Categories > TV > X-Files > Dark Desert Highways
Chapter Four
0 reviewsWelcome to the Hotel California-where a good night's rest could cost you your life.
0Unrated
"I have a bad feeling about this," Monica whispered as they came to a halt at the broken and battered front gate of the old house at the end of California Street. "Yeah..." John agreed, looking up at the ugly once blue looking house, "maybe we should go back to the car..." Monica nodded, enjoying the image of them cuddling again. She shook her head to clear it, "Yeah, c'mon, let's go, this place is giving me the creeps."
She took John's hand-more for comfort than anything else-and they started off down the sidewalk. "Excuse me?" a voice called from behind them, "Can I help you?" Both of them spun around, Monica's skirt swatting at her legs. They exchanged glances and were stunned into silence.
An elderly woman stood on the front porch, shivering in her white, cotton nightgown. "Can I help you?" she asked again, smiling warmly at them. Red warning signs flashed in Monica's sleep deprived brain, causing her to back up a few steps and running into John, whose arm instinctively snaked around her waist protectively.
John cleared his throat, still holding onto Monica, as if the old woman would latch onto her neck and suck her blood. "Uh, well, I'm Special Agent John Doggett with the FBI, this is Special Agent Reyes," John let go of Monica, realizing if he acted like a protective boyfriend toward his partner it could look bad for their case, "and, uh, our car broke down a few miles down the road, and we were wondering if we could use a phone."
Monica rolled her eyes at the lame excuse, if they had wanted a phone-... wait a minute! A pay phone! Hope coursed through her veins at the sudden thought. "A phone?" the old lady echoed, peering at them through her bi-focals, "Oh, no, we have no phones here."
"What about a pay phone?" Monica asked hopefully. "No, any phones are against the law here," the old lady replied. Monica and John exchanged bewildered glances. "Against the law to have /phones/?" John repeated with a certain amount of disbelief mixed with sarcasm. "Yes," the old lady replied with a smile. "Well," Monica said quietly to John, "it's sort of plausible, in Carmel California it's against the law to have a doorbell." John looked down at her as if she had finally gone nuts.
"Did you need a room for the night?" The old lady asked, breaking up the moment of weirdness between John and Monica. "A room?" Monica asked, pushing her bangs away from her eyes.
The old lady nodded and pointed to a sign in the crabgrass infested front yard. It was the same chipped and faded color blue as the rest of the house, only with white lettering that read:
Hotel California
13 California Street
Roscoe Nevada
"Hotel California?" Monica asked, amused. "You mean like the song?" The old woman blinked as she moved a step closer to the front door of the house, "What song?"
It was Monica's turn to blink as she suddenly realized that the lyrics of one of her favorite songs seemed to almost fit into the way this case was going. John's words from a few nights ago echoed in her ears, "All the victims were last spotted on or near Highway 375..."
On a dark desert highway
Cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night
The rest of the song eluded her. Monica tried to suppress a shudder, but couldn't and the old lady noticed. "Oh, my, but you're cold, come inside and warm up a bit, we have nice rooms where you can stay for the night."
"Um, no... that's okay," Monica said, suddenly deciding this creepy town might have been the last place any of those victims saw. She grabbed John's arm in desperation, "We really have to get going..."
"Oh," the old lady said in a grandmotherly sort of way, "but if you are having car problems how are you supposed to get anywhere?" Again, instead of seeing what she really should have been seeing, Monica saw the same young man standing at this very gate, which was then painted an ugly brown color, she saw the young man open the gate and climb onto the porch, "Thank you for your kindness, ma'am, I appreciate it." She held out her hand, "You may call me Annabelle Lee, and you are?" He shook her hand politely, "James Campbell, ma'am."
James... it was their last victim she saw! Monica still didn't want to stay in this horrible place, where at least seven people might have been murdered. John, however, couldn't seem the pass up the deal.
"How much are your rooms?" he asked.
There she stood in the doorway
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinkin' to myself
This could be heaven or this could be hell
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
Thought I heard them say...
"Oh, don't worry about the price, sonny, you and Ms. Reyes have a nice rest and we'll talk prices in the morning," Annabelle Lee replied. John glanced over at Monica, waiting for her approval. She figured the best way to look for clues would be on the inside of the house. Monica shrugged her response. Whether John knew it or not, Monica now considered this house and this old lady as one of their prime suspects.
John opened the gate and he and Monica walked up the front steps to the porch, the old lady smiled at them, "I'm Annabelle Lee, the owner." John shook her hand, Monica followed suit. As they crossed the foyer another verse of "Hotel California" came forward from the many hazy thoughts in Monica's brain.
