home and would never be at peace."
I laughed, "That bum was really perturbed the fisherman warned us off wasn't he? Amazing, some of the weird things we've experienced isn't it? Cursed souls ... zombie conch meat. Yummie! Think of that next time you chow down on one of those greasy fritters. Zombie souls, u'mm, so good." My wittiness was rewarded by another, 'You idiot' stare from Joyce.
The Las Palmas motel looked just the same as it always had: a squared pattern consisting of thirty, vintage 1950's era units which enclosed a botanical garden and a strip of ten more, older units - the motel's first built which lined the far side of the parking lot.
Inside the manager's office: "Carlos, my friend, you're still here? You look well," extending my hand and receiving his handshake in return.
"Gracias and thank you, senor. It's been a while since I see you. Como esta? Y, Senora?" to Joyce. She nodded, a "Hello," in return.
"Bien, Carlos, bien," using my limited, high school Spanish. Y su esposa, Yolanda?"
"Bueno," he beamed, pleased I had remembered his wife's name and asked about her.
The pleasantries aside I asked, "So how about a room, amigo? Just one night this time. Cold beer, shrimp pasta, a run in the morning then back to the polluted northland."
"Ah, sorry, amigo, no room. All filled up," he dead-panned - except he was not joking.
"What?" I scanned the smoldering parking lot from the office window: no cars, nary a one.
"Convention in town," he explained.
"Convention of what? Vampires? There are no cars. Did they fly in as bats?"
"Vampires, bats? Er, I think, no." He appeared pensive, as if he were really mulling over the idea. Finally he said, "Everyone went to the high school auditorium. Mel Fisher, the deep-sea salvager, he make a new sunken treasure display today. Grand opening, first day. National news!" He raised his palms outward, "That, and the holiday weekend ..."
"I told you we should have called ..."
I glared at Joyce. "That horse is extremely dead, thank you very much."
I turned my attention back to Carlos. "Would you happen to know of another place we may find a room? Something we can afford? The hotels on Duval Street want blood or body parts."
He stared at the counter top, "No, sorry, senor. All the same."
"Boy, this is turning into a real crock." I pressed, "Come on, amigo. Are you sure you don't have a room ... to be cleaned or refurbished? We're not picky."
He glanced up, then looked across the parking lot at the old units 1 through 10. I spied a single key hanging behind him. It was marked #8.
"How about number Eight? Is it vacant?" He twitched as if he'd been pinched on the arse.
"Eight, oh. Vacant? Er, yes, it's vacant."
"Well! How about it, Carlos?" I challenged. "Old friends here!"
"We no rent that unit. We save it for an 'emergency'."
"An emergency?" I barked. Was I being insulted? "In case the President drops by? Got news for you; he ain't coming!" I was more than a little peeved. "So is it clean or what?" I didn't wait for the answer. "We're not driving back to Miami. We'll take it!"
Yolanda was carrying room supplies and watching us from the courtyard. She waved to Joyce then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her husband reach for #8. Her hand went to her mouth. She dropped her basket - a dozen little bars of soap and plastic bottles scattered across the cobble-stoned walkway. She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross.
Carlos reluctantly removed the key from its hook. He placed it gingerly on the counter. "You look first at room, si?"
Reaching for my wallet, "I said, we'd take it."
"No!" his hand moved swiftly to cover the key. "You look first!"
"Ooo-kay, Carlos, whatever." I snatched up the disputed key. "C'mon, Joyce. Let's go 'take a look'." As we left I mumbled, "Be back shortly," while giving him the, 'You're wasting my time' scowl.
Irritated, I quick-stepped it across the burning asphalt then paused and waited for her to catch up. "Sorry," I apologized. "I believe my patience is running a bit thin about now."
"It's all right, John. Let's get this done and settled in. I'm getting tired."
"Right," I agreed. "Number Eight, we are here. Prepare to be boarded." As I slid the key in the lock, I noticed the air conditioner wasn't running. It hadn't been for a while; there wasn't a condensation drip puddle below it like the other nine units. "Just great, it's gonna be hot as a pistol in there." The brilliant and analytical part of me declared, "We'll turn on the a/c then go sight-seeing. It'll be fine when we return."
The door, with a little push, creaked open. I flicked on the light switch as we stepped in - nothing came on. Typical. Either no bulbs or old, faulty electrical wiring. "Swell."
