calebredding (calebredding) wrote in horror_story, @ 2012-09-15 13:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | cj, complete, cycle001 |
WHO: CJ and a few Hotel Staff (npc's)
WHEN: After 11pm
WHERE: Kitchen (and beyond)
WHAT: Caleb goes looking for a snack, and finds a lot more
WARNING: It's CJ - expect swearing
By 11pm, the hotel manager had begun his tour, this time with a handful of guests in tow. Some of the staff were instructed to keep an eye on the proceedings. Mostly security and janitorial. With the restaurants closed, kitchen staff had been whittled down to graveyard standard. Normally, this was an incredibly easy shift. The hotel rarely boasted more than two or three guests at a time, and generally not the sort who ordered off of the overpriced room service menu... at least not in the midnight hours. Room service was often a breakfast affair, even when people were willing to splurge on laziness. So the resident night cooks were used to being able to sleep through most of their shifts, if not check out a few hours early... and that was if they bothered to show up at all.
On this night, there were two cooks on duty. The day chef had opted to stay in the hotel overnight, as well, rather than drive home in the weather, and she was lending a helping hand to the night cook, who was in something of a surly mood. Most of the waitstaff had been sent home once the restaurant had closed for the night, so it was just the two of them in the kitchen. If a guest did call for something to be sent up, they’d make it and ring for a bellhop to do the legwork. Thus far, three late dinners had already been sent out to guest rooms. Three different meals, one of them particularly exasperating due to a laundry list of particulars the guest had insisted on. None of this, extra that... it was all the night cook could do not to yell into the phone for the asshole to choose something else off the damn menu. Most of the conversation in the kitchen after that had been about that order, and general bitching about the situation as a whole.
“It’s just the worst fucking night for it,” the graveyard cook complained, not for the first time since he’d started his shift, and probably not for the last, either. He was sitting in a chair by the pantry, doing prep work on what he had earlier deemed to be a shit fucking ton of potatoes. Getting it out of the way now, so that they wouldn’t run short with the inevitable breakfast rush come morning. His hulking form dwarfing both the peeler in his hand and the chair he was sitting on. Bent over like he was, he resembled some sort of bridge troll, waiting for billy goats to pass by.
“Mmhm.” Tired, the day chef just shrugged her shoulders noncommittally as she stirred a small pot of soup on the large, industrial gas stove. She was older than he was, and a lot more pleasant-looking. The kind of woman who was called ‘handsome’ in her youth, and devoted her free time to baking for her grandchildren. Permanent smile lines were etched deeply around her eyes, giving even the resigned sigh she released some amount of warmth. Determining that the soup was done, she carefully transferred it from the pot to a bowl. The bowl was moved to a small tray, joined by a plate of oyster crackers, a spoon and a linen napkin, and then covered. Instead of ringing for a bellhop, however, she told her co-worker, “I’ll be right back.”
“Nn,” was his response. It might just as well have been directed at the potato he was holding. He didn’t look up when she picked up the tray and took it away, not in the direction of the double, swinging kitchen doors that led to the dining area (and by extension the rest of the hotel) but into the pantry he was sitting next to.
----
The whole scene was being watched from the little age-fogged window at head-level the double swing doors. CJ had followed his stomach through the lobby, and with a little careful maneuvering around the scant pairs of eyes that weren’t involved with the hotel’s haunted tour, managed to get a front row seat to the rather boring exchange in the kitchen. Only thing that made it not boring? The fact that Missus Cooksalot over there had gone the wrong way with his soup.
Well, it wasn’t his soup, but he’d watched her prepare it for the last five minutes in perfectly normal assumption that it was intended for one of the guest rooms. He’d spent enough time in various hotels to know the kitchen staff didn’t haul the carts to the rooms themselves. A bellhop would’ve been prompted, and by the age of this place he guessed there was no high-tech POS system that alerted them. He was banking on a small window of opportunity that the meal would be left unattended for a time, which he intended on fully taking advantage of, either by stealing the bowl to a secluded place like a stray dog, or just drinking the whole thing there in a matter of seconds. He was that hungry - last bite to eat was a rest-stop danish about twelve hours ago, and CJ was holding about five dollars in cash to his name.
