts to speak, stops, starts again. "I know."
"Faster since Overmeyer died, or am I imagining things?"
He runs a hand over his face, and his voice comes muffled through it. "You're not imagining things. We've already had the first stroke in 1406. Day before yesterday. Not fatal. At least not immediately. And a ... a self-mutilation in 1410, four days ago. Also not fatal."
"And what looked to me like a nervous breakdown in 1409." Charlie watches him for a moment. He doesn't look up. "At this rate I give it another four months, five tops, before it covers the entire thirteenth floor. Two years, it's all through the hotel. Every room, every hallway, every staircase and elevator shaft. Maybe that's as far as it goes." She takes a deep breath. "Or maybe it keeps spreading. Unless someone stops it."
Goodwin's hand falls away from his face, and he looks up at her with that same desperate fear she heard in his voice before, now unconcealed. And something else: an equally desperate hope. "Can you stop it?"
"I think I can kill it," she says levelly. "I'm going to try."
9:30 am
She leaves a message with the front desk for Goodwin, and another on his voice mail. Nothing too elaborate, just her name and a reminder of the last time she called, and a reiteration of her request to speak to him for her research if he has any time over the next twelve days. A tour won't be necessary, she assures him. Just an interview. If it's convenient.
It's possible that he hears what she doesn't say: that the sooner he gives her what she wants, the sooner she'll go away.
The front desk calls up with a message for her, shortly after noon on Friday. Will Saturday morning do for an interview? He'll be in. That'll be fine, she tells them, and please thank Mr. Goodwin for me?
Saturday morning. That was fast, she muses ruefully; he must really want her out of here.
Well, all right. That gives her the rest of today to look around a little on her own.
-----
1:40 pm
1404.
1406.
1410.
1412 - wait.
Charlie turns and scans back along the hallway, counting her way down the odd-numbered doors. 1413, 1411, 1409, 1407, 1405. Back up the even numbers: 1404, 1406, and then a slightly longer stretch of hallway before 1410.
The wallpaper between the two doors is seamless. There's nothing to indicate that there ever was a door there, not even an irregularity in the hallway carpet.
Very slowly, Charlie puts up a hand and touches the wall with the very tips of her fingers, suppressing the almost instant urge to recoil; a tremor goes up her arm with the effort. Dusty-dry, unpleasantly slick beneath the dustiness, and -- does it yield ever so slightly to the pressure of her fingers?
It's the last thing she wants to do, but she presses a little more firmly. No maybe about it this time; the wall gives sickeningly under her fingers, as though she could push just a little harder and thrust her hand right through the wallpaper into the fetid void beyond.
Shuddering, she pulls her hand away (and do her fingertips adhere to the wallpaper, just a little, like pulling free of a Post-It note?) and steps back involuntarily.
The click behind her makes her jump and swing around before her ear can identify it as a door opening. 1409 stands open a crack, and a pair of suspicious dark eyes glares through at her. "What?" a harried male voice demands from behind the eyes.
"Sorry," she says automatically, retreating a pace down the hallway. "I didn't--"
"I'm checking out tomorrow, okay?" The voice isn't just harried, she realizes; it's fraying on the edges, and close to tears. "In the morning. Just go away."
"What...?" Her shoulder brushes the wall. It's just a wall. "What happened?"
He laughs, a terrified lost sound that reminds her chokingly of Johnny. "Lady, this is the day nobody knows that. Fuck off. I didn't see anything, okay? I didn't see anything and I never want to see it again." The door of 1409 slams shut, and she hears the deadbolt scrape into place.
-----
March 3, 2007
10:30 am
"But there was a room 1408 at one point, wasn't there?" Pencil poised over the college notebook, Charlie raises her eyes to Goodwin's, trying to project a bright academic curiosity.
"Oh, yes. We only closed it off about eight years ago, when we renovated." He gives a polite little social laugh. "So many people were coming to see the famous haunted room, it was starting to interfere with business. Mostly kids, who weren't interested in booking the room and probably couldn't have afforded to if they had been -- they just wanted to see it. We were getting complaints from the paying guests, and finally decided to just put a stop to the whole thing."
"Has anyone asked to book the room since the story was published?"
