Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction Read online

  And then there are his eyes. Dex’s eyes are his focal point, the part of him that wins people over or drives them away. Dark chocolate in color, enigmatic and emotive. Sometimes they’re ruthless, sometimes seductive. They are a mystery as much as he is, and the one thing I can’t help from drowning in over and over again.

  But here, tonight, they’re clouded. No, that’s not quite it. Not clouded but subdued. The sparkle and zest that roam in them, no matter what his mood, are gone. They are handsome, beguiling eyes, but not his.

  I think back to what happened in Red Fox, and how he had gone so long without his antipsychotic medication that he began to actually feel again. It was scary for him, no doubt (and for me, let’s not kid ourselves), but in the end . . . he was free. Or so I thought. Now it seems that sparkle and life, the manic highs and lows, are gone. As destructive as they were, they are an important part of him.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to myself, dropping my gaze quickly to the table just as the waitress comes by and puts down his drink.

  “What would you like, Perry?” he asks me. I look up at him and the waitress. Her name tag states her name is Prudence. She has white hair and a friendly smile, but a stance that says I’d better be quick with an answer.

  I don’t drink normally, especially not on the job—which is what I am doing here tonight with Dex—but I say, “A glass of the house red, thanks.”

  It’s the cheapest and will relax my nerves. Prudence leaves with my order after Dex gives her a quick wink. He then turns to me as we sit down.

  “So how are you, kiddo?” he asks, peering at my face, trying to read me before I say anything. “Is it nice having me in your neck of the woods again?”

  “It’s just nice to see you again,” I say honestly. With Dex living in Seattle and me in Portland, I only ever see him when we film. And in the between time, I miss him.

  A blush starts to creep up my neck. I can feel it.

  He gives me a smile that reaches his eyes, then shows perfect teeth that are quite white for a smoker. “Well, it’s nice to see you. Too bad you’re not bunking with me tonight at my motel.”

  I give him a sharp look, not sure if he’s kidding or not.

  He smiles again, almost leering. “I’ll probably be shaking in my boots after tonight with only my pillow to hug.”

  The waitress comes back and gives me my wine. He gives her the same kind of smirk. This is how I know he’s messing with me.

  I roll my eyes. “So, what’s our plan for tonight anyway? Are we just going to sit here and drink and wait for the ghosts to show up?”

  “Patience, Perry,” he says and takes another gulp of his drink. He gestures to my wine and nods at it. “Have some of that and relax.”

  I take a sip of the acidic merlot and look around me. As gorgeous and old-fashioned as the hotel is, there are so many people about that I can’t imagine how on earth the place could be haunted. But apparently it is. In fact, Portland has a few ghost-tour groups that come around and poke their heads in the hotel a few times a week. I doubt anybody ever sees anything, though.

  “Are we the first ghost-hunting show to come inside here?” I ask Dex.

  He chokes on his drink and coughs, then shakes his head. “Fuck no. We’re a bit behind on this one. I think just about every ghost hunter has been in this hotel at some point or another.”

  “Do they ever find anything?”

  He gives me a wry look. “What do you think? Of course not.”

  “What makes you think we will?”

  He smiles again and reaches over with his hand to pat me softly on the head. “Because I’ve got you, kiddo. You’re my little ghost bait.”

  I think back to Red Fox, to a moment when Dex said I might be offered up as bait to the skinwalkers. The idea bothered me then and it bothers me now. I take a longer sip of the wine this time.

  He’s watching my face closely, as usual, and he still keeps his hand on my head. I’m not sure if he’s trying to comfort me or what. I shoot him a deadly sideways glance.

  “I’m joking, you know,” he finally says, his voice less rough, less gravelly. “I just mean, well, you know there’s something about you, something that attracts these things. You’re like a secret weapon.”

  “Some weapon.” I scoff and look down into the glass, my vision becoming a blur of deep reds. “What’s the point of just attracting these . . . things? These people? If I could use this . . . power . . . whatever it is, for good . . . that would be a different story.”