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year, you can find it here
She could hear John and Annabelle speaking pleasantly, but she tuned it out as she walked casually around the living room. Monica kept her eyes glued to the walls, no television, no electric plugs, but it had electric lights... no phone jacks... nothing to connect you to the outside world. She glanced over at Annabelle Lee in the kitchen, who was making John a cup of coffee. Something was just not right about this place... this old woman... this house... Monica's sudden visions... none of it made any sense whatsoever.
She stood in the middle of the living room, mulling over all the clues and trying to connect the pieces of the puzzle. All of the victims had last been spotted on Highway 375, and according to Rand McNally's 2002 USA road map, Roscoe Nevada didn't exist.
What about the town itself? Out here in the middle of nowhere, like someone came along, planted a seed and /BOOM/, a town grew. But with no phones? How could a whole town-even a small one-survive without any sort of communication device?
Monica had used the example of Carmel California, but Carmel was a rich, upscale yuppie sort of neighborhood, which had probably been around a lot longer than Roscoe had.
"Monica?" She looked up as John entered the room, "ready for bed?" Annabelle Lee walked in behind him; "I'll show you to your rooms, they're right upstairs." John and Monica followed silently. Anxiety and a sense of terror grew over Monica as she climbed the stairs. Don't be stupid, she chided herself, you're just tired, there is no way in hell this sweet little old lady could be a cold blooded killer. It defies all logic.
"Here you are!" Chimed Annabelle in her stereotypical TV Grandma voice, "Have a good rest, I'll be downstairs if you need anything." John thanked her; Monica pretended to be too tired to bother. Their rooms were side by side; John went into the one on the left, "Night, Mon," he yawned over his shoulder as he shut the door.
Monica was left standing in the hallway. The lights went out downstairs and she suddenly felt the urge to whimper and run after John. She shook her head, however, and decided not to sleep. Yes, that would be the key, she might be cranky in the morning, but it beat being dead.
She went into the door on the right, flipped the light on and felt like she was being warped into a bad Ewan McGregor flick. She looked around the room, yellowed wall paper with now brownish-gray Forget-Me-Nots on it, a bed with no box spring, dirty avocado green shag carpet... Monica didn't even want to think about what the bathroom looked like...
She set her bag on the floor near the bed and unzipped it. Pulling out an oversized Aerosmith-In-Concert t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. She changed quickly, sat down on what was supposed to be the bed and surveyed the room.
Her mind is Tiffany-twisted; she's got the Mercedes-Bends
She's got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget
An old dresser stood off to one corner of the room, on top of it was a cracked and dirty mirror, on what would be the south side of the house was the door to a private bath, but it probably hadn't been cleaned in a 'coons age.
Monica hugged her knees to her chest, leaving the lights on. It was too creepy to sleep in the dark. Or stay awake for that matter. She thought of John in the room next to hers and wondered if he settle right down into bed or if he was just lying there wide awake like she was. She would bet her FBI badge that he didn't think anything of it and was sound asleep. Pushing all thoughts of John aside, she tried once again to connect all the puzzle pieces of the case. Nothing fit, nothing was right... she felt as if she had to cut the puzzle pieces to get them fit together to form this case.
Ever since John brought her the file folder at her apartment she thought this case was bogus. Not a word of it made sense! Like when she was accused of murdering John, when that wasn't really the case at all.
The lights in the room throbbed brightly, then flickered. Monica slumped a little bit, her head retracting toward her shoulders, as if she expected the ceiling to fall. The lights flickered again and a frightened whimper slipped from her lips. She shook her head, attempting to shake the sleep and fear away.
She jumped to her feet and paced about the room, trying to clear her mind. She decided she needed something to do, so she inched over to the old dressed, which, at one time was probably oak. But now it was dusty and the finish was peeling off. She decided to start at the bottom drawer, just to be different. She knelt, her fingers resting on the rusted handles. She closed her eyes and took a cleansing breath, trying to convince herself that she was just over reacting.
Monica gave the draw a sharp tug. It didn't budge. Curious, she opened her eyes and pulled again. The draw popped open and inside looked like her dress-up trunk when she was five years old. There was an antique white colored dress, which looked like something from the movie /Titanic/. There were also some articles of men's clothing, which looked as if it had come from the same era.