It was cold. Not cool, cold. "What the? How come it's so cold?" I commented. We took a few more steps.
Joyce shivered, "Brrr ... it's freezing!" as she rubbed her bare arms.
"I doubt that." Being a technician by profession, I reasoned, "Maybe it's sixty degrees. But to tell you the truth it's probably just the shock of coming in from such intense heat." Underneath, neither of us really bought that idea.
What struck me right off was it felt different from just being cold. It felt like a tomb. It was dank and soundless with no circulation.
"I have goose bumps already," said Joyce.
"Yeah, I can believe it." As we shuffled to the center of the room the hairs on my arms rose. "Static electricity," I stated. "They must have a new carpet." It was old and worn thin. "Kinda dark in here isn't it? Ah, well you know, these low budget operations ... always trying to save a buck." I went to the picture window and drew back the heavy, insulated drapes then closed the front door.
The sunlight revealed the typical motel room of yesteryear: a single standard, double bed, a dresser at its foot, a night-stand on either side and a closet-sized bathroom with a small vanity before its entranceway.
"Still not very bright in here is it?" I remarked. The sun was striking directly on the glass. We should have needed sunglasses except for the fact the light seemed to die after passing a few feet inside. It was as if it were being snuffed out. "Must be smoked glass," I reasoned. It was clear. Joyce pulled her arms across her chest; her eyes darted about the room. "I'll turn on the vanity lamps. 'Pop' the single bulb in a row of four flashed dead. "Humph, figures. I'll tell Carlos to get some decent ..." as I turned back to her. She hadn't moved an inch. She stood as a pillar of stone - except for the eyes. They were very large and straining to see into every corner and crevice. She couldn't distinguish anything. "Are you all right?" I asked. No response.
What was that? Did I detect a slight movement on the ceiling? Was it something passing by outside and throwing a shadow? I glanced at the parking lot - nothing moving. I knew Joyce saw it too. "Probably a lizard. I'll ask Carlos to shoo it out." I stared hard at a corner where I felt certain the critter had to be hiding, but I sure wasn't about to brush my hand against the wall to find out. Hell, it could have been a scorpion! As hard as I tried, I couldn't penetrate the darkened haze. "The light's playing tricks," I whispered, trying not to disturb the unknown. The shadows deepened ... it was as if we were developing tunnel vision.
The vanity mirror behind me slowly turned opaque as if a breeze of hot air had whisked across it. A trickle of water formed - resembling a stream of teardrops. Suddenly, a faint noise crept though the room, very faint but clear. It wasn't music. It sounded like a high-pitched wail from far away. I cocked my head to hear better while keeping my eyes glued on the mirror - half expecting to see a face materialize as in a horror movie. I then sensed an unseen presence. Someone was watching us. I felt as if I were breathing in a vacuum. I kept taking deeper and deeper breaths without fulfillment. The wailing became louder. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The presence loomed all around us - an arm's length way. Behind - above! "Oh, God ..." A face began to form in the mirror.
"John, John! It's a ghost!" Joyce screeched. "Someone died in here!
"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Wha, who?" I croaked. Joyce bolted for the door, ripped it open and dashed into the parking lot. I was right on her heels! "How ... how do you know it's a ghost?"
"I know." I believed her.
She headed for the office but then with a quick jerk took a sharp turn toward our car. "I'm outta of here! I'm not staying in this town another instant." I caught up. "Don't say a frig'ing word, John. I'm going home, stay if you want." Man, she was really ripped.
We talked a few minutes and she calmed down ... some.
"Okay, we'll go but I have to turn in this key first," waving it to emphasize my point. Leading her slowly with my arm around her shoulder, "Just stand over here in the shade of this palm tree. It's too hot to wait in the car. I'll only be a minute. Okay?"
Silently, she simmered but stood stoic in her assigned place with her back to unit Eight.
"Yes, sir, gotta turn in this puppy and find out what spooked Joyce, and me," I said to myself as I hustled toward the office.
I leaned on the counter and tried to look casual and tossed the key down. I gave Carlos a long, hard look. He appeared rather uncomfortable. "So, no vampires ... just ghosts, hey amigo?" I saw immediately he knew exactly what I was talking about. He didn't try to deny it, too much.
"Ah, ghosts?"
"Yeah, a ghost. It scared the poopy outta my wife."
"Is she all right?"
"More or less. What's up, Carlos? Did someone actually die in number Eight like Joyce