Bedspread Sizes, Oversized Bedspreads, Bedspread Styles

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Xant found himself holding on for dear life, his body crammed into a vehicle it clearly wasn’t designed for. His tail was squished between the tall seat and the frame of the machine, his legs too far apart for them to sit comfortably in the narrow footwell, so he was almost sideways in the forward-facing seat, but that also gave him a clear view of its pilot’s insane method of ‘driving’ the shaking contraption.
Jasmine didn’t even need to look where her feet and hands were going, moving them simultaneously to shift in and out of gear by instinct, all the while singing harsh, deep-throated songs at the top of her lungs.
Xant had been observing the human since her revival, and while she had had her ‘aggressive’ outbursts, brought on through stress and despair respectively, to see her exercise such aggression was fascinating. She was entranced, focused on some unknown ‘enemy’ and screaming her pent up emotions at ‘it’. Xant had never seen such emotional power simply blasted into the atmosphere without worry or consequence, but he couldn’t deny he was caught up in the triumph and relief the song gave her.
With practised ease, Jasmine stopped the car at the base of the enormous craft, then gleefully jumped out to climb atop the roof again. “Up here, Xant!” she called.
The doctor squirmed his way out of the car and stood on the ground, looking up at the human. She pointed to a small thin ladder welded to the side of the ship’s stern. “We need to climb that to get on board.”
Xant stared at her and then at the wide jump needed to cover that distance.
“Is this another attempt at humour?” The human did laugh, so he supposed he was right.
“Well, we could always wait for Rynard to throw you!” She smiled, making a hand motion of hefting a ball. “Like tossing a dwarf!” She giggled.
Xant for the first time questioned Jasmine’s intelligence.
“Perhaps we left you in stasis too long…”
He quickly examined the gap. It was going to be an extraordinary effort for him to climb atop the vehicle, let alone cross the divide with his physical ability alone. He tried to mimic Jasmine’s method of climbing on the car, but his hands and feet were not able to find the small gaps her narrower ones could find. In the end she had to pull him up, and felt the roof bow with his weight. From up top the distance to the ladder seemed even greater. “How exactly do you propose we climb the ladder from here?” he asked her, but Jasmine was still riding the exhilarating high of being ‘thunderstruck’.
“Like this!”
Without so much as a run-up Jasmine leapt towards the ladder and landed with precision, her elongated limbs showing an agility Xant had not considered during the physical examination. “Let me reframe the question,” he huffed. “How exactly do you expect me to climb the ladder from here?!” “Oh it’s not that far, it’s barely a jump!”
“Zenthi don’t ‘jump’.” “That offer for Rynard to throw you is still on the table.” Xant scoffed, took a deep breath and rationalised the situation.
He was in a military-grade suit, so while his weight and aerodynamics would be affected, his strength was increased and any fall damage negated through the armour and pain blocker chems. So, even if he fell, the only thing that would suffer would be his pride. Another uncomfortable thought peeked through the rationale.
He said he wanted to follow Jasmine. This would mean having to keep up with her. He couldn’t do that if he forever deliberated his shortcomings.
Xant inched closer to the edge of the car and Jasmine helpfully reached out to him, hanging precariously from the metal bars. “I’ll catch you!” She encouraged him. Her arms closing the distance boosted his confidence considerably, and he swayed his body back and forth, ready to leap. This would count as the most adventurous he had been in the steel suit, forever wary of Rynard’s warning of torn ligaments. Xant closed his eyes and pushed himself forward, the suit multiplying the force needed to get him across and almost smashing into the side of the yacht. Thankfully, Jasmine was able to correct her friend’s trajectory and guided his hands to the ladder’s sides, which he clung to for dear life. Jasmine gave a loud cheer. “You did it! Way to go, Xant!” And she patted his shoulder. “Now we just have to get to the top! Did you want to go first?”
Once again, he looked at the human as though she were lacking in common sense.
“How do I ‘go first’? You’re clearly ahead of me!” Jasmine could only smile as she maneuvered so only one hand and arm were on the ladder, her body swaying in the open air, unafraid of the drop below. “There you go! Now you’re clear. I’ll make sure you don’t fall!”
Xant shuddered, flattened his ears and forced himself to climb up the ladder. He could almost feel the thin aluminum bars being crushed under the strength of the suit, but one step at a time he climbed higher. The top was open, no hatch or easy step, so he had to scramble his way over and landed with a thud. By comparison, he heard Jasmine’s light footsteps make quick work of the ladder, and she was soon helping him up to his feet. “Careful,” she teased “you’ll scuff the deck!” “Scuff the what?...” “Take off your helmet, you’ll see things clearer!”
Warily, Xant let the locks of his helmet click and examined his surroundings. It was an ‘open air room’, the floor layered like in his office, multiple steps divided for different purposes, with a deep pit made of what looked like blue plastic as the focal point of the main room. Jasmine threw her arms open. “Welcome aboard, matey!” she announced. “Enjoy the pool deck!” “Pool? Was this filled with water-” Xant took a step closer but his ears were tickled by the sound underfoot. He had assumed the floor would have been of the same steel or plastics the ship was composed of but no, underneath him, the entire floor was made of wood. The doctor spluttered, reaching down to the floor to feel it. There was more wood here than he had seen in his entire lifetime, and humans used it for *flooring. *
“Ooh yeah, nothing beats a pristine hardwood deck, that’s why I told you not to scuff it.” Jasmine smiled, walking towards the glass doors. “Let’s check inside! I wonder if everything is still here?” Xant followed her. The whole building catered to a human’s sensibilities. He would be stepping into a truly alien environment.
And it was beautiful.
He was welcomed to a room detailed with wood and gold, whose glass windows shimmered even in the dim light. Displaced furniture, long couches and tables made of wood, extravagantly painted cloth with the shimmer of arvas pupa silk gathered dust, their beauty was comparable to imperial belongings. He ran a finger over the cushions and inspected the thin layer. “Phew! What a mess. Help me clean it up a bit…” Jasmine began lifting up an over turned chair, sliding it into a corner with an almost innate knowledge of where everything should go. The chairs, a long couch and two armchairs had all been pushed into the corner of the room the tables had slid to either end. Xant was almost too scared to touch anything. “What should I do?” he asked, afraid to risk any delicate work.
“We’ll start by dusting off the chairs, then I’ll tell you where they go, okay?”
“Alright...”
The chairs were covered in a soft cushiony material. Xant couldn't stop brushing his hand over them as he delicately placed the furniture, and was dismayed when he saw none of them had a hole for his tail.
“I’ll need help with this!” Jasmine called. The space beneath a large window was taken up by a long lounge, on which Jasmine promptly plonked herself. “Oh my god…I missed cushions.” She patted the space beside her. “Don't be shy! Take a load off!” “Just a moment.” Xant tapped his suit. He couldn't contain himself in steel any longer, the temptation to feel his new environment was too great. The suit splayed open and he was able to step out of it onto fluffy, soft carpet.
Xant lost himself rubbing his feet on the soft fibers. First wood, now fabric? It was obscene!
His own carpet was a precious momento, why would humans consider a laborious resource worth turning into a construction material?
“Is something wrong, Xant?”
“The floor, is this a common fixture?”
“The carpet? I mean, the owner was a madman to have white carpet on a boat, but if you can afford something like this you’re not cleaning it yourself.” Jasmine shrugged. “Carpet’s not uncommon, but generally going out of style because it's so hard to keep clean.”
Xant was both relieved and perplexed by the answer.
“So the reason it is not more common is maintenance?”
“Yeah, keeping carpet, let alone white carpet clean is a nightmare,” Jasmine explained, happy to be talking about the mundanity. “If you think the carpet is amazing you should try out the couch here!” Xant looked over the seat. It appeared all human furniture had a tall back support, with no consideration for large tails such as his own. He did spy a more accommodating stool, however, with the same cushiony substance on top.
“I think this might be more appropriate.” He flipped over the stool and sat, comfortably, very comfortably. He let his body relax as he took in more of the surroundings through naked eyes. There were still so many things thrown about. Cleaning against the wall next to his seat Xant spied an intricately carved container. It was rectangular, heavy and for whatever reason, had uniform, pyramid-shaped protrusions on the outside decorative surely, but the design made it difficult for him to hold. He had to be very careful picking it up.
Jasmine's eyes lit up when he inspected the object more closely, opening the stopper to sniff the contents within.
It smelled of disinfectant.
“Oh my god, yes!”
The human scrambled off the couch and started rummaging through the shelves in the lonely island bench.
“Jasmine?”
“Ah ha!” she cried triumphantly, pulling out another uniquely shaped bottle. “Now this is going to be great!” She skipped over to Xant, picking up more glass rectangles, handed him an empty one and placed his original find on the table. She poured out an amber liquid, a drop in his glass and a more substantial pour in hers.
“What is it?” Xant asked.
“Old enough to vote,” she giggled, then closed her eyes and took a small sip before exhaling and shivering pleasantly. “This is...well, I'm guessing it's older now, but aged whisky, a.k.a, human alcohol.”