Confused, she closed the drawer and pulled open the next one up. Another dress and a set of men's clothes. This set from the Roaring '20s. Third drawer out of five. Another set of men's and women's clothes. This time... from the fifties. Monica slammed the drawer shut, afraid to open the next one, but knowing she had to.
Forth drawer. She gave a tug, it was stuck. Another hard tug pulled the drawer right out of the dresser and sent her flying backwards, toward the bed. She cried out as the contents were scattered across the room.
She stood up and looked on in horror, the drawer still in her hand. A white tank top and dirty blue jeans... and a wallet. With shaking fingers she reached toward the wallet. She couldn't remember being more scared in her entire life. Not when she got in that near fatal car accident... not when John was shot and she had to pull the plug, not even when Scully gave birth to William with all those alien onlookers.
The faded brown leather was soft under her fingers, she quietly unfolded it. Monica's breathing became quicker as she looked through the contents of the wallet. A student ID... a Social Security card... five hundred dollars in cash... and a driver's license.
She pulled the plastic ID card from its holder and stared down in horror. James Thomas Campbell's picture smiled up at her from its permanent place on the flimsy card. Monica choked on the horror that welled up from the tips of her toes. Throwing the ID and wallet to the floor she ran to the dresser and yanked on the fifth and final drawer. Empty.
So I called up the Captain, "Please bring me my wine."
He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since 1969."
And still those voices are callin' from far away
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say...
Margaret and Robert Ember, 1902. Rose and Nathan Hayes, 1927. Bobbi and Tommy Green, 1952. James Campbell, 1977. John Jay Doggett and Monica Juiletta Reyes... 2002. Monica realized this fact just as the lights flickered for the final time before they went out.
She stifled a scream and fumbled to put the drawer back in place. Under her breath she rattled off a quick prayer she hadn't said in years. She scampered across the room; the yellowed moon light and quick flashes of heat lightning her only guide. She began to pile James's things back into the drawer; tears of fear began to stream down her cheeks. She fumbled with the drawer, trying to slide it back into its proper spot.
The sharp grinding of metal, the crumbling of drywall and the snapping of wood made her stop in her tracks. Monica started crying openly as she dropped the drawer and bolted for the door. She grabbed for the handle, but the door seemed to leap backwards.
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
They livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
"Help me..." a voice moaned from the floor near the bed, Monica spared a sharp look in that direction, but saw no one. "LET ME OUT!" She screamed as she took another swipe toward the door handle.
"Help me please!" On the space next to the door-where the light switch ought to have been-a face began to materialize. "Help me!" it pleaded as it took shape. The shape of James Campbell. He looked like the classic Star Wars Han Solo frozen in carbinite, suspended in the ancient plaster of the wall. Facial features could not be made out, only the shape of the proud, square jaw and the military haircut. A plastered hand reached out toward her, "Please... you gotta help me..."
Monica's eyes went wide and she screamed bloody murder. "JOHN!! JOHN!!" She leaped at the door handle again and finally caught it; she swung the door open, preparing to leave the pleading body of James Campbell behind, only to come face to face with a brick wall.
"YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT WELL ENOUGH ALONE!" Commanded a voice from behind her. Monica did an about face and stood nose to nose with Annabelle Lee. The old woman's hair streamed out behind her, blown about by some unseen force. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed across the dark desert.
"I INVITED YOU INTO MY HOUSE AND YOU HAD TO RUIN IT ALL!" Annabelle's voice was amplified by a thousand and was as deep as the Atlantic Ocean. Monica turned back toward the door, screaming for John. A woman's face on the far side of the room appeared in the wall, followed by a man... and another set of faces and another set. All of them moaning and struggling to get free of the walls, the first woman called out to Monica, "Please! Help us! Free us!"
Annabelle Lee's white night gown flowed behind her as if she was standing amidst the ends of a hurricane. "THEY ALL WANTED TO BURN ME FOR WHO AM I!" Annabelle roared, "I PREVAILED! I WILL LIVE FOREVER, PERSERVED FOR ALL ETERNITY!" Annabelle started towards Monica with outstretched hands, as if she meant to choke the younger woman.
Monica ducked her grasp and ran for the gun that was in her suitcase. Monica's finger closed about the trigger and she fired at Annabelle, her hands were shaking violently and the shots went wild and struck the wall, blowing away a large chunk of plaster that made up James's face.
Monica fired shot after shot at Annabelle, but the bullets passed right through and struck the wall over and over until there was almost nothing left. One by one the wall zombies broke free from their plaster prison and shuffled toward Monica. She was pinned against the bed. "ALL SHALL FEAR ME AND DISPARE!" Annabelle Lee proclaimed.