  He shrugs and takes his hand away, his attention back to his own drink. The back of my head feels vulnerable without his hand there. “You never know. There’s supposed to be a shitload of ghosts in this hotel, maybe you can help one of them.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him.

  “A shitload?” I repeat. “Where do you get your information, Mr. Foray?”

  “Wikipedia. That thing is never wrong,” he says without irony. He looks around him and takes in the scene. “We’re supposed to meet the night manager, Pam, in a couple of minutes. She said she’d find us. She’ll give us a tour of the place, hopefully give us the real story. I want that on film.”

  “And what do you want me to do?” I ask. Once again, we’re going into a film shoot more or less blind. And by we, I mean I. Dex always knows what’s going on, and I’m always in the dark. I did research the Benson before biking over here and all that, but I have no clue what to do or say. There is no storyboard, no script. We just wing it and I usually end up looking like an idiot.

  “Just be yourself. Ask her questions. I’ll film both of you. We’ll wander around the hotel. Then we’ll probably be allowed to go off on our own and do some exploring. I’ll give you the infrared camera this time so we can see if we pick up any hot or cold spots.”

  I shiver at that thought. Using the infrared means we’ll be wandering around in the dark. Whether I’m in a lighthouse on the coast or in the New Mexico desert, the darkness still gives me the creeps. Especially now that I know there are things out there that want to hurt me. That know I’m a sort of “bait.”

  By the time Pam shows up, I have finished my glass of wine. It has only left me anxious, not relaxed.

  Pam is on the overweight side, similar to the way I was in high school, but unlike me, she seems to bustle with confidence. Or bustle with something. Her wide, cheery face gives her the appearance of being younger than she probably is, and she speaks a mile a minute.

  “You must be Perry and Dex, I recognized you!” she exclaims, beaming at us and holding out her hand. We both give it a quick shake. She points to the name tag on her black suit. “As you can see, my name is Pam. Pam Gupta. I’m the night manager here at the Benson.”

  “Thanks for having us,” Dex tells her sincerely, reaching under the table and bringing out a backpack and a camera bag.

  “No, thank you,” she says, putting extra emphasis on the words. “As soon as you told me who you were, I looked up your ghost show and immediately fell in love with you guys.”

  Dex and I exchange a quick look.

  “I mean,” she says, correcting herself, and lets out an awkward clip of a laugh. “I was scared witless at the Darkhouse episode and the one in Red Fox, but I was so drawn in by you two. You’re just so . . . so . . .”

  “Handsome?” Dex asks, flashing her a smile and stroking his chin stubble.

  She blushes and giggles. “Well, yeah, I guess you are.”

  I roll my eyes. Dex doesn’t need any more encouragement.

  “But,” she continues, “you’re both just so . . . lucky!”

  We look at each other again, even more confused.

  “Lucky?” I ask.

  “How about I explain as we walk? I don’t have much time to show you around before I start my shift.”

  We get up, Dex giving the backpack of equipment to me, and we follow Pam through the lobby. For a larger woman she walks like a sprite, moving quickly between people and showering her big smile on all of them.
The guests eye Dex and me curiously, intrigued by the camera he has placed up on his shoulder.

  We stop before a grand staircase that leads up to the second floor. I glance at my reflection quickly in the mirror on the landing. My floral dress is sticking to my leggings with static cling, and my black hair is a mess from my motorbike helmet and Dex’s hand. I don’t look camera worthy at all. I shrug helplessly at my reflection and look to Pam, who is pointing up at the stairs.

  “There’s been many sightings of one of our ghostly guests walking up and down this very staircase,” she says, sounding like a chipper tour guide talking about museum pieces and not dead people.

  I look at Dex beside me and see the camera is running, picking up everything Pam is saying. Sensing I’m staring at him, he reaches out and pushes me toward Pam, into the frame. I know he wants me to start acting like the host I am.