Xant wrinkled up his nose.
“Is it supposed to be this colour?”
“Yes! When you drink it, you can taste the oak barrels and honey. But I know you guys use this for disinfectant, so, you get a drop if you're brave.”
“Considering what it does to your physiology, I doubt my own constitution can handle it.”
“Shame.” She shrugged and took another sip.
Xant couldn't taste it, but watched as Jasmine melted into relaxation.
“Ahhh, like drinking warm silk,” she described.
He took a sniff of the sample she gave him.
It was woody and sweet, but the second sniff burnt the inside of his nostrils. Xant graciously placed the ‘drink’ down, while Jasmine chuckled at his reaction.
“Yeah it’s not a drink for a first timer, I think it gets even more potent the longer it sits… and who knows how long we were floating out there.”
“By my best estimates, it could be anywhere between 10 to 1000 [quarters]. Calculating in the unexplored regions of the system, what is currently reachable by galactic council gates and the limit of stasis pods.” Xant informed her.
Jasmine sat quietly for a moment, staring into her glass, before she threw back her head and the drink in one go.
“Whoooo!” She coughed. “Okay, we've seen this room, what else is there to explore!” She swayed getting to her feet, but charged forward anyway. Xant followed close behind, in case she lost her footing, or incase the alcohol began interfering with her Freq control.
The hallways connecting the chambers were very narrow, almost too narrow for him, and all of them had such sharp ascents and descents. The human led inside to one of the many inner chambers, each one as tossed around as the last. There was an entire ‘library’ of paper books, another room dedicated to the act of ‘entertaining’, featuring a destroyed dataslate the size of an operating table, and smaller ‘bedrooms’ that appeared just to be filled with more cushiony furniture.
“And here is the master bedroom.” Jasmine pushed open the ornate wooden doors to reveal yet another spectacular room, almost as large as the entertainment deck, but was sparsely furnished, all Xant could see was that it contained a bed with tables either side, but the bed was nothing short of magnificent. The tapestry stretched across it was nothing short of breathtaking, where giant intertwining flowers embroidered with gold thread sprawled across its majesty. He’d never seen anything as intricate made from pure cloth, the designs were simply beautiful.
“You really like that bedspread, huh?” Jasmine questioned. Xant ran his hand over the quilt, picking it up and feeling the weight of it, wondering what it was like to not be mesmerised by it all.
“Are humans always surrounded by such beauty?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard, and she looked around the room.
“Not always, but, at the same time, this is closer to what it’s like on earth than either the station or the base.” She held her arms wide as she took lazy steps across the room.
“Windows, pictures and paint on the walls, bedsheets and pillows...we like ‘beautiful’ surroundings.” She fell backward onto the large bed, rolling on the blankets and looking up at Xant. “You’ve got no excuse not to feel what the bed is like.”
Xant sighed, took a deep breath and mimicked Jasmine’s actions, letting himself flop forward onto the bed.
It was fluffy and soft.
“I think the sheet’s a genuine 1000 thread count too. Maybe I could make a proper cape out of this, huh?”
“It is absolutely fascinating that humans sleep on such luxury.”
“The lucky ones sleep on such luxury! But I do appreciate bedsheets after going without for so long.”
Her attention was shortening by the moment, as she rolled off the most comfortable place in existence to peek around a door.
“The ensuite!!” she squealed. “Oh Xant, you have to see what a real bathroom looks like!”
If the master bedroom was the most comfortable place in the world, then the ensuite was the most ornate. Xant couldn’t even identify what half the items were in the room, but they apparently all pertained to the simple act of grooming.
Long, wide mirrors lined one entire side of the room, double marble basins and chrome taps sat beneath them. Frosted glass windows, a bath big enough to fit four and a bidet decorated with gold made up the rest of the fixtures. Jasmine once again began rummaging through the shelves, making happy noises with every new discovery.
“Xant, hold out your hand!”
The doctor reluctantly did so, and Jasmine placed a small white blob in it. “Smell it!!” she insisted, fever in her eyes.
He took a quick and wary sniff, but the burning sensation he expected never came.
A fresh and vibrant perfume filled his senses, a sweetness he’d never known.
“It's jasmine hand cream! This is what my namesake smells like!” She dotted her entire arms with the cream and rubbed it into her skin.
“A moisturizer?”
“Yes! And here’s shampoo and conditioner, for hair, moisturizer, face cream, body wash, exfoliant, oh god please, oh please let the water be running!”
She dived for the taps to the bath, wrenching the handle as hard and as fast as it would go, but to no avail.
“Noooo,” she sobbed, hanging her head. “S’pose it was too good to be true, the water in the tanks would be dry…”
Xant curiously looked over the bathtub and jasmine could feel his freq overflowing with curiosity.
“So humans clean themselves in still water?”
“Well, soaking in the tub is fun, it's not exclusively how we clean ourselves, the shower is better for that.”
“So what is the difference between a human shower and our own?”
Jasmine pulled a disgruntled face.
“It’s the difference between a warm gentle rain and a cold pressure hose!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I wonder if we could get it running again…?” She absent mindedly lifted up a wicker basket, finding a few clothes the previous owners had left behind. “So, what do you think?” she asked, lifting a floral summer dress up over her figure.
“The patterns are beautiful, but, is it a cape?”
“No, it’s a dress! Hmmm, but I’d have to lose a few kilos for it to fit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I’m a little bit bigger than the supermodel who stayed on this boat, but nothing a few weeks of exercise and diet couldn’t fix. Since there’s no junk food I really don’t have the excuse.”
“Are you not already in optimal condition?”
“Pfffft! No, god no.” She pulled at her stomach fat playfully. “Too much good food and junk food makes for chunky humans.”
“Junk food?”
Jasmine grinned ear to ear.
“Junk food, food that holds almost no nutritional value but is all about taste, glorious morsels of sugar, salt and colour dye.”
“There’s a chance sugar could be found aboard this vessel? We’d need to destroy it if there is any intact, its addictive nature can destroy a Sulins inhibition perminately.”
“Well if it’s going to be anywhere on the ship, it’ll be in the kitchen!”
They headed down to the bottom decks and stepped into a stainless steel wonderland. Jasmine was in her element, running her hand over the many pieces of specialised equipment as Xant watched on in wonder.
They found a perfectly polished kitchen, filled to the brim with human utensils, and all of it for the sole use of producing food. Jasmine lifted a book from the floor and brought it over to Xant.
“Here, this is what human food is supposed to look like.”
The graphical fidelity of the pictures was phenomenal, given that they weren’t on a computer screen, but the colours and shapes didn’t even seem similar to what he knew as ‘food’. He had seen sculptures that didn’t have dimensions nearly as interesting as those of the consumables depicted, and there was page after page of them, dish after dish, each one a work of art.
She showed him the variety of knives on display and the stupid amount of cutlery for eating said food. This was an entire industry to these people, the production and skill devoted to it was…
Garish.
Jasmine stood before a giant set of doors, her hands hovering over the handles.
“This is a refrigerator, we keep perishable goods inside… I wonder if anything is still…”
She jerked open the doors and they were both greeted with the foulest stench. The rotting and liquefied remains of meat and vegetables slopped onto the floor. Sealed inside the fridge, the smell had fermented to overpowering levels.
“Air!” Jasmine shouted as she scrambled past Xant. “I need air!”
They ran up several stairs to escape the toxic gas and were able to breathe a sigh of relief once above deck. They appeared to have come out the other side, more couches and pools littering the area Jasmine made her way across to get to the bow of the ship.
She walked to its peak, then climbed over the safety railing to hold the spearhead.
Puffing out her chest and throwing her arms open, she proclaimed for the entire engineering wing to hear,
“I’M ON A BOAT, I’M ON A BOAT! TAKE A GOOD HARD LOOK AT THE MOTHER FUCKING BOAT!”
An echo of uproarious laughter soon followed suit, a joke Xant wasn’t privy to, then Jasmine climbed back to join him.
“You know, I think I’m done for the moment. I need a break from all this excitement…”
She flopped herself down on one of the sunbeds, and Xant stood over her.
“Jasmine, I’ve been meaning to ask...”
“Go ahead?”
“All of this, it’s wonderful, but it’s nothing like the memory you shared with me. All this is pure opulence. Your memory was far more humble and comforting…”
“Well, that’s because this is a superyacht, and not a lower-income one bedroom apartment…” The human shrugged.
“So, what measure of wealth allows people to live such drastically different lives?”
“... I, dunno know, they're mostly owners of companies, corporations, kings, queens, people who run economies…”
“What expertise defines their worth to be that much more than yours?” Xant asked pointedly.
Jasmine faltered for an answer. While she could throw around words like investment portfolios and trust funds, she didn't actually understand the system as well as she would have liked.
“They study finance, have rich parents, inherited gold mines…luck, I guess? There’s many different ways to get there.”
“So, every human has the chance to attain this level of contribution credit?”
“No…”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Xant remarked, finally lying down beside her. Jasmine stared up at the steel enclosed ceiling, reflecting.