Her gun empty, she knew she had one shot at this. She punched one wall zombie in the face and leaped over another one. She had reached the dresser, lightning reflected in the mirror. She pulled out the empty drawer, "DISPARE THIS!" Monica screamed back as she chucked the wooden box at Annabelle's head. This threw her off for a moment as Annabelle caught the drawer.
Monica bolted for the door and threw it open. This time no wall stood in the way, instead John stood there shirtless, his chest heaving and his eyes alive with fear. He took one look into Monica's room, swore, grabbed her arm and together they bolted down the stairs. Frantically, Monica glanced behind her. A female wall zombie had escaped from the room and was attempting to descend the stairs.
"John!" Monica laid a hand on the bare skin of his back and pushed him to go faster down the long stairwell, "Hurry!" He glanced back too, "What is with this place?" He demanded as he ran.
The wall zombie's legs would not cooperate with its brain; it took a wrong step and tumbled down the stairs, crashing into Monica just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The zombie's foot caught her just right; causing Monica's left knee to buckle and she tumbled to the ground.
John skidded to a halt at the absence of Monica's hand. The zombie had landed on top of her and she was struggling to get free. Over and over the zombie pleaded for help, all the while it grabbed at Monica's clothes, ripping a piece of cloth away from her shoulder and leaving a trail of blood.
John ran back towards her and pulled her away from the zombie and hauled her to her feet. "C'mon!" Monica ran after John, her shoulder throbbing with pain. The house was completely dark, making it hard to navigate to the front door.
When they finally reached the front door, Monica exhaled with relief. John swung opened the door and shoved her outside before him. She ran down the path with renewed hope, but was stopped in her tracks once again by Annabelle Lee, who suddenly appeared on the weedy path, close to the gate.
Monica slid to a stop, the broken stones of the old path cutting her bare feet. John, who was at a dead run, collided into her, sending her sprawling forward at the old witch's feet.
Mirrors on the ceiling
The pink champagne on ice
She said, "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."
And in the master's chambers
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives
But they just can't kill the beast
John grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her to her feet. Now, Annabelle was no longer an evil looking old woman, she was back to her Grandma persona. "Going somewhere?" she asking with a sickeningly sweet smile. John pushed Monica behind him, since she had no gun.
"Yeah," John agreed, leveling his gun at her and steadying it with his left hand, "Away from you."
"Oh," she said, still wearing her faux smile, "I can't let you go anywhere, you haven't paid your bill yet."
"We'll send you a check!" Monica yelled as she sprang forward and shoved the old woman. Monica had meant to shove her away from the gate so she and John could escape without shooting at her. But the old woman stumbled and fell over the gate, and on to the sidewalk.
"NO! NOOOOOOOOO!" She screamed. Monica and John watched in horror as the old woman began to fade ever so slowly. Then, with a sudden burst of black light, she disappeared and all that was left was a pile of black dust.
John and Monica stared at the pile of dust as a desert wind kicked up and slowly blew the grains until there was nothing left. Behind them, the house seemed to moan. One part of the roof collapsed and a wall followed it. John shoved Monica out the gate and they ran to the street corner where they had first seen the house.
They both fell to the ground, chests heaving. "What... the hell... was that?" John asked through gasps as he leaned against the light pole. "I don't know," Monica replied, looking down the street at the house that was caving in on itself.
"I... found James Campbell," Monica said from the other side of the light pole, looking over at him.
"You did?"
"Yeah... he was dead, along with all the others."
"I figured."
"Annabelle Lee was a witch, I think." Monica tried to ignore the old house down the street, she scooted over so she sat in front of John, "she drew energy from the spirits her house consumed."
John sat there panting, watching his partner like she was crazy. "The house kept her alive, as long as she didn't leave the perimeter... and when she did... the spell was broken." He just shook his head, "All I know is you and I had some killer drywall mummies chasing us, how am I s'posed to explain that to Skinner?"
"I don't know," Monica said. "Did you get hurt at all?"
John shook his head, "Let me see your shoulder, did it cut you?" She nodded and turned around. He ran his fingers along the cut on her shoulder, not too deep just enough to bleed and hurt. "You'll be okay," he said, picking up a scrap of severed t-shirt and pressing it to the wound.
Monica suppressed an involuntary shiver, "They... kept calling to me... and oh, it was creepy." He patted her on the back, "It's over now." She nodded, turned around and locked eyes with him, "Let's go home."
