Chapter 13: Wake Up Call
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One look at where we’re stopping tonight lets me know I’m checking the sheets before I get in bed.
Money isn’t the problem. I mean, it would be if we were traveling on my wallet - that’d be Motel 8’s for miles. Hell, we’d be sleeping in the car. Thankfully though, Lucas - no, William - has access to Lucas’s wallet. And as verified by his obnoxiously expensive designer car, that guy is LOADED.
The problem is, once again, that we’re in Iowa.
This place isn’t even part of a chain. It’s off the beaten path (something William insisted on until we know more about how Dakota tracked Lucas down.) There’s a sign hanging crookedly above the front office that reads Greenwood Motel. There is not a single tree anywhere to be seen around it, making the name both ironic and a little bit sad. All the doors face out towards the parking lot, and the building itself is curved in such a way that I get the impression it’s huddling against the wind.
After I called Nathan to ask him to break into my apartment and take care of my cat for me - a conversation that ended in him insisting I tell him where I am so vehemently that I had to hang up - I was too emotionally drained to keep hammering William with questions. I mean, I have more. I have sooooo many more, believe me, but between the flashes of uneasiness I kept getting from him and my own fatigue, I decided to let it drop. Part of me knows I should be pressing him, asking where we’re going, demanding to know what the plan is, but. To be honest?
I don’t know what the hell else to do.
It’s not like I’m full of options here. I have no reason to doubt William is telling the truth when he says that thing is coming after us. All evidence points to that fact, and there’s no way I’m going to go try and hole up with a friend somewhere with the chance that it’ll show up and eviscerate them at any moment. At least William is a ghost. A spirit. Maybe Lucas can die - or at least his body can - but William can’t.
I wouldn’t exactly be deeply depressed if Lucas Hallowsworth kicked the bucket, is all I’m saying.
When we enter the reception area, I see an ash tray on the counter and an elderly man seated behind it, calmly flicking bits of a flaking cigarette into the stained black plastic. He looks up at us as we enter, a little bell above our heads chiming to announce our arrival.
Frankly he looks shocked to see customers. I can’t blame him.
“We’d like a room for the evening,” William says quietly. He already has his wallet out and is wafting it indicatively in the air. I swear I can smell the leather. Even Lucas’s wallet is expensive.
“Uh. Right.” The man blinks. He doesn’t look too quick on the uptake, I admit. I hate to judge books by their covers, but I get the impression this guy has smoked more than just cigarettes in his day. His eyes look a little glazed. “One room, then. King?” He looks between the two of us.
“Two queens,” I say. “Please.”
He gives me a quizzical look, but shrugs and rifles around behind his desk for a moment. I hear a jangling sound, and he produces a set of keys, a plastic tag dangling off the ring that says Room 33.
“Forty bucks a night,” he says.
William pauses for a moment, and I’m starting to recognize that he does this when he’s surprised by something. I wonder how long it’s been since he was walking around interacting with people. If it’s been a while, forty bucks probably sounds ridiculous. As opposed to the absolute bedbug-inducing steal it is.
Seriously. I can already feel my skin itching.
“Of course,” he says eventually, stepping forward. He rifles through Lucas’s wallet before producing a credit card, offering it out to the man. I see the hotel owner’s eyes bug out when he realizes the card is platinum. “Of course, errr…sir.” He takes the card, swiping it, casting a look between us. Then he licks his lips. “…Err…we have cheaper rates for. Well. Shorter stays.”
I stare at the man. A touch of color appears in his cheeks.
“You know. If you’re not planning to use it for the whole night.”
“You think I’m a prostitute?” I blurt. I look down at myself: my mud-soaked clothing, my sopping shoes that squelch with every other step. “Are you serious?”
He blubbers. “I. Well. I didn’t mean no offense, it’s just…”
“We’ll take it,” William interjects. He snatches the keys out of the man’s hand, along with his card, which the receptionist had been dangling limply from his fingertips. “Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he murmurs, his shoulder touching mine as he brushes past me.