“No it’s not, but it’s getting better,” she replied. “Slowly but surely, it's getting better.”
 
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Dressing up the bed is as simple as layering a fine quality linen bed spread topped with a fluffy duvet and throw but it’s easier said than done. Bed Covers or sheets should be inviting, cozy, breathable, aesthetically pleasing but most importantly they should perfectly fit the mattress. Bedspreads or bed covers are supposed to glide over the bedroom floor, concealing the mattress and sides of the bed completely but not brushing down to the floor. One of my biggest fears or you can also say my biggest pet peeve while buying a bedspread is that what if it doesn’t fit perfectly on my mattress? What if it doesn’t flawlessly hang from the side of the mattress? What if it is too short that it almost makes the bed naked?
All these fears made me wonder that there might be other people out there who have the same doubts while buying bedspreads and I decided to write this blog to make this journey easy for all of you. Writing this blog with my own experience I assure you, this won’t be that typical humdrum article that’s far from reality. Buying the perfect bed skirt queen, comforter or bedspread is going to be hard as unlike mattresses in the USA which are made on standard size, comforters and bedspreads aren’t. Some manufacturers do make their bedspreads and comforters in the standard size but others take the liberty to diversify making it hard for the customers to choose the perfect one.
Mattresses today are made with so much in mind, some prefer thick and luxurious, some like firm and sturdy and some want to stick to the old school style. All this diversification in mattresses has made the sizing of bedspreads a truly daunting task for the manufactures and selecting the right size is vexing for the final consumer. Most commonly people buy too short bedspread queen as they think that double full and queen are interchangeable, when they aren’t. Same mix up can take place in the case of bed skirt queen, the standard size for it is 14-15 inches but it can go up to 22 inches. Down below i have mentioned some bedspread or comforter sizes of different styles which can be a good starting point for selecting the correct size.
These sizes are standard guidelines for bedspreads; manufacturers are guilty of adding or shedding a few extra inches from these standard sizes, creating a ton of confusion for the customers.
Select the Right Sized Bedding in Coherence with the Mattress
Bedspreads, duvets, comforters and bed skirts sizes vary from brand to brand so to buy the perfect fit one needs to do some prep and research before buying one. Initiating from the standard size categories can be the most sensible thing to do. I will also recommend checking the dimensions on the labels and comparing them with the measurements of your mattress. Now this is where your prep and research comes in handy, when you know the right size of your mattress then buying the right size bedding will be a piece of cake. If you are totally oblivious to all this then you’ll most probably end up with wrong size bedding, which will make you cringe every time you spread it on the mattress.
If your mattress is on the thicker or fluffier side than you should be choosing the bedding on the top range of the dimension table or if you’re getting serious doubts I suggest moving on to the next size up as a tad bit long is still better than a shorter one, right? Bedspread queen or bed skirts queen are the hardest to nail as many manufacturers tend to mix up this size with the full/ double ones claiming them to be fit for both sizes. But in the real world placing queen size bedding on your full-sized bed will make the bedspread brush the floor. Likewise, placing full-double bedding on the queen sized bed means the bedding will not cover the sides. To solve this problem I recommend you to either shop for the queen sized bedding specifically or look for dimension 86-88 inches rather than 84 inches.
Take the Mattress Thickness into Account
The thickness of the mattress is very important when aiming for the right sized bedding. The standard mattress size in terms of thickness or the height is 9-12 inches but anything less than 12 inches fits well with the dimension chart mentioned above. If your mattress is less than 9 inches you can get away with small range bedding. The newer, fluffier, bouncier and pillow-mattress can go as deep as 14-20 inches, if you have a mattress like that then opt for the top ranges or select the bedding labeled “oversized”. The best way to determine the size of the bedspread in relation to your mattress is to simply measure your mattress from the top till the foot of the bed. Take the top measurements and add the thickness into the length and each side of the comforter measurements. There you have the dimensions of the perfectly draping bedding that fall to the sides of the bed but don’t fall on the floor.
Conclusion
Count me in if you think that is too much work for just a bedding but trust me, you want to make that effort. Your bed room will look visually appealing, aesthetically pleasing and most of all very inviting after a tiring day, when your bedding and mattress are in harmony with each other. If your bedding or comforter is too short, a tug-of-war at night is what awaits you and if it’s the other way around then the corners brushing the floor will get dirty and also all the beautiful bed skirts you have placed can also be hidden under it. Follow these simple steps to ensure an alignment in your bedding and mattress.

I'm stuck here, in room 1290, with a corpse and that—thing—waiting for me. I think I'd even face Stern again, to escape the Hotel.
But Stern's surely happy I'm trapped—may have helped bring me back. God knows I never wanted to see this room again. But I didn't know I was coming.

The Convention

I came here first when I was a kid, in the early 2000s. It was supposed to be bonding time for me and Dad. We had little in common: I played tennis and raced bicycles; he brought work home and watched sports on TV.
We both liked science fiction—he'd introduced me to Star Trek and let me read his old paperbacks—but I was still startled when he said we were going to a sci-fi convention. Usually Dad hated family trips, fiddling with maps, shushing us kids, grumbling to Mom about the price of gas and Motel 6.
This time, it was just Dad and thirteen-year-old me, "bonding." We packed for five days, then he drove us apparently halfway to the North Pole. I ate in greasy spoons, peed in gas stations, threw up along a twisty mountain highway, and finally woke up in a parking garage at two in the morning.
I didn't know if I was in Maine or Montana—I was cold, the garage was dark and creepy, and I had to carry my duffel bag two blocks through hissing snowfall, flanked by dirty snowbanks higher than my head.
I'd never stayed in a genuine hotel; after my first glance I never wanted to again. The three-story lobby smelled of mud and dead mice. I collapsed into an upholstered armchair while Dad checked in—it felt damp, and the dark stain on one arm looked like blood.
A drooping sign said "Welcome, Coalition for Adhesives and Sealants". I picked up a newspaper from a low table to read the funny pages, but the stained sheets stank of spoiled fish. A huge front-page headline said, NIXON RESIGNS.
I looked up to ask Dad who Nixon was, but he was arguing with someone out of my sight. "I paid for a confirmed reservation," he said in the low, steady voice that preceded all my worst spankings. A voice quacked behind the desk. "I don't care if it's a broom closet, as long as there's twin beds and a bathroom."
Somebody appeared, wearing an ill-fitted green uniform and a tiny cap. At first I thought, "It's a midget!", then, from my lofty thirteen years, "He's just a little kid." But as he led us toward the elevators, I couldn't tell how old he was.
A sign at the elevators said, OUT OF ORDER. Dad swore. "Are we gonna have to walk up twelve floors?"
But the little guy led us around the corner to another elevator, where a couple waited. This one was much older, with those folding grillwork doors in old movies like Titanic, waiting to lovingly bite off my fingers.
The elevator car rose into sight, operated by a tall man with thin shoulders but a round belly, in a uniform of the same swampy-looking green.
"Floor, please?" he asked. The other man named a floor. The little guy held up a key to show him its big brass tag. "Twelve, very good." He closed the doors—I kept my hands behind me—and the elevator lurched upward.
"Dad, why do we have a key?" The older man, wearing a name tag saying CAS / My Name Is CLIFF, carried a magnetic card, for the sort of electronic lock movie heroes hack to break into evil government labs.
"Because we're in a lousy room," Dad replied. He held out his hand for the key. The little guy shook his head.
"It's the bellhop's duty, sir," said the elevator man, "to show you into your room." The car thudded to a stop, and Dad waved the little guy forward.
"Ninth floor," the operator said. The couple edged past Dad, the man frowning, the woman giggling. Dad fell back, muttering and blushing.
I was old enough to realize the man's companion—red-haired, twenty years younger, badly dressed for the cold—was probably a whore. But why, grinning at me, did her teeth look so sharp?
At the next stop, the operator intoned, "Twelfth floor." Dad and I followed the bellhop off into a dingy, worn hall.
Although it was nearly three a.m. (Dad had reset my watch when we changed time zones; whether back or ahead I didn't know), a surprising number of people wandered around. Next to their outlandish garb, the redhead's clothing looked sensible. I began to believe the outrageous tales I'd read of sci-fi cons.
I'd expected cosplay: Star Trek, Star Wars, anime. I hadn't expected medieval and barbarian outfits—some very revealing. I'd have to study them tomorrow; for all his short legs, the bellhop led us a quick march down the hall, around a corner, and down another long hall.
The first hall looked like Versailles next to this back corridor. The pattern of the ripped, stained wallpaper was barely visible. Lights in ornamental wall sconces flickered on the low ceiling; one buzzed like a nest of wasps.
But all the doors had electronic locks. He led us around another corner, down a third hall, to a door at the end with a small sign: Performers ONLY / Backstage Pass REQUIRED. The bellhop gestured us through.
"We must be at the very back of the hotel," Dad murmured; he had a good eye for distance. He gestured to our right. "That wall"—doorless, decorated with faded theatrical posters—"must back up to the office building next door."