They stood up, took each other's hands and started on the long journey back toward the highway, and neither of them looked back.
Last thing I remember
I was, running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
"Relax," said the night man, "We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave."
Behind them, the town of Roscoe, Nevada shimmered and faded out of existence.
The End.
She took John's hand-more for comfort than anything else-and they started off down the sidewalk. "Excuse me?" a voice called from behind them, "Can I help you?" Both of them spun around, Monica's skirt swatting at her legs. They exchanged glances and were stunned into silence.
An elderly woman stood on the front porch, shivering in her white, cotton nightgown. "Can I help you?" she asked again, smiling warmly at them. Red warning signs flashed in Monica's sleep deprived brain, causing her to back up a few steps and running into John, whose arm instinctively snaked around her waist protectively.
John cleared his throat, still holding onto Monica, as if the old woman would latch onto her neck and suck her blood. "Uh, well, I'm Special Agent John Doggett with the FBI, this is Special Agent Reyes," John let go of Monica, realizing if he acted like a protective boyfriend toward his partner it could look bad for their case, "and, uh, our car broke down a few miles down the road, and we were wondering if we could use a phone."
Monica rolled her eyes at the lame excuse, if they had wanted a phone-... wait a minute! A pay phone! Hope coursed through her veins at the sudden thought. "A phone?" the old lady echoed, peering at them through her bi-focals, "Oh, no, we have no phones here."
"What about a pay phone?" Monica asked hopefully. "No, any phones are against the law here," the old lady replied. Monica and John exchanged bewildered glances. "Against the law to have /phones/?" John repeated with a certain amount of disbelief mixed with sarcasm. "Yes," the old lady replied with a smile. "Well," Monica said quietly to John, "it's sort of plausible, in Carmel California it's against the law to have a doorbell." John looked down at her as if she had finally gone nuts.
"Did you need a room for the night?" The old lady asked, breaking up the moment of weirdness between John and Monica. "A room?" Monica asked, pushing her bangs away from her eyes.
The old lady nodded and pointed to a sign in the crabgrass infested front yard. It was the same chipped and faded color blue as the rest of the house, only with white lettering that read:
Hotel California
13 California Street
Roscoe Nevada
"Hotel California?" Monica asked, amused. "You mean like the song?" The old woman blinked as she moved a step closer to the front door of the house, "What song?"
It was Monica's turn to blink as she suddenly realized that the lyrics of one of her favorite songs seemed to almost fit into the way this case was going. John's words from a few nights ago echoed in her ears, "All the victims were last spotted on or near Highway 375..."
On a dark desert highway
Cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night
The rest of the song eluded her. Monica tried to suppress a shudder, but couldn't and the old lady noticed. "Oh, my, but you're cold, come inside and warm up a bit, we have nice rooms where you can stay for the night."
"Um, no... that's okay," Monica said, suddenly deciding this creepy town might have been the last place any of those victims saw. She grabbed John's arm in desperation, "We really have to get going..."
"Oh," the old lady said in a grandmotherly sort of way, "but if you are having car problems how are you supposed to get anywhere?" Again, instead of seeing what she really should have been seeing, Monica saw the same young man standing at this very gate, which was then painted an ugly brown color, she saw the young man open the gate and climb onto the porch, "Thank you for your kindness, ma'am, I appreciate it." She held out her hand, "You may call me Annabelle Lee, and you are?" He shook her hand politely, "James Campbell, ma'am."
James... it was their last victim she saw! Monica still didn't want to stay in this horrible place, where at least seven people might have been murdered. John, however, couldn't seem the pass up the deal.
"How much are your rooms?" he asked.
There she stood in the doorway
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinkin' to myself
This could be heaven or this could be hell
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
Thought I heard them say...
"Oh, don't worry about the price, sonny, you and Ms. Reyes have a nice rest and we'll talk prices in the morning," Annabelle Lee replied. John glanced over at Monica, waiting for her approval. She figured the best way to look for clues would be on the inside of the house. Monica shrugged her response. Whether John knew it or not, Monica now considered this house and this old lady as one of their prime suspects.
John opened the gate and he and Monica walked up the front steps to the porch, the old lady smiled at them, "I'm Annabelle Lee, the owner." John shook her hand, Monica followed suit. As they crossed the foyer another verse of "Hotel California" came forward from the many hazy thoughts in Monica's brain.