I give the man behind the counter one more steely glare - he blanches, which makes me feel leagues better. Then I spin around and follow the incubus out.
Room 33 is everything I never wanted and more, exactly as predicted.
To call the two beds ‘queen-sized’ violates the Lanham Act against false advertising. They’re shoved up against opposite walls like they don’t want to touch each other. One look at the questionable stains on the covers assures me that I don’t want to touch them either.
But I’m also exhausted. Other than the instances of literally passing out, I’ve barely gotten any sleep lately, and even then, I only slept well when William used his woo-woo powers on me. I’m half tempted to ask him to do it to me again, but I doubt that’s a good idea. Hell, fucking Melatonin has a surgeon general’s warning about using it too frequently. What would the side-effects of a demonic sleep-aid be? WARNING: INCREASED RISK OF HOMICIDAL PSYCHOSIS AND EATING NEIGHBORHOOD PETS.
Yeah, no. Bad idea.
“Get some rest,” William says. He’s already moved well into the room, stepping over to the sink and running the water. I watch him wash off his face as best he can, smoothing back his hair to some semblance of cleanliness. “I’m going to step out for a while and get us some supplies.”
“…And leave me here?” I balk. “What if that thing shows up?”
“I shall take the book with me. It will take the creature a while to recalibrate and locate us regardless, but in the event it does, I’ll make certain the target is me.”
I frown at him. “I mean, alright.” Something about letting him have the book doesn’t feel right to me, though I can’t say why. Hell, I should probably be begging him to take it and then just disappear into the night. Let me nab Lucas’s car and get back to my own life.
But no. I wouldn’t want that either. He doesn’t deserve it.
“Rest, Lydia,” William says again. He strides towards the door, adjusting the shirt he’s wearing. “We can discuss it further when I return.”
I watch the door click shut, standing there in the middle of the room. To my right, an old tube television sits perched on a lopsided table that looks like someone took a bat to it. I see myself in a mirror hung on the wall: I look absolutely awful. Drained, even. I really should sleep. I should take off these clothes, curl up in the blankets - no matter how much looking at them makes me itch - and doze off.
“Yeah, I should,” I say quietly. “But you’re not going to do that, are you, idiot?”
I wait until I hear him start the car and pull out of the parking lot. Then I leave the hotel room, locking the door behind me. The way I see it, there’s only one small town closeby - Ambleton, population 4,509 - where he could be going. I don’t know if I can get an Uber out here or not, but it’s worth a shot - if one doesn’t show up, I’ll just give up and go back inside.
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Why are you doing this? I ask myself. Why are you following him?
I don’t have any answer for that. Not yet. It’s what my gut’s telling me to do. A feeling that there are certain things William isn’t telling me. Things he’ll never tell me - that I have to see for myself.
So when the old station wagon pulls in thirty minutes later, I slip inside, ignore the overwhelming smell of motor oil, and buckle up for the ride.
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According to the app, Fred has a 3.5 star rating. Most of the negative reviews are because he never stops talking about politics. Thankfully for me, I’m an expert at drowning people out. He starts droning the instant I’m situated in the back seat. I offer ‘mmmm’s’ and ‘oh yeah’s’ and ‘totally’s’ on cue, and by the time we reach town - which is blessedly only about ten minutes away - I’m pretty sure he thinks we’re the best of friends.
I, on the other hand, remember not a word of what he said.
“You’re a good kid,” he tells me, leaning out the window as I exit the car. “Got a good head on your shoulders.”
I give him a wave. “Yep, thanks Fred. Take care now.”
He drives off, and I find myself standing at the edge of Ambleton’s main street. The buildings are old - like, 1800s refurbished old. I like that about them, if I’m honest. I’ve always been a fan of the embellishments folks used to put on archways and facades. I wonder why we don’t bother to do it anymore. It’s a bit disappointing.