  I smooth down my hair and clear my throat, stepping into the shot. “Have you seen any ghosts, Pam?”

  She shakes her head quickly and looks wistful. “No, I haven’t. Come on, let’s go to the next floor.”

  Not exactly the answer I was hoping for.

  She scurries up the stairs and we follow, my short legs straining to keep up with her quick, energetic stride.

  We walk toward the elevators and as we’re waiting, she says, “I think you two are lucky because I’ve always wanted to see a ghost. I believe in them. So much. But I’ve never seen one. Weird, right, considering that I run the Benson. At night.”

  The elevator dings and the doors open. A couple standing inside eye the camera with trepidation, but we step in with them anyway. Pam makes small talk with them as she pushes the button for the eighth floor, and doesn’t mention ghosts again until the couple gets out at the fifth floor.

  She tilts her head at us. “I don’t like to discuss the ghosts around our guests, though. People can be pretty strange about things like that.”

  “I don’t blame them,” I find myself saying.

  “I guess you’d know,” Pam says as the elevator stops at the eighth floor, and she leads us out into the hallway, past a rotary phone resting on top of an antique table.

  She notices me eyeing it and gives it a quick wave with her hand. Her bracelets jingle with the motion. “We try to keep all the original furnishings from the hotel. Adds to the class and elegance of the place, don’t you think?”

  I nod, not really needing to be sold on the hotel as a whole.

  Pam takes us to the right, and we walk past the rooms down to the very end of the hall. Dex keeps filming, even though he takes his head away from the camera.

  “So, if we show the Benson in a good way,” Dex says to Pam, “any chance we can score a free hotel room for the night? I’m staying at a roach motel outside of the city, and I’m getting itchy just thinking about it.”

  Pam turns around briefly and smiles at him, but then spins around and keeps walking without missing a beat. “We’ll see. Would you two be sharing the room?”

  Dex automatically grins and looks down at me as we walk. I shake my head, not amused.

  “No, Perry snores and kicks in her sleep,” he says.

  I smack him on the shoulder and the camera shakes. “I do not!” I protest.

  “Oh, and drools,” he adds quickly.

  “So you two are a couple?” Pam asks, not looking at us this time but slowing down as she nears the end of the hall.

  “Only in certain situations,” I mutter under my breath.

  “No, we are not. Perry is far too good for me, and I’m forced to make do with my Wine Babe girlfriend.”

  Finally Pam stops walking and looks at him. “Wine Babe? You’re with someone from that show?”

  “You’ve seen it?” Dex asks, his eyes wide and hopeful.

  “Yes,” she says slowly, and for once her chipper look is gone. Her cheeks sag a bit. “My ex-boyfriend used to drool all over that skinny, exotic one.”

  “Yeah, that’s his girlfriend. Jennifer Rodriguez,” I inform her.

  She eyes me and sees that I’m none too thrilled about it either. Nothing like a hot woman to make two chubby girls feel like they’re having a bonding moment.

  “Well, I’m just glad some women watch it,” Dex says, turning his attention to the camera, perhaps feeling the animosity and low self-esteem just reeking from our pores.

  Pam laughs and the cheery facade returns. “Don’t be silly. I don’t watch that dreadful show. They pair Shiraz with Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Only an idiot would watch that. Like my ex-boyfriend.”

  Dex opens his mouth to say something, but I know he completely agrees. That’s the reason he quit doing camera work on Wine Babes and started up Experiment in Terror with me instead.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “here we are.”

  I look at the door we’ve stopped in front of. Room 818. “Where are we?” I ask.

  “This was Parker’s room,” she says ominously.

  “Who is Parker?” Dex asks. I’m surprised that he doesn’t know something for once.

  “Parker . . .” Pam starts and then trails off. She takes her keys out from her pocket; the noise of them rattling fills the hallway. It suddenly seems very empty and hollow, and a weird, familiar feeling washes over me, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up.

  The lock turns and the door slowly creaks open. Only blackness and dust come billowing out of the room.

