Into the Small Hours Page 2
Richard peeked out the window at the sodium-lit parking lot four floors down. No sign of the morning or anything living, even on the highway past the strip mall next door. Richard turned on his light and pushed down the hook, then dialed the front desk.
It rang repeatedly. At least nothing was wrong with the lines, but the lack of customer service was annoying. Huffing, Richard slipped into his robe and started for the door, prepared to find someone and complain.
He stopped in his tracks, as he spotted the shadow silently gliding to a stop in front of his door again.
Richard's mind and heart raced.
It was too much like a set-up. Richard, the packaging designer for a produce concern, had no experience with stake-outs, ambushes, showdowns, or any other such dangerous and overtly masculine business. But he had a survival instinct, and it was telling him something was most egregiously wrong here.
He took several halting steps forward, unable to force himself to look out the peephole, for fear of... perhaps an icepick, jammed with deadly force into the tiny aperture.
The shadow/figure remained still, as though waiting for Richard to open the door.
Just as Richard summoned the courage and lunged toward the peephole, the shadow moved. Not back toward room 442, but to the opposite side, the side on which Richards' door opened.
Waiting for him to open the door, so he, or it, could force its way in and punish Richard properly for having stuck his nose where it didn't belong.
He stood back from the door, staring at the sliver of light. He searched within himself for courage, but found none.
Nerves singing, he lunged for the light switch by the door, recoiling immediately as light flooded the room.
The sliver of light did not change.
Richard felt so different with the light on. The ten-year-old Richie who used to frighten himself into nightmare-filled slumber had returned to the past, leaving behind the rational and settled adult Richard. He wasn't even so sure that the shadow under the door had been any more real than the scream at this point. Richard pulled the belt of his robe taut, and reached out to the door. He froze for only a second as he clasped the handle, then he turned it and stepped forward into the hallway.
He immediately looked to the right side, and was pleased to see no one and nothing unusual.
But a look to the other side revealed that the door to room 442 was opened a crack, as before, with only darkness emanating from within.
Little Richie returned, bringing the old-school, E.C.-style terror with him in abundance.
The owner of the shadow under the door could have circled around, could now be heading back the other way. Or waiting around the corner.
Richard thought of banging on the door next to his. Looking back at room 442, he realized he had pitifully little evidence of any wrong-doing, and would likely be dismissed as pathetically paranoid. It also occurred to him that such an assessment might not be too far off the mark.
He would simply take the elevator down to the front desk, make his complaint about the phone call, and leave it at that.
Nearing the angle at the end of the wing, he stayed close to the outside edge and slowed his pace, still imagining some assailant waiting with an icepick, or fireaxe, or...
Richard sighed with relief as he rounded the corner and spotted the elevator halfway down the hall, with no obstacle between. The uneasy feeling was still with him, but he was home free if he made the elevator.
He heard the wind essaying another volley against the building outside, and longed for his huge bed and his warm wife and the more agreeable climate back in Irvine.
He stepped in front of the elevator, regarding his tired and disheveled reflection in the mirrored-tiles that covered the wall there, as he pressed the down arrow.
From the other wing, where his room, and room 442 were, there came the sound of determined strides.
No door had been opened or closed, yet someone approached. It could only be the occupant of room 442.
Shit, Richard thought, as cold sweat broke on his forehead.
The as-yet unseen entity was making a move to finish this game. It could only be that.
He punched the down button again, and another time. The footsteps drew closer, accompanied by the shooshing sound he had heard when he passed 442 during his investigation.
Daring to look toward the corner, he saw the shadow that preceded the source of his now agonizing fear.
Unable to face the sight of his angel of death, he snapped his head back toward the elevator just as the doors began to slide apart, trying to ignore the particularly strong gust that wailed outside.
That was when the power died again, and darkness took hold forever.
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About the Author
Some dark serendipity plopped a young Patrick C. Greene in front of a series of ever stranger films-and experiences-in his formative years, leading to a unique viewpoint. His odd interests have led to pursuits in film acting, paranormal investigation, martial arts, quantum physics, bizarre folklore and eastern philosophy. These elements flavor his screenplays and fiction works, often leading to strange and unexpected detours designed to keep viewers and readers on their toes.
Literary influences range from Poe to Clive Barker to John Keel to a certain best selling Bangorian. Suspense, irony, and outrageously surreal circumstances test the characters who populate his work, taking them and the reader on a grandly bizarre journey into the furthest realms of darkness. The uneasy notion that reality itself is not only relative but indeed elastic- is the hallmark of Greene’s writing.
Living in the rural periphery of Asheville North Carolina with his wife, youngest son Gavin and an ever-growing army of cats, Greene still trains in martial arts when he’s not giving birth to demons via his pen and keyboard.
Connect with the Author
www.PatrickCGreene.com
Patrick on facebook
Other Books by Patrick C. Greene
Novel
Progeny
Short Tales
Bill’s Becoming
Finder’s Keepers
Words That Start with the Letter D
Room 422
Dark Cloud
Shards
A Piece of Miracle (coming soon)