The odorous lobby had once been magnificent; the twelfth-floor main hall retained a fading luxury. But this passage was where bad cops took someone to beat out a confession. At least I didn't smell dead mice.
Light spilled from a door ahead. Inside we found a maid straightening the bedspread. She wore a white apron over a calf-length dress of the hotel's decaying green. She had no hair and a boyish figure, slim and narrow-hipped. But surely she was a girl?
She said to Dad, "I apologize that you find less than readiness. This room was scheduled for no use. Shortly I will finish." Her voice was low, what one of Dad's sexier novels had taught me to call contralto. Instead of sexy, I found her obscurely terrifying. Just as I couldn't judge the bellhop's age, I couldn't decide if she was in her twenties or her fifties.
She carried fresh towels from a laundry cart. "This room, behind the theater stage—guests dislike the theater noise." Her faint accent and phrasing sounded foreign.
The bellhop handed Dad the key on its heavy brass tag. Dad tipped him a dollar, and he bowed his way from the room. Moments later, the maid finished fussing in the bathroom and left, apologizing again for her presence.
Dad closed the door. The boy-man bellhop, a head shorter than me; the maid, ageless as carved onyx, hairless as an onion, sexless as an angel; the inhuman voice at the desk—I asked Dad, "Are they aliens?"
"Who what?"
The maid particularly reminded me of the bald alien chick in Star Trek: The Motion Picture (which Dad said was awful, but made me watch twice). "Aliens," I repeated. "Are aliens running the hotel?" Dad laughed, but he set the night latch.
The small, windowless room was clean, but smelled old; the linens were fresh but my narrow bed creaked and breathed musty air when I lay down. I slept badly; how much from fear and how much from excitement I still can't say.
I find it ironic now that I remember the Coalition of Adhesives and Sealants but can't remember my first sci-fi convention's name: one of those rhyming names like Blonde-Con or Won-Ton-Con. There's a reason I remember the CAS, and for why that was my only sci-fi con.
The first day we visited a billion booths in the third-floor ballroom: comic books and action figures, T-shirts and coffee mugs, fake phasers and light-sabers, real swords and daggers. We went to panels in the tiny fourteenth-floor theater, which had a proper stage with curtains and boxes on the side walls, and seating so steep the stage was actually on the twelfth floor.
It should have been fun, but everyone seemed edgy; several people called the hotel "creepy." Dad remarked on people's bad tempers. When two guys came to blows over Kirk-versus-Picard, two other guys wearing armor and swords dragged them apart; not all the live steel was on the sales floor.
Dad grumbled about cons at old hotels without proper show halls, debated aloud which panel to attend next, and added up things he wanted to buy. I mainly looked at girls.
Back home their clothing would have gotten them arrested: corsets and armor, strange alien ears, body paint and slinky robes with nothing underneath. Mingling with them were men wearing CAS tags—"Prowling for poon," Dad said. I spotted Cliff, last night's elevator companion, minus the toothy girl.
Several girls wore chainmail, which I'd never seen in real life. Most wore it over clothing, but a few wore only mail—and linked circles of wire don't cover much. To my shocked Bible-belt eyes, naked women strolled the con areas.
That afternoon, we headed to our tiny room to drop Dad's purchases. He'd found a hidden door from the theater seats into our dungeon-like twelfth-floor passage. But a young, muscular guy in armor stopped us by the stage. "No guests allowed," he said. "Thou shalt not pass."
Dad gave him the look he saved for when I told some especially dumb lie. "We're going in," he said.
I grabbed his arm and whispered, "The guy's got a sword!" I pictured Dad getting his head hacked off for trying to push past.
Dad just held up our key. The sword guy grinned at the brass tag. "They stuck you in the leper colony, too!" Long ago, he explained, actors, depraved and dissolute, were isolated from regular guests. From that moment he and Dad were buddies.
He introduced himself as Herbald; he and his wife worked for the sci-fi con, heading a six-person security team, all wearing medieval armor, swords, and daggers.
I asked him what sort of name Herbald was. "That's my SCA name," he said, which explained nothing. I thought he'd mixed up the initials of the Adhesives and Sealants guys. (Later, in high school, I learned Herbald was Beowulf's uncle.)
He showed us the prop storage and dressing rooms, the complex rigging and lighting, and a narrow backstage door into our "leper colony" hall, with a hand-painted notice: DON'T SLAM THIS BLOODY DOOR!
"Come see our room." Up a flight of narrow stairs—metal, covered in carpet to prevent "noises off"—a catwalk served a second tier of dressing rooms behind the flies. "Technically," he said, "I guess we're on the thirteenth floor now; good thing I'm not superstitious!" He led us to the first door, knocked, called, "Are you decent?" and took us in to meet his wife, Dagmara.

The Missing Princess

She was unfazed by strangers invading her quarters, but she knocked me sideways: heavyset but athletic, carrying herself with authority; a broad, happy, dark-eyed face under tousled brown hair. She wore a skirt of leather strips like a Roman gladiator and a red cloak hung from leather shoulder guards; between them she wore only a chainmail halter, hiding absolutely nothing of her large chest.
She wore a rapier and carried a staff taller than me; among the guards she had the same authority as Herbald. On her rapier's sheath a sticker said, DO IT IN CHAINMAIL.
She plopped onto a dressing stool, boobs bobbling, and waved one hand at their room. "See where they stuck us? The con told the hotel they'd hired security, but the hotel didn't reserve us rooms!"
Their room was tiny, but fascinating. The rust-stained sink stood in the open room; only a sheer curtain closed the shower. In an alcove right of the shower, a rolling rack of dusty costumes stood before a wall-to-wall, floor-to-low-ceiling mirror. A narrow bed and a double dressing table, twin mirrors ringed by lights, completed the furnishings.
It hasn't changed much since. I liked it then, but I didn't know one day I'd be trapped in it.
I don't know why, but they seemed happy to have Dad and me tagging along. "We're on duty round the clock," Dagmara said, "so we eat when we like and take turns sleeping."
"And we can check any room the con's using," Herbald added, "any time we want."
All evening and into the night, we wandered the hotel: checking the ballroom, theater, and panel rooms, escorting guest speakers, shushing the noisier parties. I never met any more of their team, but they exchanged texts and calls frequently.
Tempers grew shorter after dark. Several times Herbald and Dagmara intervened between con attendees and CAS members. Many CAS guys viewed all the female cosplayers as easy meat; twice I saw Dagmara discourage some middle-aged drunk by cracking her staff against his ankle. The guards didn't drink on duty, and Dad never drank; we all found the roving boozers fairly tedious, whether CAS or con.
By midnight I was dead for sleep, but as long as Dagmara boobled around the halls I was determined to follow her. I had fantasies of her saying, "Come on back to our room—I want to get a shower and change."
Cliff of the CAS turned up around 12:30, trying to convince Dagmara he had the perfect sealant for her staff. "Clear 's glass," he said, "and tough as leather. Never ship—chip, no matter how many heads"—a sly chuckle—"you knock." But his eyes weren't on her staff.
"Sweetie," she told him, "go find a call girl, so next week you can give your wife the clap." Clear Cliff just grinned and reeled away.
Dad at last buckled. I followed him to bed, relief and regret mixed. A few hours later we were at it again, watching a panel rant about some show called Firefly, then roaming with our new friends. Dagmara, disappointingly, dressed more modestly today, but greeted me with a hug to that wondrous chest.
Then she squeezed my biceps and said, "Hon, check this kid's arm! We gotta get him in armor!"
I was skinny from my latest growth spurt, but proud of my athletic ability; I nearly burst at her compliment. Herbald explained that his hobby, the SCA—the Society for Creative Anachronism—recreated medieval fighting with real armor and blunt weapons. "I just won Crown Tourney," he boasted. "Next month me and Princess Dagmara become king and queen."
When I was sixteen, he said, I could compete in SCA fighting. "You've got endurance, too," Dagmara said. "You must've walked ten miles last night. With tennis reflexes, you'll be a great fighter."
That was the last time we were all together. Something in Dad's breakfast disagreed with him; he wanted to lie down. He said I could go alone to the con's morning movie, some 1960s creature feature, if I promised not to wander the hotel. As he was leaving, Dagmara said she was ready for a nap and would ride upstairs with him. We agreed to meet at the ballroom at noon.
Herbald and I roamed until time for the movie. As we rode the elevator up to fourteen, Clear Cliff joined us, friendly as ever but obviously wishing Dagmara was with us. The operator—who never seemed to go off duty—let him off at twelve. We rode to the theater's main entrance on fourteen.
I'd seen the movie before and hadn't liked it. Halfway through, despite my promise, I cut out to poke around one of the prop rooms I'd learned to sneak into.
At quarter to noon I banged on our door. Dad let me in, toothbrush in his mouth. Shortly we found Herbald waiting on three.
Dagmara didn't appear. By 12:10 Herbald was on his phone; by 12:15 he was worried. "She's not answering," he said. "None of our guys have seen her. I'm going up."
We followed him to their dressing room, where a mix of steam and citrus shampoo lingered. I licked suddenly dry lips at the hopeless thought of Dagmara's wet body behind the translucent shower curtain. But Herbald was growing frantic.