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year, you can find it here
She could hear John and Annabelle speaking pleasantly, but she tuned it out as she walked casually around the living room. Monica kept her eyes glued to the walls, no television, no electric plugs, but it had electric lights... no phone jacks... nothing to connect you to the outside world. She glanced over at Annabelle Lee in the kitchen, who was making John a cup of coffee. Something was just not right about this place... this old woman... this house... Monica's sudden visions... none of it made any sense whatsoever.
She stood in the middle of the living room, mulling over all the clues and trying to connect the pieces of the puzzle. All of the victims had last been spotted on Highway 375, and according to Rand McNally's 2002 USA road map, Roscoe Nevada didn't exist.
What about the town itself? Out here in the middle of nowhere, like someone came along, planted a seed and /BOOM/, a town grew. But with no phones? How could a whole town-even a small one-survive without any sort of communication device?
Monica had used the example of Carmel California, but Carmel was a rich, upscale yuppie sort of neighborhood, which had probably been around a lot longer than Roscoe had.
"Monica?" She looked up as John entered the room, "ready for bed?" Annabelle Lee walked in behind him; "I'll show you to your rooms, they're right upstairs." John and Monica followed silently. Anxiety and a sense of terror grew over Monica as she climbed the stairs. Don't be stupid, she chided herself, you're just tired, there is no way in hell this sweet little old lady could be a cold blooded killer. It defies all logic.
"Here you are!" Chimed Annabelle in her stereotypical TV Grandma voice, "Have a good rest, I'll be downstairs if you need anything." John thanked her; Monica pretended to be too tired to bother. Their rooms were side by side; John went into the one on the left, "Night, Mon," he yawned over his shoulder as he shut the door.
Monica was left standing in the hallway. The lights went out downstairs and she suddenly felt the urge to whimper and run after John. She shook her head, however, and decided not to sleep. Yes, that would be the key, she might be cranky in the morning, but it beat being dead.
She went into the door on the right, flipped the light on and felt like she was being warped into a bad Ewan McGregor flick. She looked around the room, yellowed wall paper with now brownish-gray Forget-Me-Nots on it, a bed with no box spring, dirty avocado green shag carpet... Monica didn't even want to think about what the bathroom looked like...
She set her bag on the floor near the bed and unzipped it. Pulling out an oversized Aerosmith-In-Concert t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. She changed quickly, sat down on what was supposed to be the bed and surveyed the room.
Her mind is Tiffany-twisted; she's got the Mercedes-Bends
She's got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget
An old dresser stood off to one corner of the room, on top of it was a cracked and dirty mirror, on what would be the south side of the house was the door to a private bath, but it probably hadn't been cleaned in a 'coons age.
Monica hugged her knees to her chest, leaving the lights on. It was too creepy to sleep in the dark. Or stay awake for that matter. She thought of John in the room next to hers and wondered if he settle right down into bed or if he was just lying there wide awake like she was. She would bet her FBI badge that he didn't think anything of it and was sound asleep. Pushing all thoughts of John aside, she tried once again to connect all the puzzle pieces of the case. Nothing fit, nothing was right... she felt as if she had to cut the puzzle pieces to get them fit together to form this case.
Ever since John brought her the file folder at her apartment she thought this case was bogus. Not a word of it made sense! Like when she was accused of murdering John, when that wasn't really the case at all.
The lights in the room throbbed brightly, then flickered. Monica slumped a little bit, her head retracting toward her shoulders, as if she expected the ceiling to fall. The lights flickered again and a frightened whimper slipped from her lips. She shook her head, attempting to shake the sleep and fear away.
She jumped to her feet and paced about the room, trying to clear her mind. She decided she needed something to do, so she inched over to the old dressed, which, at one time was probably oak. But now it was dusty and the finish was peeling off. She decided to start at the bottom drawer, just to be different. She knelt, her fingers resting on the rusted handles. She closed her eyes and took a cleansing breath, trying to convince herself that she was just over reacting.
Monica gave the draw a sharp tug. It didn't budge. Curious, she opened her eyes and pulled again. The draw popped open and inside looked like her dress-up trunk when she was five years old. There was an antique white colored dress, which looked like something from the movie /Titanic/. There were also some articles of men's clothing, which looked as if it had come from the same era.
Confused, she closed the drawer and pulled open the next one up. Another dress and a set of men's clothes. This set from the Roaring '20s. Third drawer out of five. Another set of men's and women's clothes. This time... from the fifties. Monica slammed the drawer shut, afraid to open the next one, but knowing she had to.
Forth drawer. She gave a tug, it was stuck. Another hard tug pulled the drawer right out of the dresser and sent her flying backwards, toward the bed. She cried out as the contents were scattered across the room.