According to my phone, it’s fifteen minutes past eleven o’clock, so the place is deserted save for a couple of bars. I can see the lights are on, though there aren’t many people inside. When I pass by the windows, some of the patrons turn to look at me, but they’re just as quick to dismiss me. I guess that’s the perk of looking like I got dragged through the mud by a cat. There aren’t many perks to that, but hey. Silver linings and all.
Ambleton’s pride and joy is the fact that it has a WalMart. Why is this a point of pride, you ask? I can’t answer you because I don’t know, but it was plastered on the sign when we drove in from the highway. If there’s anywhere William could manage to gather up some supplies, it’ll be there.
But that isn’t where he headed.
It’s weird that I can tell. It was pretty subtle at first - I haven’t tried finding him before, not really. When Mr. Darcy was attacking us I was too frazzled to make any real effort. Now that I’m calm though and I have my wits about me, stretching out my senses isn’t so different from calling up a memory. It’s like I already know where he is, and all I have to do to find out is think about it. I know he’s in Ambleton. I know he headed West. Then I know that he found his way down Smithson Street, making his way towards a cloister of depressing mobile homes behind a crooked fence. The fence itself is corroded, and whatever lock might once have been on the gate has long since fallen off from lack of use.
It’s the typical rust-town look. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
The mobile homes are weather-worn. What ornamentation there is consists of small plastic animals and one very ambitious person who put a tin bird bath in their ‘yard.’ As I wander deeper, I notice dogs chained up near the houses - big dogs, mean-looking things that eye me when I pass by. I’m careful not to get close to any of them. I don’t want them barking and waking anybody up, and I don’t want William to be aware of my presence. I don’t want him to know I’m following him.
He can read your fucking mind, I think. He probably already knows you’re here.
I ignore the thought and take in a deep breath, summoning calm. Hearkening back to a book I once read on meditation, I focus on clearing my thoughts, keeping my head vacant. It’s not easy, but I manage at least passable success. Then I keep walking. I’m close enough now that I’ve narrowed down exactly which house William went into.
I stand there a while, staring at the front door. It’s slightly ajar, the wind playing with it, bumping softly against the door frame. The dog in this yard is greedily chewing on something - a lump of mystery meat. It’s blissfully unaware of the home invader that’s passed inside. I wonder if William gave it the food.
More than that, though, I wonder what the hell William is doing in this house.
When I hear footsteps, my resolve dissolves like sugar in water. I bolt from where I was standing, managing to hide behind some trash cans as William emerges. He stands on the steps for a moment, peering out into the night. He looks different somehow - more alert. More aware. His gaze passes over me, and instead of panicking, I force myself to remain calm, to think of nothing. I sink into blank thoughtlessness and keep my breath even and slow.
He lingers for a moment more. Then he moves down the rest of the steps and begins walking back out of the neighborhood, making his way back to the car.
I don’t know how long I stay there, crouched and quivering. Part of me doesn’t want to go inside. I want to stay blissfully unaware. But ignorance is dangerous, and if I’m going to keep traveling with this guy, I have to know. I have to.
So I creep closer, past the dog, up the stairs, and into the dark interior.
There aren’t any lights on. When I try the switch, the bulb above gives one pathetic flicker and then winks out. I’m standing in what looks like a galley kitchen, dishes piled up so high in the sink they’re making a bid for the ceiling. It reeks in here - smells like body odor, rotting food, and something animal. Something unwashed.
I pull out my phone and flick on the flashlight, struggling to keep my hand from shaking.
What are you even doing? I wonder. Seriously, Lydia. What if the folks that live here wake up, find you skulking about? You think getting locked up is a good idea right now?
I ignore those thoughts and keep moving deeper. I find the living room next - just a couch and some plastic chairs. The place doesn’t really look lived in outside of the kitchen. I get the distinct impression that whoever’s here wasn’t planning to linger long.
There’s a form on the couch, and my breath catches. A man, his face turned away from my light, one arm flung over his head. I stare at him for a moment, waiting. Watching.
He isn’t breathing.