He called the desk for a hotel detective. "A house dick," Dad said to me. Herbald hung up and said the chief of security was coming.
The chief was not what we expected. "Call me Stern," she said, giving it a Germanic pronunciation: shtehrn. She stood a confident five foot nine, piercing eyes beneath a fluffy mop of short grizzled hair.
She chased Dad and me away: "Civilians hangin' around I don't need." We went back to the con; but our hearts weren't in it, and we sacked out early that night without seeing Herbald.
The next morning Stern questioned Dad, me, and other guests. But the third day passed with no news. Herbald prowled, eyes wild, cheeks hollow and unshaven. I felt horrible for him, but there was nothing we could do.
The con ended at noon the fourth day. After packing, Dad and I slipped through the hidden backstage door. "We can't leave," he said, "without giving him—" He stopped. What we could possibly offer Herbald?
We climbed the stairs anyway. Dad knocked. Stern answered, staring without speaking. "We came to tell Herbald goodbye, and wish him well."
The guard slouched on the narrow bed, haggard and exhausted. "You know what's the funny part?" he asked, voice lifeless. "The con organizers say they're canceling our contract, and won't pay. We contracted for a crew of six, and they say we only provided four. They say I haven't been any use."
Stern said, "I'll have a word with them." Her eyes gleamed.
"No use. Not a feather's weight of empathy among them."
I wanted to hug him, but was too shy. Dad gripped his shoulder and said, "I'm sure she'll turn up. There's an explanation somewhere."
"Thanks," Herbald said. "You're full of shit, but it's a nice thought."
In a movie, now the clever kid spots the key clue. I knew I wouldn't spot anything.
But Dad did.
I said he had a good eye for distance. Now, staring distractedly across the room, he measured the walls with his eyes. "Wasn't that deeper?"
"What?" Herbald and Stern asked together.
Dad pointed at the alcove by the shower. "Wasn't that mirror further back?"
Herbald stood shakily, crossed the room in three steps, and yanked the rolling rack out from the mirror covering the alcove's back wall. He felt around the mirror's edges. "There's silicone sealant here." He leaned over and sniffed. "It's fresh! That's what I've been smelling!"
The mirror had two panels, each about two feet wide and seven tall, a wooden stile between them. Herbald reached for a stool from the dressing table. Before anyone could protest, he swung it at the mirror's center. Knives of silvered glass crashed down.
I believe for a moment Dad forgot I was there, or he'd have tossed me from the room.
Within the jagged-edged hole stood Dagmara, strangely bent, as though frozen while sleeping, then raised to her feet. She wore a convention T-shirt and cutoff shorts. Her face, arms, and legs were dark and mottled.
She gleamed in the dressing-table lights, as if cast from plastic. Herbald pulled her forward. As he laid her on the floor, I saw his fingers dent her upper arms—soft plastic.
"She's covered in something!" he cried. He tugged at the skin of her face. "She can't breathe!" Her clothes and skin had a smooth, transparent layer of something on them.
Dad reached for his shoulder. "She's already—" Herbald threw his hand aside and snatched a dagger from the table. He carefully sliced the film over Dagmara's lips, then pried them apart.
With the sound of a flushing toilet, gas rushed from her mouth, so foul it clouded the air. A ghastly, fetid stench flooded the room, as Dagmara's swollen body sagged. Dark fluid filled her mouth, overflowed onto the carpet.
I fled to the catwalk, gagging, gasping for air. Dad came next, dragging a stunned Herbald along. "What the hell?" Dad exclaimed. "How can it be that bad?"
Stern walked out without haste. "Peculiarity of the Hotel. Bodies here, unfortunately, tend to rot like butter meltin'."
"What was that?" Herbald sobbed. "What happened to her?"
From their faces, the idea hit him, Dad, and me at the same instant. "Coalition of Adhesives and Sealants," Dad said grimly.
"Clear Cliff!" I exclaimed.
Again, we couldn't witness the interview; Stern interrogated Cliff in his room, while Dad kept Herbald company. I got the story from Dad later.
Cliff denied having seen Dagmara after offering to coat her staff. But one of Cliff's associates revealed that several sample jugs were missing, a new clear sealant supposed to make polyurethane look like library paste. Streaks of the sealant were found in Cliff's bathtub. On top of that, a maid said Cliff had paid her "seven score dollars" for an hour's use of her laundry cart the evening after Dagmara disappeared.
"He killed her," Dad said, "dumped her in his tub and poured sealant all over her. When she hardened, he stuffed her in a cart, took her to the theater, and carried her upstairs. He pried the mirror loose, put her behind it, and used silicone cement to glue the mirror back in. The clear stuff kept her body from stinking."
We couldn't check out fast enough. Dad was afraid we'd be subpoenaed to testify against Cliff. Still, when Dad spotted Stern in the lobby, he stopped to ask after Herbald.
"Young fella's pretty broke up," the chief said. "Had to physically restrain him, or he'd'a took that sword 'a his to old Cliff."
I asked, "So he's going to prison? Clear Cliff, I mean?"
"Nope," she answered. She grinned at my shocked look. "Won't be necessary. He busted loose from me, and jumped out a sixteenth-floor winda. Mebbe he thought there 'uz a fire escape. Anyway, he landed right on the port co-cheer, kaboom! Scared ten years off an old lady just gettin' outta her limo."
I gulped. Kaboom! Imagining that tortured me for days.
"Just as well," she went on. "Way that body'd decayed, the docs'd prob'ly say she'd croaked three-four days before Cliff ever got to the hotel. Would'a played hell with a jury. Lucky fer ev'ryone we don't hafta deal with that." Her calm certainty belied the idea of luck.
We hurried into rain and sleet. I didn't dare ask if Dad thought Stern had thrown Clear Cliff out the window. After one glance at the water running from the porte cochère's downspouts, I didn't dare look away from my feet.
We drove home with even fewer stops than our outward trip. We agreed: no more sci-fi conventions. We also agreed to never speak of that trip.
Did that count as bonding?

The Hotel Non Dormiunt

Somehow, I survived high school, collected a B.S. in engineering, and went into manufacturing. I jumped jobs twice, landing in a U.S. plant of a European transnational. I married a plump happy woman. We agreed kids could wait a few years.
I saw trade shows from the inside, and liked the view no more than at thirteen. Though now the rooms were non-smoking and the call girls accepted prepaid debit cards, too many drunks still made trouble with cheap women. But shows are part of manufacturing; I had to attend two or three each year.
This February I was scheduled for one in a southern city I'd never visited. As usual, the Corporate Travel department booked my flights and my hotel. I expected a booking in a chain, a Marriott or Hilton.
So I was surprised not to recognize the name Travel emailed to me: the Hotel Non Dormiunt. Googling the address, I learned it was an old high-rise right downtown. Apparently, it would also host the show three colleagues and I were attending—another surprise; most manufacturing shows are too large for anything but a major convention center.
I remembered enough Latin roots to puzzle out the name. "The 'No-Sleeping' Hotel!" I told myself. "Perfect for a trade show."
No airline shuttle went to the Non Dormiunt, so we shared a Lyft from the airport. She had trouble finding the address, but finally pulled under the porte cochère of a towering old pile, twenty stories or so of eroding brick-and-stone elegance.
The lobby, three stories tall, was worn and dark. Cheap-looking couches littered a frayed broadloom carpet. The air of outdated grandeur was somehow familiar, as if I'd seen this lobby in a movie.
At the desk, a surly young man in a red jacket checked in my three companions, then informed me coldly that I had no reservation. After reluctantly checking the confirmation number from my email, he pouted and said, "We have no regular room available. We'll have to put you in a twelfth-floor special."
Despite the years, that number sent a chill through me. I'd stayed in many high-rise hotels, but by chance never again on a twelfth floor. "Room 1291," he said. "It's a single, an emergency room only. It's not handicap-accessible. Will that be a problem." His flat tone said he wasn't asking.
He summoned a bellhop, an amenity I was surprised still existed. "You'd never find this room otherwise," he told me, handing me a key card, 1291 penciled on the sleeve.
The bellhop, in matching red, still wore a pillbox hat from a century earlier. Without a word, he took my bag and led me to the elevators.
On twelve, he led me around two corners, past an already-open hospitality suite, then through a door marked "1280-1293".
The lobby had looked vaguely familiar; the hotel's general layout resembled others I'd known—but there was no mistaking this narrow passage: After over fifteen years, I'd come back to the "leper colony."
I refused to believe it. I didn't know where that long-ago convention had been, but I knew we'd gone north: There'd been yards-deep snow. This couldn't be the same city. A wild coincidence—or the same architect designed two similar hotels.
The bellhop led me past all of the rooms along this narrow hall, to a door at the far end. For the first time in years I thought about the bellhop at that other hotel. This fellow was of similar build, but looked years younger than that other man would be by now.
Then he opened the door to backstage, and all chance of coincidence evaporated. There was the familiar command, faded and scratched but legible: DON'T SLAM THIS BLOODY DOOR!