She stood up and looked on in horror, the drawer still in her hand. A white tank top and dirty blue jeans... and a wallet. With shaking fingers she reached toward the wallet. She couldn't remember being more scared in her entire life. Not when she got in that near fatal car accident... not when John was shot and she had to pull the plug, not even when Scully gave birth to William with all those alien onlookers.
The faded brown leather was soft under her fingers, she quietly unfolded it. Monica's breathing became quicker as she looked through the contents of the wallet. A student ID... a Social Security card... five hundred dollars in cash... and a driver's license.
She pulled the plastic ID card from its holder and stared down in horror. James Thomas Campbell's picture smiled up at her from its permanent place on the flimsy card. Monica choked on the horror that welled up from the tips of her toes. Throwing the ID and wallet to the floor she ran to the dresser and yanked on the fifth and final drawer. Empty.
So I called up the Captain, "Please bring me my wine."
He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since 1969."
And still those voices are callin' from far away
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say...
Margaret and Robert Ember, 1902. Rose and Nathan Hayes, 1927. Bobbi and Tommy Green, 1952. James Campbell, 1977. John Jay Doggett and Monica Juiletta Reyes... 2002. Monica realized this fact just as the lights flickered for the final time before they went out.
She stifled a scream and fumbled to put the drawer back in place. Under her breath she rattled off a quick prayer she hadn't said in years. She scampered across the room; the yellowed moon light and quick flashes of heat lightning her only guide. She began to pile James's things back into the drawer; tears of fear began to stream down her cheeks. She fumbled with the drawer, trying to slide it back into its proper spot.
The sharp grinding of metal, the crumbling of drywall and the snapping of wood made her stop in her tracks. Monica started crying openly as she dropped the drawer and bolted for the door. She grabbed for the handle, but the door seemed to leap backwards.
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
They livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
"Help me..." a voice moaned from the floor near the bed, Monica spared a sharp look in that direction, but saw no one. "LET ME OUT!" She screamed as she took another swipe toward the door handle.
"Help me please!" On the space next to the door-where the light switch ought to have been-a face began to materialize. "Help me!" it pleaded as it took shape. The shape of James Campbell. He looked like the classic Star Wars Han Solo frozen in carbinite, suspended in the ancient plaster of the wall. Facial features could not be made out, only the shape of the proud, square jaw and the military haircut. A plastered hand reached out toward her, "Please... you gotta help me..."
Monica's eyes went wide and she screamed bloody murder. "JOHN!! JOHN!!" She leaped at the door handle again and finally caught it; she swung the door open, preparing to leave the pleading body of James Campbell behind, only to come face to face with a brick wall.
"YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT WELL ENOUGH ALONE!" Commanded a voice from behind her. Monica did an about face and stood nose to nose with Annabelle Lee. The old woman's hair streamed out behind her, blown about by some unseen force. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed across the dark desert.
"I INVITED YOU INTO MY HOUSE AND YOU HAD TO RUIN IT ALL!" Annabelle's voice was amplified by a thousand and was as deep as the Atlantic Ocean. Monica turned back toward the door, screaming for John. A woman's face on the far side of the room appeared in the wall, followed by a man... and another set of faces and another set. All of them moaning and struggling to get free of the walls, the first woman called out to Monica, "Please! Help us! Free us!"
Annabelle Lee's white night gown flowed behind her as if she was standing amidst the ends of a hurricane. "THEY ALL WANTED TO BURN ME FOR WHO AM I!" Annabelle roared, "I PREVAILED! I WILL LIVE FOREVER, PERSERVED FOR ALL ETERNITY!" Annabelle started towards Monica with outstretched hands, as if she meant to choke the younger woman.
Monica ducked her grasp and ran for the gun that was in her suitcase. Monica's finger closed about the trigger and she fired at Annabelle, her hands were shaking violently and the shots went wild and struck the wall, blowing away a large chunk of plaster that made up James's face.
Monica fired shot after shot at Annabelle, but the bullets passed right through and struck the wall over and over until there was almost nothing left. One by one the wall zombies broke free from their plaster prison and shuffled toward Monica. She was pinned against the bed. "ALL SHALL FEAR ME AND DISPARE!" Annabelle Lee proclaimed.
Her gun empty, she knew she had one shot at this. She punched one wall zombie in the face and leaped over another one. She had reached the dresser, lightning reflected in the mirror. She pulled out the empty drawer, "DISPARE THIS!" Monica screamed back as she chucked the wooden box at Annabelle's head. This threw her off for a moment as Annabelle caught the drawer.
