I’m wandering the upstairs hallway of this old hotel, wondering what stories lie buried in its now abandoned rooms. It was once a thriving establishment, catering to travelers on paddlewheel boats wending their way up and down the mighty Mississippi River. It’s my dwelling now, just me and my cat, Snowball. Each room is fully furnished, mostly with Victorian-era chairs, beds, bedside tables and light fixtures (bulbs long since burned out). The doors creak. Cobwebs are everywhere. I turn on my flashlight and brush my way into the first room. It feels like Friday the 13th but it’s really just All Hallows’ Eve.
sounds of laughter
fading . . .
dust in the moonlight
The four-poster bed is all made up, waiting for the next guest to arrive. An unopened Bible sits on the nightstand. I imagine a pious man kneeling to say his evening prayers. The space smells old. The memories feel even older.
Snowball startles me as he jumps onto the bed, stirring up a thick cloud of dust. Wheezing, I back myself out of the room, leaving him to explore on his own. The next room is much the same, abandoned in a state of readiness.
shadows falling . . .
I follow a breeze
through the grass
In the third room, I find an old Victrola standing in the corner. Lying next to it is a stack of 78 rpm records. I flip through a few of them. I’ve never heard of the artists—Cleo Brown, Memphis Minnie, Eva Parker Pace—but still, I can feel their music seeping through the pores of the pealing papered walls.
The last room on the right is locked so I turn back down the hall. As I look for Snowball in the first room, I see something under the edge of the bed. I take a closer look. It’s a box of rat poison. I leave it there and close the door behind me.
Finally, the trick-or-treaters have come and gone. I search the place for Snowball and sure enough, I’ve found him, lying limp in a pool of vomit, here on the bathroom floor.
curiosity . . .
the ghosts in the attic
are playing for keeps
First published in Scryptic, November 2018