But those plans were dashed when he caught glimpses of dried and canned goods in the sliver of space following the cook. Obviously the pantry. Maybe it had a back entrance that spilled into an employee break-room? At this point, CJ would’ve been happy to just get ahold of a loaf of bread and a gallon of peanut butter. Now, it was the troll in the chef’s hat standing - or squatting - in his way.
Ever the resourceful one, holding his breath and keeping low, he snagged a prime opportunity for distraction when the bartender appeared around the corner from the common area; thankfully his destination wasn’t the kitchen, or CJ would’ve gone hungry for another few hours.
Ten seconds later, a rack of freshly washed pint glasses somehow ended up crashing to the tile floor, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity of three rooms - including the hulking night chef, so CJ hoped as he slinked back toward the furthest kitchen door, ready to slip in once the coast was clear.
----
The jarring sound of the crash was enough to nearly cause the large man to slice open his palm with the peeler. "Motherfuck!"
Predictably angry, the night chef heaved himself up off the chair and went slamming through the double doors to go see - and possibly strangle - the cause of the disturbance. This left the kitchen in peace, as the woman who'd vanished into the pantry with the soup did not make a reappearance. The only sounds were that of the night chef, yelling at whatever hapless bellhop or maid had taken it upon his - or herself - to investigate the fallen glasses. Eventually, the yelling became punctuated with the tinkling sounds of broken glass being swept up and put to rights.
---
Yes. Perfect, flawless execution. A broad, cheek splitting grin cut across CJ’s face as he slipped into the kitchen behind the back of the chef. The smell of that soup immediately hit him, along with the generic aroma of cleaning solutions, air conditioning, and the over-all hint of old that was everywhere in this hotel.
Fingertips drummed on the aluminum cutting counter he slinked along, keeping a sharp eye on the door the chef would likely be returning in. Here was another decision; take something in reach or go for the gold in the pantry (and risk being seen by chef number two). Within reach was limited. Cut but raw potatoes, marinating chicken, and something in a frier that obviously wasn’t done. A little further down was a garnish table. He could always make out with a tin of potato salad or coleslaw.
Fuck it. If he was seen, he’d make a ploy about looking for his kids or something; that’d go over well with Old Mother Hubbard, he figured. Popping his lips for one more quick moment of reflection, CJ went for it, darting toward the pantry door.
----
The pantry was almost what one would expect in a hotel of this size. Industrial shelving units stocked with cardboard boxes of dry goods, canned items, and large bags of non-perishables. A large supply of bottled water, and so forth. There were also the more perishable items, as well. The onions, potatoes, and whole heads of garlic. Then, of course, the refrigerated section, and the freezer. All in all, everything was well-stocked and looked on the level. Except for the sticky little fact that a back wall panel about the size of a tall door was ajar. Closed, it would have very much just been the back wall. There was even some lightweight shelving on it to give the illusion weight, with bags of chips and cracker boxes. Open, it was very obviously a goddamn secret passageway. The lack of light indicated that it was no employee break room hidden behind the potato chips. Instead, there was a short, dark hallway that had absolutely no business being there at all. On the other end of the passage in front of him, a very narrow staircase led up, into pitch darkness. Closest to the pantry was also an identical narrow staircase that went down, which had a dim, naked lightbulb at the bottom that revealed the beginning of another, similar hall.
----
Well. That wasn’t something you saw every day - and CJ prided himself on being particularly well traveled. And open-minded. With his back against the pantry door he hovered around the rows of gallon-sized canned tomato paste and bright orange carrots probably delivered earlier that day, staring at the anomalous hole in the wall as if it was speaking to him.