Inevitably, the bellhop turned toward the stairs, thumping my bag against the steps. I followed like a man climbing a gallows; the same carpet, more worn and stained, muffled my footfalls. There was the handrail I'd gripped, trying not to throw up at the stench of Dagmara's decayed flesh.
If he led me to the first door, I thought I'd break down and cry.
It brought only slight relief when he walked past to the second door, with its shiny new numerals: 1291. He waited as I slid in the key; the lock flashed green, and I opened the door.
This room was a mirror of Herbald's room, modernized for an actual guest. Costume rack and dressing table were gone, replaced by a standard bed, a desk, and a tiny hospitality counter with coffee maker, refrigerator, and snacks. A proper bathroom replaced the shower and mirrored alcove, but it still had no tub.
The real shock was inside the bathroom: A maid arranging towels, in black slacks and white tunic, slim and boyish—and utterly without hair. As the final, fatal touch, she said, "I apologize that you find less than readiness. This room was scheduled for no use. Shortly I will have finished." Her contralto voice was no less terrifying than when I was thirteen. She hadn't aged a day.
If she said more before leaving, I didn't hear: I was at the point of fainting, collapsed on the bed, blood roaring in my ears. The bellhop stood my bag by a tiny closet and bowed himself out, not waiting for a tip.
As the door clicked shut, I bolted to the bathroom. I vomited into the toilet, then leaned my head against the cool porcelain tank. The toilet stood where the mirror wall had been. A few feet from me—the other side of that wall—Dagmara's clear-sealed corpse had stood rotting, waiting for my dad to notice a mirror's altered position.
It was impossible, insane, that I could be in the same hotel. It was unbearable that I could be only feet from the transitory sepulcher of that woman of lush figure and happy immodesty, who'd laughed away the men her body drew, a princess of some imaginary kingdom. Unbearable.
I fled.
The surly clerk refused to change my room. "I can't stay there!" I insisted, voice rising. "Not where someone was murdered!" In my distress I exaggerated: I knew she'd been killed elsewhere, then moved.
Maybe the clerk pressed a button; maybe the Hotel passed some subtler signal. But a cool voice spoke behind me: "Sir, I'm gonna hafta ask ya to control yourself."
The grizzled hair was now iron-gray, the face more lined, but there was no mistaking Stern. I now topped her by several inches, but she still carried the aura of a sleeping god, to be roused only by the reckless. "I'm—I'm sorry," I stammered. "But I just can't stay backstage!"
"We're very short right now," Stern said. "Seventeen's closed, the whole floor—water trouble." Under her stare, my further protests died. As if hypnotized, I took the elevator back to twelve.
A room-service supper of passable fettuccine Alfredo soothed my nerves somewhat. Belly full, I set the night latch, left my laptop open for a night light, and fell into a restless sleep.
A thud from somewhere woke me. It wasn't repeated, so I rolled over, thinking, Some other poor leper. Then the moaning started.
I shook with chills at the low sound: pain, mourning, and anger in a single voice, the sound my father had surely made after someone bumped his car off a hillside, in the hours before paramedics found him lifeless but still warm behind the wheel. The moans came from the bathroom; when I went in, I heard them coming through the wall.
Sobbing with fear, I yanked on pants and ran out. From the catwalk the sound clearly came from the first door, Herbald and Dagmara's old room, now marked 1290. Frantically I pounded on the door. The moaning hiccuped, then stopped. I pounded more; no one answered.
In my room, I frantically dialed the desk. "There's no one in 1290," a reedy voice insisted. "In fact, that room can't be opened. If you wish, though, I can send the house detective."
Dear Lord, a visit from Stern? "Never mind," I said hastily. "The noise stopped."
I went back to bed in my pants and shirt. Unable to sleep, I tried to distract myself with email, then my messages. One of my travel companions had sent me a photo—of the Seattle skyline. "Missing a great show u lazy bum," his message said.
How could he be in Seattle? I tried to call; it rolled to voice mail. I checked my email again. Nothing from Corporate Travel: no flight reservations, no confirmation number for the Hotel Non Dormiunt. I'd paid the Lyft driver, but the Lyft app had no record of the ride; my email held no Lyft receipt.
The phone slipped from my hand. This hotel couldn't be in this city, and I couldn't be at this hotel.
I heard another thud, then footsteps on the catwalk. Flesh, or phantom? They hobbled unsteadily back and forth past my door—then came a sudden cry followed by uneven thumping. Someone had fallen down the stairs!
Terror or not, I couldn't sit idle. I opened my door to look down the dim stairs. A human shape huddled at the bottom.
I yanked a blanket off my bed and rushed down barefoot. There lay a man, broad-shouldered but wasted, hair and whiskers long, shaggy, and unkempt.
Fearful of spinal injury, I didn't dare move him. I threw my blanket over him and started back after my phone. But before I climbed halfway he sat up, pulling the blanket close.
"What manner of man art thou," he said huskily, "to offer succor to such as me?" His speech baffled me: a medieval revenant? Then he coughed and said, "Oh, crap. You got any Advil?"
That mixture of archaic and modern idiom— I clambered back down and bent to see his face. Imagine hair brushed back, beard gone—
"Jesus Christ—Herbald?"
"Huh?" He gaped at me. "Nobody's called me that in a coon's age."
He refused my help climbing the stairs, refused to come to my room. So I followed him into 1290.
Closing the door, he proceeded to barricade it. "Maintenance quit trying to get in here years ago," he said. "Makes it easier for me. Only problem is food, but the maids help."
"Jesus, Herbald." I looked around. Only three tiny bulbs on the dressing-table mirrors still burned; what little they lit had hardly changed. One stool lay broken; the other still sat before the table. His sword lay half beneath the bed. "Why are you still here?"
"She won't let me leave. Says I've got to find one more answer."
I realized he must be in his forties by now. "She's dead, man. Dagmara's dead."
"You remember that name…" He turned away. "Dagmara! Come see!" A costume rack still stood in the corner; he pulled it aside.
I thought I'd known horror.
Beneath still-hanging mirror fragments stood a ghostly shape, a cloudy specter. The phantom of a woman, bones hung haphazardly within.
Then I saw the dim reflections of the makeup lights off her—dulled with years, stained with corruption, but still impressively clear: the plastic sheath from Dagmara's corpse.
"I had to keep washing her out," Herbald told me. "Just the hard parts're left." Bones, he meant: The sealant still held her skeleton. The yellowed skull sat in place; the upper spine and many ribs still hung in the neck and chest; but other bones were disjointed, hand bones fallen into clutter, pelvic bones askew, lower spine dropped into her right leg.
Was the mouth he'd slit that awful day still the only opening? Had he patiently run water into that small hole, sloshed it around, poured it out—over and over, day after day, to rinse away the rotting flesh? No shreds of fabric remained; he must have used something to dissolve her clothes.
I had to catch breath to speak. "Why is she still here? Why didn't the cops take her?"
"Nobody called the cops," he said. "He killed her, he killed himself. Nothing for cops to do." He stroked the transparent skin; it seemed to breathe, responsive to his touch. "The Hotel was nice; they let me keep her."
"Dagmara…," I breathed, shocked beyond thought.
And the head turned to me.
He'd done it; he'd somehow turned her without me seeing.
Then one arm raised, the sealant still flexible. The clear fingers curled, bones rattling faintly. One finger extended toward me.
Herbald had pulled back; she stood alone. Now one leg swung slowly forward, then the other. She walked.
Inside the plastic, around the bones, something formed: the misty figure of a woman. But the sight was inside my mind, not in my eyes. And I heard her voice inside my head, as my ears heard Herbald say, "She won't let me leave. She's got to show me something, but she won't say what."
She spoke without sound: You. The Hotel brought you back. Both arms reached for me, the movement squeezing a faint whiff of foulness from her mouth.
I hadn't played tennis since college, but my backhanded blow still had strength. Skin and dry bones weighed little; she flew clattering across the room, and I turned to run.
But I was blinded by memories. The stool tripped me to the floor.
Dad, ill, had gone back to our room. Dagmara had gone for a nap. Herbald had taken me to the theater for a monster movie, then left on his rounds. But I'd grown bored, had sneaked backstage.
Voices: one angry male, one amused female. I'd peeked into an open prop room to see Dagmara in T-shirt and cutoffs, Clear Cliff blocking her exit. I could guess: Cliff stalked her, followed her in here, and expected sex.
But Dagmara, trapped, unarmed, showed no fear. "Three like you couldn't handle me," she laughed. "You see that skinny boy with us last night? Thirteen, and twice the man you are."
He raised clenched fists; I braced to charge. But she laughed louder, until his hands drooped, his shoulders slumped. She shoved at him, thump-thumping his chest until he turned away shame-faced. I ducked into shadow as he came out and shambled away.
Twice the man. Pride-puffed, I slipped into the room.
She'd turned her back, poking in a box of masks. I pussyfooted up behind her, said, "Hey."
She turned, startled, then smiled. Recklessly, I stepped forward, dug my hands into her hair, and kissed that smile.