  “After you,” Pam says.

  Dex shrugs and then nudges me in front of the camera, indicating that I’m to go first. Of course. I always have to be the first to walk into everything when I’m on camera. And sometimes when I’m not on camera. It depends on how sadistic Dex is feeling.

  I take in a deep breath and push the door aside. It slowly swings open with a low groan, and I walk blindly into the swirling darkness.

  “Should I be putting on the night vision?” Dex asks no one in particular. I hear him fiddle with the camera settings but before anything happens, I am blind. Pam has walked in beside me and switched on the lights.

  “No sense in scaring ourselves yet,” she chirps, and I can barely make out her round face.

  Dex comes in and Pam shuts the door behind him. Once my eyes adjust to the light, I see that we’re in a hotel room that probably looks the same as any other hotel room, albeit a large and very pricey one. Aside from a heavy chill that seems to hang in the air, there’s nothing too off-putting about the place. The bed is made, there seems to be a separate room with a living area, divided only by a Japanese-type folding screen with paper panels, and I can just see a rather opulent-looking bathroom jutting out to the right.

  “As I said, this is Parker’s room,” she says. “Well, it was his room. I say this because some guests who stay in here say they still see him. But it happens very rarely.”

  “And once again,” Dex repeats, sounding bored, “who is Parker?”

  Pam walks over to the king-sized bed and sits down on it. It sags a little from her weight; the mattress isn’t as springy as it was back in the day.

  “We have a lot of ghosts in this hotel. Parker isn’t the most well-known of them, but he’s the most real. Because he was a real person and his story is terribly tragic. Tragic, but all too common.”

  I go over to the bed and sit down beside Pam. Suddenly, that slightly see-through partition between the bedroom and the living area is giving me the creeps, like I can sense someone standing behind it.

  Dex looks as if he picks up on the vibe, too. Although he’s standing in front of Pam and me, with the camera in our faces, his gaze keeps flitting over there and his head is cocked slightly as if he’s listening. I stifle the urge to shiver—I don’t want to look like an amateur—and keep my attention on Pam.

  “What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light, trying to ignore the goose bumps I can feel rising underneath my jacket.

  “Parker, Parker Hayden, was a shipowner in the thirties. Back then, Portland was a very different city. Ships were its
livelihood. There was a lot of money, a lot of crime, a lot of . . . well, scandals, I guess. Think Vegas, but on a river. Anyway, Parker was just one of the many wealthy shipowners. He spent half his time here, half somewhere on the East Coast. He rented a room, this room, spending an obscene amount of money every night. He was a ladies’ man, too, no surprise there. He was also a bit nuts. But because he was rich, you called him eccentric. There were rumors he was having an affair with a maid or two; sometimes he’d be caught stealing tons of toiletries and hoarding them in his closet. In this day and age we’d call him a weirdo but back then, he was just rich and powerful and you let him do what he wanted.”

  “Doesn’t sound too much different from nowadays,” Dex says softly, keeping the camera focused on Pam. He’s paying less attention now to the other room, which makes me feel a smidge better.

  Pam laughs. “You’re right about that. And it was the same kind of outcome. Back in 1934, Portland was hit hard—really hard—with this strike. I think it was called the West Coast Waterfront Strike? Anyway, there was the strike, his ship was basically inoperable, and he lost a lot of money. Really fast. According to the records, he was kicked out of the hotel because he couldn’t pay his bills. Not for this room, not for any room here.”

  “And what happened?” I ask, encouraging her to continue.

  She sighs and rubs her face quickly, looking uneasy for the first time tonight. Lines appear on her youthful face.

  “He wouldn’t leave. He was kicked out several times, out on the street even. Publicly humiliated. All unshaven and messy, like a vagrant. He said people were after him, wanting money, and that he was afraid for his life. Then the hotel staff found him. Dead. Hanging in the maid’s laundry room, from a noose made out of towels. The strike ended two days later. How is that for irony?”