I’m the night auditor at a large hotel on the edge of town. It’s by the interstate but is sort of hidden by the winding sideroad it takes to get there. My shift is from 11pm-7am, and it’s Halloween.
The hotel is large but half-gutted, the dining room and kitchen is closed for repairs, and has been for three years. There’s a library, outdoor pool and huge sitting area with moss covered statues and a broken fountain all grown up with grass, also closed for repairs.
There’s just long hallways on two floors that snake around the building. Hallways which people seem to get lost in.
By the time I clock in the parade of masked men and sexy female everything is in full swing. Drunk and drugged, they come stumbling in giggling and groping. Some off to their rooms, others asking me to renew their room keys, others reserving rooms.
Then he walks in. He’s wearing a white, featureless mask and he’s wearing a mechanic’s overalls stained in black, wet patches. He’s also holding a very real and bloodstained cutting knife. He walks up to the front desk and i greet him. “Welcome to the Comfort Inn, do you have a reservation?”
He just stares at me.
“No?” I ask, recognizing that this is the serial killer from Illinois, the Marion Mangler. His eyes are black, but weary. Marion is three hours from here. “Would you like to reserve a room?” I eye him as he eyes me, he’s sizing me up and notices I’m sizing him up.
“Let’s see, a suite on the second floor, in the back, and I’ll give you the single rate. You have AARP right? Of course you do and judging from those blood soaked boots you are military so tack on that for added discount. 109 will be your total. Oh and a property ticket,” I add cautiously, printing out his receipt and sliding a room key and ticket. He cocks his head to the side, puzzled.
“For your knife. You can’t be walking around the hotel with that thing. And you can’t kill any guests. You hand me your knife and take the ticket. Whenever you want your knife, you hand me your property ticket, and I’ll get you your knife, okay?”
His black eyes narrow, but I slide him the ticket, and after a moment he slides me the knife, which looks razor sharp and is surprisingly light. He carries it like he’s about to swing an axe. I sigh.
“Oh and it’ll be 109. Tonight’s rate would have been 175.”
His eyes wander down, searching. He doesn’t have any money.
Barking chihuahua and clicking heels proceeds the lady dressed in furs, holding her dogs leash in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.
“Good evening Mrs. Lancaster. Checking out?”
“Oh yes, dear,” she squeals, her dog barking loud and incessantly, “off to deliver some pizzas!” She often used food as some kind of coded reference I never understood.
The Mangler looked at her, eyes following her out the door. The moment she stepped outside he turned back to me and slid me his ticket. I hand him his knife.
He turns and stalks out the front doors.
I slide his paperwork and room key off to the side and wipe up all the blood from the counter. I wave as a sexy maid bounds up the stairs, sweaty and bulging from her costume. A few moments pass and in walks the Mangler. He approaches the desk almost triumphantly and opens his fist, bloodstained hundred dollar bills rain down.
He sets the knife down and takes his ticket and room key. I sign the paperwork for him and count the money.
“Staying the week then?”