She shoved me away, astonished; I tripped over a coil of extension cord. Laughing, she reached out a hand to steady me, and I backhanded her away. Though she outweighed me fifty pounds, my blow knocked her off her feet.
Into a crate of tools. She hit hard, then rolled to one side, revealing the screwdriver driven into the base of her skull.
It took only seconds for the gasping and spasming to end, for the life to leave her eyes. I stared at the body. At last I looked away, to spot something on the floor, something I'd half-seen fall while she thumped Cliff on the chest.
A key card.
Cliff's key, in a paper sleeve with his room number. Hardly thinking, I rummaged the prop rooms to find a stage-sized Roman chariot. Grunting, with wiry strength, I curled Dagmara's body in it, then covered it with a bedspread. I slipped on a dirty trenchcoat and slouch hat.
With cosplayers decorating the halls, nobody noticed the skinny private eye pushing a chariot. I wheeled Dagmara out to the elevator and up to sixteen. Years later, I could still rouse a brief, bitter smile by picturing Cliff's reaction at finding her corpse in his bed.
But I'd never envisioned this horror, a plastic-skinned specter breathing ancient corruption.
Herbald slowly grasped the situation. "You? You killed her?" Now he'll grab his sword, hack me apart. His face darkened, but his legs failed and he collapsed. "I liked you!"
Now comes Stern, and a window. I would fly without wings, until I met my shadow on hard pavement.
Dagmara rose where I'd flung her, a woman's empty shell. She drew a deep breath, and blew it out, her full bosom—her hollow chest—rising and falling. Foulness from the very tomb swirled around me; I fainted.

Room 1290 Evermore

The door won't open, though I've tugged away Herbald's improvised barricades. The room phone is live, but only repeats a recording: We're sorry—room service has closed for the evening.
Dagmara, the hollow princess, lies in their bed. Herbald, more badly injured than he realized, slumps against the wall; he stopped breathing hours ago. The double mirror he broke brought more than fourteen years of bad luck, but it's over now.
How long have I been trapped? My phone and laptop are in 1291. Herbald's phone is broken. The wall clock probably hasn't run this century.
I'm growing weak. I must be starving—I've already wondered if I could stoop to eating Herbald—but the nauseating odor of decay steals my appetite. After so many years, how can she still reek of rot?
I've even wished for Stern to come, but I know she won't. The Hotel brought you back. And the Hotel Non Dormiunt plans a slower punishment than a dive from a high ledge.
Dagmara lies quietly, breathing slowly. The stench of her respiration fills the room.
Come to bed, I hear her saying. I'm ready to kiss you back.
GUEST BOOK
DTS

Close your eyes and think about all the doors you pass through each day. Hundreds of doors, thousands in your lifetime. Breezing in and out, you probably think of them as nothing more than a means to an end, a way to get from point A to point B. Doors with handles, doors that glide open electronically when you step in the right place, doors that creak and groan with age and remind you to pick up WD-40 next time you’re at the store. But some doors are different. Some doors are not meant to be traveled through. Quite the opposite. Some doors are built to prevent people, or even things, from getting in. Some doors are built to keep things from getting out.
I’m not a believer in the paranormal. I don’t put stock in ghosts or demons or monsters. The things that go bump in the night? I generally think they all have some explanation, one way or another. The human brain is an easily frightened, painfully irrational organ. When others stand shaking at the tops of dark basement stairwells, peering into the damp black, I charge ahead, straight to the bottom. Leaky pipes and cobwebs in corners don’t frighten me -- why should they?
So when my mother told me she felt like something was off in the basement of her newly inherited home, I laughed. She was always chattering about her fantasies, ghosts and vampires and angels. She claimed that I felt the spirits, too, and I would open my eyes someday to see. I raised an eyebrow and reminded myself one of these days I was going to miss the sound of her voice when she told me her ghost stories. I had driven four hours across the state to help her move cardboard box after cardboard box from a rental storage unit into the house.
Well, I call it a house, but it was more like a cottage with its oddly shaped living room, cramped little bedroom with an attached bath, and galley kitchen. The great aunt who had lived there before was a spinster with no love for any living being, save her cats. She had taken good care of the place, though, and for some reason given thought to passing the property on to her sister’s daughter rather than one of her own children or grandchildren. My mother’s financial troubles had made it impossible for her to rent more than a single room in a boarding house over the last decade after her last child left the nest, so it was exciting for all of us that she now had a stable place of her own to live.
“I just get the strangest feeling when I go down there, like something wants me out,” she told me, talking a mile a minute as we worked through boxes of kitchen paraphernalia.
Her tendency to hoard over the years had caught up with her in this place -- I made a mental note to smuggle a few boxes of junk out when I left and dump them at a local Goodwill. We had spent the morning working on her bedroom and rays of midafternoon light were now streaming through the high windows in the cottage’s western-facing wall. The yellow and green floral pattern of the kitchen wallpaper seemed to brighten in the sun, creating a cheery, cozy atmosphere. I couldn’t imagine a single thing about this place making anyone feel ill at ease.
“Sounds to me like you’re just trying to get me to carry these boxes of canning supplies down there on my own,” I teased.
She laughed, a slight edge to her mirth that gave me pause. I could tell from the way her brow knit that she was serious. A pang of guilt rippled through me. I hadn’t been around much in the past few years, and I knew she was lonely and tired of being alone. She was likely experiencing some apprehension at the thought of living here all by herself, apprehension that I was now poking fun at. What a great daughter I made.
I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, trying not to wince at the feeling of bone just below her skin. The increased fragility that betrayed her aging was an all-too-real reminder of her mortality. Even though the women in our family typically lived into their 80s and 90s, giving my mother another possible few decades, I was increasingly aware that she was no longer the immortal superwoman I had grown up loving. As thoughts of her inevitable death flashed through my brain, I pulled her in for a close hug.
“Oh!” She squeaked, setting down the crock pot lid she had been examining for cracks before wrapping her arms around me.
No matter how old you are, there’s nothing quite like a hug from your mom.
After a few quiet moments, I pulled back and kissed the top of her forehead. Grabbing up the box of canning supplies, I asked for directions to the basement entrance.
“You walked all over it this morning,” she told me.
I followed her directions and found the seam for the trap door on the bedroom floor, just a few feet from the foot of her queen-size bed. I set the box down on the quilted bedspread and bent down to get a good grip on the wood and lift it up slowly. The trap door revealed a set of weathered but sturdy-looking stairs, leading down into the inky darkness under the house. Cool air drifted up from the subterranean room, and I breathed in the familiar basement smells of must and damp.
“Is there a light switch somewhere?” I called to the kitchen.
“Not until you get down to the bottom. There’s a bulb with a string right overhead when you reach the ground.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Let’s hope I don’t break my neck on the way down.”
Grabbing the box and being careful to leave the trap door open completely to let in as much light as possible, I began slowly making my way down the stairs. The staircase had no railings or wall to lean against, so I relied on my less-than-fabulous balancing skills and luck to reach the bottom without tripping. The temperature change as I descended was drastic, and I found myself shivering a little in my lightweight summer clothes as I took the last couple of steps. I could just barely make out the dirt-smeared floor in the paltry light from above.
Looking up, I spied the string hanging from the bulb. I steadied the box against my hip and reached up. As I did, I heard something behind me creak. I whipped my head right, toward the sound, but saw nothing in the darkness. Probably my mom moving around upstairs or a pipe settling. Rolling my eyes at myself, I yanked on the string and dim yellow light from a naked bulb illuminated the room.
The first thing I noticed was that the basement was much larger than the house that sat atop of it. I couldn’t tell exactly how much larger, given the pathetic amount of light provided by the single bulb, but I could feel that the room was more immense than I had expected. Odd, but I reminded myself that this part of Ohio was relatively rural and used to seeing long, hard winters. A large basement allowed for more storage of canned fruits, vegetables and other goods difficult to come by during the snowy months.
Glancing around, I spotted some shelves against the left wall which seemed designed for just such a thing. I moved over to them and felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I left the circle of light I had been standing under. I had read once that the vibrations of pipes can sometimes cause feelings of dread in people, often misinterpreted as something paranormal. I flicked my eyes up to the network of exposed pipes above my head and smirked. Of course. Quickly, I set the box down and got to work stacking empty mason jars in rows on the shelves. My mom was a prodigious gardener and would eventually fill up the canning jars with homegrown goodies, but that would have to wait until next year, as summer was coming to an end. Winter would set in quickly in this climate, and the ground would harden against new life until the late spring thaw.
When the box was empty, I pulled my Swiss Army keychain from my back jeans pocket and broke it down with the knife. Curiosity got the best of me, and as I replaced the keychain, I pulled my cell phone out of my other back pocket and toggled its flashlight setting. Sweeping the bright light in front of me, I explored the parts of the basement not illuminated by the single bulb. A twisted heap of metal yard tools lay in the corner opposite the shelves, rusting from what I imagined was years of disuse. I couldn’t imagine Great Aunt Ira coming down here much in the past 15 years, not with her hip problems.