Well, something was speaking to him, back in the shadow of his consciousness, but that was nothing new. And the Whisperers didn’t seem to have anything pertinent to say about the Alice in Wonderland choice in front of him. In the end, he decided to err on the side of caution (and hunger), snagging a large bag of tortilla chips and tin of fresh-made salsa. Clutching his prizes to his chest, CJ about-faced to head out the door when second-hand instinct sent a quick look out the window before he did. Good thing too, since the Troll Chef had returned, and now guarded his escape like an angry bull. Fuck. He huffed through his nose, and looked over his shoulder at the hole in the wall.
Time was not on his side. Tentatively and feeling his blood pressure rise, he headed toward the stairs, then paused just long enough at the upward landing to pull out his lighter, spark it, and hold the light in front of him. Chef-lady had obviously been down the other road, and might be coming back. That left one option. It had to come out somewhere, right?
---
Somewhere, indeed! The stairs kept going up... and up... until what had to be the guest room floor above him. The halls up here were even narrower than below, branching off around corners, occasionally meeting other staircases. All of it was dark, however, and there didn’t seem to be any light switches. There was a distinctly musty smell, reminiscent of dust combined with rat droppings, and as CJ climbed, he’d start hearing the sounds. Footsteps, voices, conversations, the odd television show or radio program.
Guests. In their rooms, all around him. He’d found his way between the walls.
As he progressed down the narrow hallways, the flickering flame atop the lighter began illuminate more than just plaster and wooden studs around him. Chalk marks, here and there. Symbols, but not carefully drawn. It was a scribbled code, perhaps. Letters, numbers... the occasional check mark. All kept very tightly together, at about eye level.
---
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me...” CJ stopped, squinting through the oily light close up to one stud to examine the marks in detail. How fucked up was this?! On the other side of the wall he could hear what sounded like a game show on a television and the distant hiss of a hotel toilet being flushed. He swept the darkness, following the sounds around him. Why did he suddenly feel like he was in a very big, very dark fishbowl?
Oh, he knew why, and his stomach was clenching more and more with the thought. Briefly, he considered going back down to the pantry and hiding among the produce until the coast was clear. But another thought continued to nag at him, keeping him rooted to the steps.
He wasn’t checked in, and he’d found a great fucking hiding spot. However, it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t the only one who knew about it.
After making a mental note of this particular stud’s weird markings to check for changes later, he opted to continue up the stairs. Maybe there was a door at the end of them. If they led to the attic, there had to be another way down.
---
On the third landing, there was ambient light in one of the passageways. Not a lot, just the sort of hazy light that could be let in through an open door. Well, not so much a door as just an opening. Another panel was slightly askew, much smaller than the one in the pantry. Someone would have to crouch to go through it. In fact, the size of the little door was equivalent to that of the wood paneling that decorated the walls on the interior of the guest rooms. In the soft light, the small inside latch could be seen. Closed, the metal latch would be at about knee level, and difficult to notice. Someone was inside the room. A shadow passed, blocking the light for a brief second, but didn't close in. The footsteps went away from the open panel, in fact, towards what would have been the room’s closet... or perhaps the bathroom. Above the opening were more of the chalk markings. The check mark, a couple of indecipherable letters, and a number 2.
---
The instant the shadow moved, CJ froze. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, he didn’t even dare to blink until he was damn sure it wouldn’t cause too much noise. Of course in the back of his head he heard his own voice screaming fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck on a rapid and constant loop. This was a thousand times worse than being spotted by Chef-lady or the Troll. CJ had learned many lessons over the course of his erratic and difficult life, and one was that sneakers finding other sneakers never lead to anything good.
The part of his brain that fed on paranoia like a thick pea soup was elated. Validation of fears was one of his drugs of choice, but to really enjoy it? He had to get the bloody-fuck out of there. At least, that’s what every one of his instincts screamed - but that didn’t change the fact that he was goddamn stuck.
Conscious of every movement he made, a quick puff extinguished his lighter, and CJ pressed himself against the nearest wall. Without the added distraction of his own light, the light from the opening blared like neon. His heart had crammed itself in his throat, but all he could do was slowly ascend the stairs just a little more; painfully slow, in hopes that whoever was in that cubby above a room’s ceiling would decide to go down instead of up, whenever he - or she - was done doing whatever they were doing.