Monica bolted for the door and threw it open. This time no wall stood in the way, instead John stood there shirtless, his chest heaving and his eyes alive with fear. He took one look into Monica's room, swore, grabbed her arm and together they bolted down the stairs. Frantically, Monica glanced behind her. A female wall zombie had escaped from the room and was attempting to descend the stairs.
"John!" Monica laid a hand on the bare skin of his back and pushed him to go faster down the long stairwell, "Hurry!" He glanced back too, "What is with this place?" He demanded as he ran.
The wall zombie's legs would not cooperate with its brain; it took a wrong step and tumbled down the stairs, crashing into Monica just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The zombie's foot caught her just right; causing Monica's left knee to buckle and she tumbled to the ground.
John skidded to a halt at the absence of Monica's hand. The zombie had landed on top of her and she was struggling to get free. Over and over the zombie pleaded for help, all the while it grabbed at Monica's clothes, ripping a piece of cloth away from her shoulder and leaving a trail of blood.
John ran back towards her and pulled her away from the zombie and hauled her to her feet. "C'mon!" Monica ran after John, her shoulder throbbing with pain. The house was completely dark, making it hard to navigate to the front door.
When they finally reached the front door, Monica exhaled with relief. John swung opened the door and shoved her outside before him. She ran down the path with renewed hope, but was stopped in her tracks once again by Annabelle Lee, who suddenly appeared on the weedy path, close to the gate.
Monica slid to a stop, the broken stones of the old path cutting her bare feet. John, who was at a dead run, collided into her, sending her sprawling forward at the old witch's feet.
Mirrors on the ceiling
The pink champagne on ice
She said, "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."
And in the master's chambers
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives
But they just can't kill the beast
John grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her to her feet. Now, Annabelle was no longer an evil looking old woman, she was back to her Grandma persona. "Going somewhere?" she asking with a sickeningly sweet smile. John pushed Monica behind him, since she had no gun.
"Yeah," John agreed, leveling his gun at her and steadying it with his left hand, "Away from you."
"Oh," she said, still wearing her faux smile, "I can't let you go anywhere, you haven't paid your bill yet."
"We'll send you a check!" Monica yelled as she sprang forward and shoved the old woman. Monica had meant to shove her away from the gate so she and John could escape without shooting at her. But the old woman stumbled and fell over the gate, and on to the sidewalk.
"NO! NOOOOOOOOO!" She screamed. Monica and John watched in horror as the old woman began to fade ever so slowly. Then, with a sudden burst of black light, she disappeared and all that was left was a pile of black dust.
John and Monica stared at the pile of dust as a desert wind kicked up and slowly blew the grains until there was nothing left. Behind them, the house seemed to moan. One part of the roof collapsed and a wall followed it. John shoved Monica out the gate and they ran to the street corner where they had first seen the house.
They both fell to the ground, chests heaving. "What... the hell... was that?" John asked through gasps as he leaned against the light pole. "I don't know," Monica replied, looking down the street at the house that was caving in on itself.
"I... found James Campbell," Monica said from the other side of the light pole, looking over at him.
"You did?"
"Yeah... he was dead, along with all the others."
"I figured."
"Annabelle Lee was a witch, I think." Monica tried to ignore the old house down the street, she scooted over so she sat in front of John, "she drew energy from the spirits her house consumed."
John sat there panting, watching his partner like she was crazy. "The house kept her alive, as long as she didn't leave the perimeter... and when she did... the spell was broken." He just shook his head, "All I know is you and I had some killer drywall mummies chasing us, how am I s'posed to explain that to Skinner?"
"I don't know," Monica said. "Did you get hurt at all?"
John shook his head, "Let me see your shoulder, did it cut you?" She nodded and turned around. He ran his fingers along the cut on her shoulder, not too deep just enough to bleed and hurt. "You'll be okay," he said, picking up a scrap of severed t-shirt and pressing it to the wound.
Monica suppressed an involuntary shiver, "They... kept calling to me... and oh, it was creepy." He patted her on the back, "It's over now." She nodded, turned around and locked eyes with him, "Let's go home."
They stood up, took each other's hands and started on the long journey back toward the highway, and neither of them looked back.
Last thing I remember
I was, running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
"Relax," said the night man, "We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave."
Behind them, the town of Roscoe, Nevada shimmered and faded out of existence.
The End.
Sign up to rate and review this story