Some warnings beforehand Suicide Selfharm Mentions of mental illness Mentions of homophobia
I’m starting to think it might be better that my last ex and I never properly cut things off. Alexavier and I were high school sweethearts, we dated for 8 years until our marriage was legal in 2015. Our rings were engraved with each other’s names, I still wear that ring despite the years. Sometimes I find myself still calling Alexavier my husband rather than my ex. Even so, the grief is eating me alive. I can’t live like this any longer so I’m here to share my story, and maybe, just maybe, find some sort of answer.
On August 12, 2016, Alexavier moved in with me. At the time I lived in and owned a hotel in the middle of nowhere Alaska. Its main audience was hikers and scientists, so let’s just say it was never fully occupied. I took on the business from my father, who took it over from my grandfather. I am not sure what came of the hotel. I assume it remains vacated of human life and will rot away beneath itself until a storm blows it to ruins.
Redhand Hotel was a grand hotel, around 300 rooms were open to the public combined with storage facilities, kitchen space, and lounges, it was single-handedly the largest hotel in the area. Alexavier and I lived in a separate hallway on the far west of the building, think of a condo, a hallway packed with three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and 2 bathrooms. In other words, it was the perfect living quarters for two newlyweds looking to live a quiet life.
I’ll never forget the first night we spent living together, from the second he set down his bags, Alexavier seemed on edge. I could brush this off, Alex was a very anxious quiet man, a classic introvert, but then again, most people living in rural Alaska are. Still, I wanted Axel to feel at home in the hotel. I did my best to cheer him up, a nice dinner over wine, a trip to the hot tub, movies, etc, but nothing seemed to help. He would repeatedly pick at his hands, shuffling around with his ring, then uneasily run his fingers through his hair.
Eventually, I got nervous enough to ask him if anything was wrong. His response caught me slightly off guard.
“No. no, everything is fine,” he said in an almost sarcastic tone.
What caught me off guard was the way he said it. Axel wasn’t one to keep things from me, let alone be sarcastic. It reminded me of when we met. Alex came from a very unsupportive family, when I met him, he was a shell of who he is now. Eventually, I was able to chop the whole thing up to stress, we all get a little out of it every now and then. And I can’t deny that an 80+-year-old hotel doesn’t have certain quirks that take some time to get used to, rattling windows, squeaky door hinges, creaky stairs. The imagination is perhaps the most dangerous part of being human, and the vast size of the hotel left our imaginations to run wild. I’ll admit it myself I never felt 100% safe living there. How could I? I was essentially living with strangers constantly, most major companies refrain from informing their guests of all the horrors that go down in hotels, and seeing it firsthand was definitely unsettling. There was always a lingering paranoia, like when you were little and running to your bed when the lights flick off. Despite that, Alexavier relaxed after I said something, we spent the rest of the night watching cheesy rom-coms until we both passed out. That was how our lives went for the next 4 months, waking up, cooking breakfast together, hotel work, dinner, then gathering around the tv over beer. I’m not sure what switch flipped after those four months, but I suspect it has something to do with the last guest I ever took on. An elderly couple, maybe 90, that’s beside the point, what I’m trying to say is these people were almost sickly of age, their bodies withering away beneath them. The wife was the one to check into the hotel.
I wish I remembered her name, she was a frail old woman, with skin like paper and pearly blue eyes. Her eyes looked younger than her years, they retained a certain innocence that you don’t see often among the elderly. Her husband stood behind her, I never heard him say a word. I hardly remember anything about him, thinking back, he reminds me of the old neighbor from the first Pet Sematary movie. I found it odd that a couple of such age was so far into the country, I wish I would have seen it earlier. That night, Alexavier and I went about our routines, I retired early and Axel stayed up working on a painting. He was quite the artist, I still hang his works around my house; at least the pleasant ones. In truth, quite amany of his pictures were almost disturbing to look at. Not in a gory way, but on a deeper level than that, like something was fundamentally, inherently wrong with them. I hate to say it, but looking at them would make me feel sick. The one that came to mind was an oil painting, on an 18’24 canvas. It depicted a deserted forest with an equally abandoned house placed to the far left of the page. I can’t describe why it made me so uncomfortable. Maybe it was the murky water with hints of red disguised as reflections from the sunset, or the knife-like splinters coming from the crippled wood.
I hear artists say all the time their works are an extension of themselves, I wasn’t proud of fearing something that was supposedly an extension of the man I loved. Internally I justified the discomfort I felt using the same logic. It was entirely possible Axel was using his work as a way to clear his mind, an extension of his inherently wrong family life. Then again, he never talked to me about his works or their meanings so I can never say for sure.
The point is, that night we went our separate ways. With the elderly couple being the only guests it was a quiet night. The usual window-rattling and the pitter-patter of walking feet took their leave, resulting in complete silence. Around 4:00 in the morning two unison bangs woke me. Alex was still in the spare bedroom: a room we converted into a studio. As I walked into the living room, he deliberately peered at me through the cracked door. His eyes were tierd with sleep, paint covering his hands and forearms. I entered the studio trying to rub the sleep from my eyes.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Hm?” He removed a headphone from his ear.
I figured he hadn’t heard the sound and left him to his work, after some thinking I decided it was nothing. Still, now that I was awake there was no point in venturing back to bed. I took station on my side of the studio. Grabbing and strumming a guitar to no real rhythm.
“Vale?” Alex sat back turned, rubbing his fingers and clenching his fists.
“Yes?”