---
After a few minutes, the light flicked off. A flashlight beam came streaking through the latch door, followed by one of the skinny bellhops, in full uniform. He closed and latched the panel behind him, very carefully, and then moved down the hall a ways, checking those markings. He never once turned towards the staircase, as he wasn’t quite done with his rounds on that floor, yet. Eventually, he came to set of markings he must have liked, because he crouched to open that panel and slip into that room, as well. It was all very methodical, the way the maids might have checked on the rooms from the other side. Except it involved narrow secret passageways and obviously wasn't legal.
---
The fuck is this. CJ watched the guy from his hopefully well maintained darkness, subconsciously willing himself to somehow dissolve in shadow until the coast was clear again. When another panel was opened and another room inspected, CJ turned his attention to the wall right next to him, and chanced the lighter cupped against his palm. Taking a closer look.
All the studs with notches had a latched panel beneath them. Every single one.
By this time, the alarm bells that were always well oiled and ready in CJ’s head were clanging off their hinges. He needed to get out. He thought of his own room; he thought of Peach--er, Tatum. He’d seen fucked up before, but this was straight out of a goddamn spy-novel, and fuck if he was sitting on this while people in pill hats and uniforms looked down on him while taking a piss.
Shutting off the little flame, he inched back down the staircase, careful to keep himself as quiet as possible until he was well beyond the second open panel. After that, each step he took had more weight and momentum than the one before it, until he was almost jogging toward the pantry.
---
By the time CJ got back to the ground level, the pantry door panel was closed, but the naked light bulb to the basement level was still on, still blaring in the darkness, marking the area as familiar. The latch for the pantry was larger than the room panel latches, easy to find with the naked eye, and very simple to open. The pantry itself was also dark, empty save for the produce. During CJ's unintentional tour through the walls of the Eclipse guest floors, the lady chef had returned and was back to putting up with the large male chef's complaining in the kitchen. He was still telling her the story of how some idiot had broken several pint glasses, and how he'd be damned if he was going to take the blame for that bullshit.
Downstairs, from the bowels of the hotel, a loud, deep rumbling sound clicked on. The older woman took that as her cue to end her shift, which had actually technically ended hours prior, and she told her companion as much. "I'm going to get some sleep before the breakfast rush. It's getting late. Just the bar crowd, now."
"Yeah," the Troll growled, not terribly pleased with the fact that there was a bar crowd, but that wasn't exactly unusual. There wasn't much in town open past midnight, so townies would even occasionally drive up to The Eclipse on the weekends for pub food after dark. "Shit, wanna take these wedges? Bitch should have fetched 'em by now."
"Brianna," the old woman corrected, as if maybe he'd used the insult because he'd forgotten the server's name. "She's new. Go easy on her. And no, I'm off shift. Do it yourself."
"New and dumb as fuck and slow," he complained, abruptly tossing another batch of chicken wings out of the fryer and divvying them up into servings on a large tray for the bar. It seemed CJ's luck was solid gold in that moment, at least, because the large cook did leave for the bar then. The older woman walked out ahead of him, holding the swinging door for his tray of potato wedges and wings. After that, the kitchen was blessedly deserted again.
---
This is so fucking fucked! Validated paranoia had exploded in Caleb’s head, completely replacing the purpose for this little side-trip in the first place. The bag of chips and salsa were abandoned somewhere between fleeing the bellhop in the walls and whatever that fucking noise was coming from the basement. Holding onto his panic in the darkened pantry long enough to watch the two chefs carry on from the foggy window, when they were gone he took his chance to escape.
His room. There was a door there somewhere that opened into the goddamn wall, and the staff were using them like hamster tubes for some fucked up purpose. If it wasn’t for the storm, CJ would already have been out the fucking front door, but he was stuck. They all were stuck. He needed to know why.