"I'd have to check our records." He pauses. "Why?"
"I'm interested in the popular response to King's work," Charlie explains. "Especially what you might call the lunatic-fringe response. It's an important part of my thesis. People coming in wanting to see the room, that's exactly the kind of thing I'm looking for. Have you had any, any debunkers or ghost hunters or the like?" Any other debunkers, she almost said. Any since Mike Enslin.
"Not that I recall," Goodwin says pleasantly. "Most people of that type tend to seek out real legends, if you take my meaning. Places that have a genuine reputation for strangeness, deserved or not. The Dolphin has never had the kind of notoriety King attributes to us -- at least not prior to the story's publication."
"But no amateurs. Inspired by the story."
"Honestly I couldn't tell you, Ms. McGee."
She nods dutifully, and jots it down. "That actually brings up my next question. Obviously there was a great deal that King invented for the purposes of his fiction, but I'm curious about how much he drew from the real Dolphin Hotel. I notice the decor in the lobby and in this office --" she waves the pencil around illustratively -- "is almost exactly as he described it. And of course, the prior manager...."
Goodwin nods, with a little go-on wave of his fingers.
"Were there other members of the hotel staff he used? Veronique and Celeste, for instance, the chambermaids...?"
Even as the words are out of her mouth, she can see she's gone too far. Goodwin straightens in his chair, the pleasant professional smile sliding off his face like melting ice cream, leaving behind almost no expression at all.
"You believe that story, don't you," he says, in a tone that might be wonder, might be contempt, might be dread. Might be all three. "You believe every word of it."
There's no point in dissembling; the interview's about to be over, either way. Charlie lowers the pencil, and nods without a word.
"And you take it seriously." A new might-be emotion comes into his voice: incredulity.
"I do," she says quietly.
Goodwin abruptly stands up, walks past her to the open office door, glances through it up and down the little hallway, and closes the door firmly. Circling back around his desk, he taps the intercom button and says quite calmly, "Jess, hold all my calls for the next ten minutes, would you?"
Well. Maybe the interview isn't over after all.
Only then does he turn back to Charlie and lean forward, lowering his voice to a hiss. "Are you completely insane? If you know what's up there, what the Christ are you doing here?"
She lifts her chin and meets his gaze, keeping her voice level. "I'm here to put a stop to it."
Goodwin stares at her.
"How long have you known it was true, Mr. Goodwin?"
He jerks back as though she's drawn a weapon, and his mouth works for a moment before he speaks. "You're out of here. I don't know what you think you're doing or what kind of legal action you're planning, and I don't care. You've got exactly twenty seconds to get out of my office and exactly twenty minutes to get out of my hotel." The anger is a thin shell over desperate fear, and the finger he points at the door shakes visibly.
Charlie doesn't move. "Don't be an idiot," she says, low and sharp. "I am your best chance at destroying that thing in the wall, and there is nothing legal about what I'm planning. I'm getting rid of it one way or another. You want the Dolphin to still be standing when I'm done? Work with me."
He rises from his chair again. "What makes you think we need --"
She cuts him off. "It's spreading."
Goodwin's face, which has already been pale, goes a sick shade of yellow; he sits down slowly, looking suddenly exhausted, beaten, and badly scared. A second or two passes, and he starts to speak, stops, starts again. "I know."
"Faster since Overmeyer died, or am I imagining things?"
He runs a hand over his face, and his voice comes muffled through it. "You're not imagining things. We've already had the first stroke in 1406. Day before yesterday. Not fatal. At least not immediately. And a ... a self-mutilation in 1410, four days ago. Also not fatal."
"And what looked to me like a nervous breakdown in 1409." Charlie watches him for a moment. He doesn't look up. "At this rate I give it another four months, five tops, before it covers the entire thirteenth floor. Two years, it's all through the hotel. Every room, every hallway, every staircase and elevator shaft. Maybe that's as far as it goes." She takes a deep breath. "Or maybe it keeps spreading. Unless someone stops it."
Goodwin's hand falls away from his face, and he looks up at her with that same desperate fear she heard in his voice before, now unconcealed. And something else: an equally desperate hope. "Can you stop it?"
"I think I can kill it," she says levelly. "I'm going to try."