Behind the stairs was the basement’s back wall, and I immediately noticed it was made of a different material than the rest of the basement walls. Moving closer, I brushed it with my hand. Some kind of corrugated metal, it felt like, which seemed out of place considering the rest of the walls were soft limestone, crumbling in some places. My hand trailed along the cool metal wall until I found myself standing at a doorway. The door was made of solid wood and sat almost exactly behind the staircase. It had been covered over, crudely, with wooden boards nailed across it.
“Well, that’s weird,” I muttered aloud. It felt like the temperature over here was at least ten degrees colder, and my teeth chattered as goosepimples sprouted up all over my arms.
I knew from many years spent in the Ohio educational system that homes all across the state had been used as shelter for runaway slaves during the Underground Railroad period in America’s spotted history. This area specifically prided itself in its abolitionist history -- perhaps I had stumbled upon an old, forgotten slave hideaway? Excitement coursed through me as I contemplated the fun of being the first to rediscover such an important historical site. Maybe there’d even be artifacts left behind. Growing up, I’d been fascinated with Indiana Jones and longed for the adventure of Hollywood-style archaeological discovery.
Without thinking twice about it, I reached for one of the boards and gave it a tug. It was nailed pretty solidly, but I felt that it could easily give way if I put my back into it. I set my phone on the floor, screen-side down, so the light was shining up at the door, and gripped the board with both hands. I wasn’t a bodybuilder by any standards, but I did lift weights at the gym on a fairly regular basis, and my efforts were rewarded with a pop-pop as the board came free. One of the nails stuck in the metal, the other hung limply from the board, which I set down carefully behind me.
It didn’t take too long to remove most of the boards. The door was most heavily boarded at the top, with a couple of longer boards covering the bottom. I was fortunate that the basement ceiling was low -- at 5’2” I had little hope of reaching something at the top of a standard-height door. But this door was only a few inches taller than me, and I was able to reach and pry loose the single board at its top with relative ease. The effort of removing the boards had me panting and sweating a little, the basement’s chill cooling the droplets as they slid down the back of my shirt.
Finally, my task was complete and I was ready to crack open the object of my fixation for the past twenty minutes or so. I could hear my mom’s movements upstairs and figured since she hadn’t called for me yet, she would be okay on her own for a little while longer. The handle was long and rusted; I could feel some of the material flake off as I grasped it with a sweaty palm. I tugged gently, expecting to be met with resistance. Instead, the door popped open as easily as the sliding door of a 7-Eleven. I stumbled back a bit, kicking a board with my heel, causing it to skid across the floor with a hollow clatter.
I was met with a blast of air that felt almost arctic, especially considering the basement was already fairly cool. It took a moment before my nostrils began to absorb the smell, but once it did… I nearly gagged. The frigid air emanating from the dark doorway was tinged with something rotten and earthy, like garbage that had been left out in the heat of the August sun for far too long. A horrifying thought occurred to me -- what if whoever hid down here never left? With trepidatious curiousity, I reached down and picked my phone up from the floor and pulled the door open all the way, shining its light directly into the blackness.
It took a moment for my eyes to register what was right in front of them. I felt my heart slow, the blood in my veins turn to ice as a rush of naked fear cascaded over me. Eyes. Staring through the darkness, barely visible but for the weak light creeping past the doorway from the single bulb and what little illumination my phone provided. Each pair was looking straight at me. I took a shaking, instinctive step back out of the doorway. A hungry moan came from somewhere in the room. It was a gruesome, rasping sound that filled me with dread.
“Hoooly fuck,” I whimpered, taking another step back.
The sound of movement -- scraping noises -- shook me into action. My phone clattered to the floor, forgotten in my haste. I didn’t want to know what was in there. I didn’t want to see. I gripped the rough wood edge of the door with a damp hand and pulled it shut. It caught on one of the loose boards I had worked so stupidly hard to pull off just moments before. I registered movement in the darkness in front of me, the sense that something was close. Frantically, I kicked at the board, yanking the door hard as it slid out of the way.
It slammed shut with a satisfyingly heavy sound, but as I leaned against it, my breaths erratic and my heart pounding, I felt a thud as something impacted with the door. That moan came again, desperate and needful. Another thud, this one hard enough to rattle the door in its hinges. Particles from the ceiling above rained down on my head. I wanted to cry. I needed to re-board the door.
Bracing one hand against the door, just in case, I reached down and grabbed at the first board I could get my hands on. Some of the nails were still embedded, but others were scattered across the floor. A thud against the door shook the frame and my nerves. They wanted out. I did what any rationally minded, terrified person would: I screamed for my mommy.
I heard her hurried footsteps approach overhead from across the house. “What’s wrong?” She called. “Did you hurt yourself? Did something bite you?”
No, but something might be about to bite me. “No!” I shouted back. “It’s… I don’t… mommy,” I moaned the last bit as another thud shook the metal and wood I was pressed up against. I’m a heavier woman, but I wasn’t strong enough to hold a door shut forever, especially considering how many of those things there were. There were so many eyes. So many eyes. Eventually, my strength would give out.
She thundered down the stairs, faster than a woman her age with bad knees should, but I guess that’s the power of motherhood. As she rounded the corner, it felt like more than one of them slammed into the door. I felt one of my flip-flop clad feet begin to slide and the door open just a crack behind me. I screamed and strained, regaining my footing and shoving my full weight against the door to close the gap. My mom was staring at me and the door with an almost knowing look.
“What did you do?”
“I fucked up, obviously,” I said through gritted teeth. Even under duress, she managed to get under my skin. “Do you have a hammer? We need to nail the boards back over the door.”
“Yes, I’ll go get it,” she said, rushing up the stairs and away from me. I was alone again with *them and I didn’t like it. I began to sob, tears stinging my eyes. I didn’t wipe them away, not daring to move even an inch in case I lost my tenuous advantage. It felt like hours before she returned, but she did, moving slightly slower this time down the stairs while lugging a box behind her. It thump-thump-thumped down the stairs behind her, its contents rattling with each impact.
“I brought my entire toolbox, just in case.” She pulled out an enormous, ancient hammer I recognized as the one responsible for almost destroying my thumb in second grade and a smaller one with a sleek black handle and a shiny gleam to its metal. Handing me the latter, she picked up the board I had kicked when I opened the door and moved toward me.
“Keep your weight where it is, but duck down a bit. I’ll start at the top.”
“Okay. Hurry.”
She began hammering, and as the first nail was returned to its place, a piercing howl began from the other side of the door. I felt like I was going to throw up. “What the hell is in that room?”
“I don’t know, honey. I don’t know. I told you something was wrong.”
When the first board had been nailed across, we moved the heavy box of tools she’d dragged down with her against the base and I braced my foot against it so I could keep weight there while helping with the nailing process. Two boards, three boards, four. The howling continued, backed by that same hungry moan. The hair on the back of my neck seemed like it was never going to lie flat again. Some of the boards were rotted, and one split in our hands as we began to hammer.
“Shit!” I yelled, kicking its remnants so several pieces scattered away from us.
“Don’t think about it, just keep going,” my mom panted. Her salt-and-pepper hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat and she was breathing as hard as I was. We placed the last board across the bottom of the door, just an inch or two from the bottom. The howling had stopped, but the moaning never did. I’m not sure if it ever will.
It didn’t look as solid as it did when I discovered it, but of course that makes sense. I disrupted something that had probably been there for years, maybe even decades. Who boarded the place up? What was in there? Did Great Aunt Ira know about this? What the fuck were we going to do about it? I voiced none of this to my mother, instead keeping silent as we piled anything and everything we could find in the basement against the door. I managed to remember to snatch up my phone before thundering up the stairs in front of my mom, anxious to get back somewhere that wasn’t cold and damp and full of that fucking smell.
Once I had helped her up from the stairwell, I slammed the trap door shut and we moved her heavy antique dresser over top, then piled a few boxes of books yet to be shelved on top of that, for good measure. We collapsed on her bed and I cried while she held my shaking body, stroking my hair and whispering soothing words even though she was probably just as scared as I was. We stayed like that all night, and now it’s morning and I’m writing this to try and make sense of what the hell happened.
I’m sitting in the living room, which from my estimate is right over where the door is, and I can hear faint moans rising up from underneath me. What did I awaken?
I opened the door. I pried off the boards and I opened the door, and for that I am sorry. For my curiousity, for my stubborn refusal to consider the consequences of fucking with something that was clearly meant to not be fucked with, for my inability to leave the door alone and forget it ever existed. I am sorry. We’ve done what we can, but I can’t help but shake the feeling that it wasn’t enough. Not every door is meant to be opened. It’s only human arrogance that makes us assume we have a right to know, a right to see what’s on the other side.
Update: Just wanted to let y'all know that my mom and I are doing okay. We had a long talk when she woke up yesterday and I'm still trying to wrap my head around everything she told me. I'll be writing an update for you guys asap. Thank you for all of your helpful suggestions and theories! I'm overwhelmed by the response this post has received. It makes me feel less alone out here.
Update 2: Read the second installment here.