It took a moment for Axel to respond like he never really had anything to say in the first place.
“Oh… nothing,” he rubbed his eyes, setting down his paintbrush, “I best call it quits.”
Alex stood from his station, allowing his painting to enter my range of view. This one was different. It was rare Alex painted anything other than landscapes, but this was an overly detailed painting of our wedding picture. The painting was almost identical to the photo. The details on our matching suits and my disheveled hair were exact. It appeared to me he had finished painting us, what caught my attention was a small white blemish at the bottom of our feet. It was a faint outline of a cat. I had raved for years about wanting our cat Paris to be our flower girl, as neither of our families had a little girl. Unfortunately, the plan fell through and Paris had to stay home.
When I turned around to say something Axel was gone, the door left swinging open behind him. I shrugged it off and got back to my work. Through the door I was able to see the kitchen and living room, Axel was draped over the sofa, one arm over his eyes, the other dangling over his waist. I had assumed Axel would go back to the bedroom, but now that he was in earshot I figured it best not to play while he tried to sleep. Shortly after placing my guitar back on its stand, I moved to the living room. By then Alex was completely knocked out, I picked up a blanket and draped it over him, when I did so his lips curved into a smile. I chuckled a bit, he must have not been asleep. Whatever the reason he and I were pleased with my act of kindness.
I took the seat next to him. I mindlessly scrolled through social media until around 7:00 when I rose to start breakfast. It being mid-December, the night season was in full effect. I always enjoyed the night season, sure it was harder to maintain a regular schedule of any sort when it’s constantly dark outside, but something about the reclusiveness of it brought me comfort. One way or another I think a lot of people are scared of the dark, whether or not they admit it all depends on the person, but one thing is certain, the dark allows your mind to run wild. Humans inherently fear what they don’t know.
I’ll admit it myself. I’ve had a great many experiences scaring myself shitless in the dark. Through all ay girly shrieks, there is always the same outcome, I’m fine after. Of course, this doesn’t apply to people or animals, I’m sure I’d be traumatized for life if a stranger came from the dark and spooked me. But all of my many “mythological” scares caused me to grow skeptical of the paranormal.
Anyhow, that day started with me making breakfast alone. I decided on pancakes, they weren’t to Axel’s liking, but I figured with him asleep he wouldn’t eat until lunch. The layout of the “house” connected the living room and kitchen by a runway island. The island was connected to a system of shelves and countertops where we would cook. The living room sofas faced away from the kitchen. In a nutshell, I couldn’t see Alex and Alex couldn’t see me. I went about in the dark, peacefully mixing the batter and flipping my creation. At one point I turned around to grab something, a fork, or eggs, I can’t remember.
But when I turned Axel was standing up from the sofa glaring at me. At first, I thought he was upset that I was making pancakes. Still, he wasn’t the type of person to get mad just because he didn’t like the food. I half expected him to walk over and start making another dish for himself. When I called for him he remained stationed over the couch. I called for him again, this time going to flick on the lights. The lights in our “house” were a variety of scattered lamps and twinkle lights. Our living quarters were constructed like the rest of the hotel, so we had only one ceiling light.
The brightness seemed to snap Axel from his haze. His once stiff shoulders relaxed and his clenched fists fell to his side. I asked him if something was wrong, to which he just seemed confused, he claimed that he had no memory of ever standing up. In the past he’s mentioned sleepwalking, apparently, he did it quite often as a teen. He chopped the whole situation up to that, he did find it weird, nothing major had changed in his life to provoke his sleepwalking to kick back up again. Still, as a precaution, we started to lock the doors differently. Alexavier would make his way out of the house as a teen, and it would not be good to have a 7ft intimidating man parading around a public hotel at night.
We went about our lives as normal for the next few days, Axel did have a few other sleepwalking incidents, nothing scary or dangerous. He would crawl out of bed and stumble around the “house”. Most of the time, he would end up at his desk in the studio. Neither of us was too concerned about the situation. We had taken the precautions to prevent Axel from accidentally leaving the “house” or obtaining any sharp items while asleep. Our lives went on as normal, a few more guests started staying at the hotel. A team of scientists who needed a place to stay for a few weeks and a doctor who was traveling further up north. I placed them in the same hall where the elderly couple was staying. It was much easier to cluster the guests together because you don’t have to run around the whole building to clean. Plus, the elderly couple was scheduled to sign out at 11:00 that day. 11:00 rolled around, then 11:15, 11:20, 11:30, etc.
At noon, we received a phone call from the scientists, they complained of a rancid smell that soured the entire room. I apologized and went up to check for plumbing issues in the rooms around them. Once I entered the hallway I was greeted by the foulest scent. It intoxicated the whole hall, one of those smells that lingers in your clothing, and never fully goes away. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out where it was coming from. The sent was strongest in front of room 33, the room the elderly couple was staying in.
I cautiously knocked on the door, “Maintenance,” I called out.
I waited a few seconds before knocking again
“Maintenance.”
I twisted on the doorknob peering in through the peephole. Looking through the peephole the wrong way distorted the room into a rounded bubble. Through the haze, I was able to make out two figures lying on the red bedspread. I wasn’t nearly as alarmed as I should have been, maybe they were just tired and forgot to set an alarm. I knocked louder this time, still glaring through the peephole. There was something next to them on the bed, two black and silver metal objects. I couldn’t make out what it was at the time. It took me one more knock to realize what was going on. It hit me like a train, like a bicycle riding downhill preparing to crash.
None of the hotel’s sheets were red.