BEGINNINGS (excerpt)
by Timothy Heins
Up close, the exterior of the building was about what I imagined. Chipped white paint on hundred-year-old boards with gray or dark blue window trim. Staring at the front door, I felt like Don Knotts in The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. The pack dad gave me included a set of keys, so I pulled them out, found one that fit, unlocked the door to my new home and stepped out of the world I knew.
* *
Like something out of the Great Gatsby, an elegant, crystal chandelier nested in the center of a massive dome bathing a pristine foyer in a bright, yellow wash of light. Marble floors and countertops adorned the lobby, and a wide staircase with polished wood banisters and brass trim climbed at least five floors. I remember visiting a friend of dad’s once who was staying at the Waldorf Astoria. It looked a lot like this. But the total impact was like stepping into Dr. Who’s TARDIS. I was about to go back outside to make sure I’d come to the right place when a woman stopped me. She was standing behind a counter on the far side of the lobby and was dressed in a fashionable power suit.
“Welcome Ethen,” she said. “Your suite is up the stairs on the third floor.”
“Third floor?”
Before she could respond to my question, a tall, thin, elderly man appeared from somewhere behind me and the woman nodded in his direction. “Preston will take your bags up for you. My name is Stephanie, and if you’ll come with me, I’ll give you a tour of the building. After that, Liza will have some refreshments for you.”
I liked the sound of refreshments. I was as hungry as I was confused with a growing suspicion that uber driver had filled the back half of her car with hallucinogenic gas. Two realities clashed and I could not reconcile them. The title deed said I’d inherited an old house. The history hinted at different stages of construction and use, but none of it suggested a functioning hotel. Yet here it was.
Stephany led me through a maze of hallways, utility rooms and common areas for guests. When we finished and were headed back toward the lobby I asked, “Why is there a locked gate at the end of the driveway?”
“I don’t know anything about a gate,” she said. “But many of our guests have commented on how difficult it is to find us.”
“How often do you have guests?”
“Depends on the season. You’re our only one tonight. We’re otherwise vacant so you can get oriented.”
“I’m confused. You welcomed me by name so you must know who I am.”
“Of course. You’re the new owner of Mist Hotel,” she said.
“You just said I was a guest.”
She stopped and turned to me with a puzzled expression. “Do you expect to outlive the property?”