Shaking violently now, I take a step closer, trying to be sure. When I do, my light better illuminates his body. The flesh on his arm is gray-looking, brittle, like that of an old man. I angle the light better so I can get a look at his face.
His eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. His lips, dry and withered, have retracted back from his teeth as if he’s giving a terrible smile. The hair on his head is stark white. He looks old. More than old, he looks dessicated. Mummified.
Bile burns its way up my throat. I fight the urge to vomit, turning away from him, my heart pounding in my chest.
Do you not understand what I am?
A demon. I’m traveling with a fucking demon, and I never thought to ask any questions. I didn’t even fucking pull up a search engine and look for keywords. I just went with him. I just decided it would be a grand idea to trust him, to follow him around like a lost puppy-dog hoping for a treat.
You need to feed.
I hear movement coming from a room deeper in the house. I freeze, stomach churning, eyes wide. Did he leave a survivor? I shouldn’t go further. I should turn around and get the hell out of here, now.
But what if he hurt them? I can’t just leave them here, alone, knowing they could be in trouble.
Steeling myself, I slip further inside, through another doorway, the light in my hand vacillating with every tremble of my fingers.
There’s another body in this room. It’s propped up in a bed, staring right at me when I walk in. I can’t help the gasp that escapes me. He’s just like the other one: dried up and ancient-looking. The look on his face is trapped eternally in an expression of horror. One of his hands is still clutching the comforter beneath him, locked in place, and I can see tendons poking out between his frail bones.
“He killed them.”
I jump. The voice is soft, rasping. I swing myself to the left, heart lodged in my throat. There’s a woman standing there - a girl, really. She can’t be much older than me. She’s staring at the dead man on the bed, her lips parted. She says it again, and I can’t get any emotion out of her words. They’re mechanical, repeating over and over like she’s trying to come to grips with reality.
“He killed them. He killed them. He killed them.”
She looks up at me then, though I get the feeling she’s staring right through me. She’s rail-thin, and I can see lines of needle tracks along her bare arms where they poke out of her tanktop. There are tears on her cheeks, and when she breathes, I see it quiver in her chest.
“They’re dead,” she whispers. The words are almost…reverent.
She moves without warning. I’m in the middle of reaching out towards her - of coming up with something to say - but she’s already sprinting towards me. There’s a wild look in her eyes, one of desperation. I want to ask her what she saw, I want to ask her what happened. I know I should get her to a hospital, get her some help. But I don’t get the chance to make good on any of that before she’s barreling through me, shoving me to the side and into the doorframe. Hard. I slam into the wood, swearing under my breath as she surges past. I whirl, the room blurring, the light on my phone tracing her movement.
“No!” I cry. “Wait, wait! I can help you! I can…”
By the time I reach the door, she’s already made it halfway out of the neighborhood, booking it towards the fence. I chase after her, trying to catch up, but she’s faster than me. She’s got panic on her side, sheer, raw desperation, and all I’ve got is wet shoes and blisters.
I run until I can’t anymore, collapsing to my knees in the middle of the sidewalk as she disappears from sight around a corner. My chest is heaving, and I realize at some point I’ve started crying. I’m horrified. My thoughts scramble to piece it all together, to come to grips with it. William drains people. He drains them for sustenance. He could kill me at any moment, whenever he wants, with nothing but a touch.
What’s worse than that, though, is knowing how utterly stupid I am for not realizing it.
I stay there for a while, on my knees, crying. I want to call my mom. I want her to come pick me up, like I’m some kind of child. But she’s never been the sort to do that kind of thing - not when I was young, and definitely not now. She’d probably assume I was on drugs. As I crouch there, staring at my phone, I’m hit with the thought that there really isn’t anybody I can call. No friends, no family. Nothing. I’ve never felt so utterly and hopelessly alone.
In the end, I force myself to climb to my feet. I need to take it one thing at a time. I need to get some food in me, calories to help me think. Come up with a plan. I can take it from there.
Shuffling, frigid and frightened, I begin trekking back towards main street, the tears on my face growing cold against my skin.