Matthew Cornachione - Dansk Bay Hotel

I had to try.

I started walking. Before I knew it, I stood at the back door to the hotel. I paused, wavering for a moment. Did I really want to do this? Hell no, but I was going to anyway. Pulling the door open, I slipped back into the hotel.

The rusty door creaked behind me as it slowly fell closed again. The interior was cast in darkness and I realized I hadn’t brought a flashlight. Or had I? My phone might not be able to call anyone, but the flashlight app worked fine. The small beam gave me a pool of light to work with.

I remembered exactly where I’d first seen the clouds, the spirit. I moved with confidence down the hall, past the lobby. At the corner my foot hit a sticky patch and I nearly fell, but I caught myself and kept going.

Down the far wing I went until I my phone light glinted off something to the left. Set in the wall was a massive steel door with a wheel crank and thick deadbolt. I was sure the spirit lived beyond.

The hallway was blessedly empty. I let out the breath I’d been subconsciously holding. For some reason I’d expected to find the ghost perched in from of the door, blocking my entrance.

Still, I hesitated. I’d broken into the museum, but I was hardly a master criminal. This door was locked, probably with military grade security. There was no way I’d get through.

I tried anyway. Setting down my phone, I grabbed the wheel and twisted with all my might. The wheel didn’t so much as flinch. I shifted my stance, trying for a better angle.

And my foot slid. Only my grip on the wheel kept me upright. What the hell was this? Was something growing in this nasty building? I retrieved my phone and looked at the floor.

Indeed, there was something glistening down there, but not a fungal growth. No, this was a single patch of a viscous reddish fluid, smeared over the concrete. Unmistakable.

Blood.

Shit!

This… this was fresh. Someone nearby was hurt. Or worse.

I abandoned my futile effort to open the door. Keeping my flashlight pointed down, I traced the blood smears along the concrete. I’d been so focused on the walls, I’d missed it on the way in. I came to the corner where I’d first stepped in it and saw my bloody shoe prints leading away. From there the trail led up a staircase, along the second floor hallway, and into a room.

I crept forward, afraid of what I might find inside. When I peered through the door, I saw no one. The room was empty. Well, empty of people, anyway.

The blood trail led back to a filthy bedroll. A red spatter covered the wall next to it. There was a knapsack and a few other odds and ends, including a fishing pole. I guessed this had once been Lucas’ accommodations.

My lips quivered, and I thought back to yesterday when I’d seen the young fishing hand. He had been aloof, fearful. That fear was apparently justified.

So the blood trail led the other way. Into the basement. Which meant that whoever assaulted the fisherman had a key. There was only one person in town who I’d expect to have one. The same person I’d overheard this morning saying that the fishing hand wasn’t coming back to work anymore.

Would Nekker actually kill anyone, especially in his own hotel? Was he some sort of psychopath? I wasn’t sure. From our encounters, I knew he was a little odd, but I hadn’t sensed anything threating about him. But, he had to be involved somehow.

Regardless, it was clear to me the fisherman was in grave peril. That, or I stood at the scene of a murder. This was too much.

I turned and fled, running down the hallway, down the stairs, out the back door, and away from that terrible place. Rain pelted me as I sprinted down the driveway to the main road. I finally slowed, gasping for air and stopped beside the WWII memorial.

Despite what I’d learned about Dansk Bay’s contribution to the war, I found this place peaceful. It was a sign someone had cared about the lives lost, about the toll that crisis had taken.

Part of me wanted to keep running, but another part (besides my aching lungs) urged me to think this through. So, there I stood, rain soaking my hair as I stared at the trimmed bushes surrounding the American flag. And, I breathed.

Eventually, my heart slowed to a normal rhythm. I wouldn’t claim I was calm, but at least I could think. With that clarity, my next step was obvious. You find a murder, you go to the police. Or, in this case, the sheriff.

In no time flat, I stood at the town crossroads, looking at the doors of the sheriff’s office. I didn’t know what waited for me in there, but what I’d witnessed went beyond my own personal fears. Atrocities committed decades ago were bad enough, but one done this morning… That had to be set right.

So, I pulled the door open and stepped inside, dripping all over the floor mat. I found myself in a small room with an empty reception desk straight ahead. Behind it was a closed door, a light showing underneath. A placard read “Sheriff Clement.”

I knocked on the door.

“Just a moment,” said a familiar voice.

The door opened to reveal the bearded man who had pushed me out of the diner yesterday. Today, he was properly dressed with a crisp beige coat, official patches on shoulder, and a badge pinned to his breast. At his hip was a holstered pistol.

“Well, I heard you were still in town. Need some help getting out?” He cracked a smile.

Did he know I couldn’t leave town? That didn’t bode well, but I decided to go for it anyway. “Sheriff, I think there’s been a murder.”

“Murder? In Dansk Bay? Ha, I doubt that, but I suppose I’d best hear you out.”

“I was in the hotel—“

“Trespassing?”

“No, no. I mean, I have permission from Mr. Nekker. But listen. I found blood in one of the rooms. Someone hurt the fishing hand.”

The sheriff let out a laugh at that. A laugh! He sat back and said, “Son, now come back when you have a real crime to report.”

“Excuse me?”

“What you’ve seen, that there’s fish blood. Happens all the time. Captain’s a little soft on his hires, sometimes lets it slide when they steal from the catch. A big halibut can fetch a hundred dollars easy. Boy probably tried to fillet in his room and made a hash of the thing.”

“Uh, I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve never seen a murder, or fish gutting before, but of the two, it looks a hell of a lot more like the first. There’s even a blood trail leading to the basement.”

“Bet he’s got a freezer down there. More clever than most of the captain’s hands, that one.”

Obvious bull, but something the sheriff said set off an alarm. “You said most of the captain’s hands. Does he have a lot? Do many of them leave fish blood in that hotel?”

“Not that it’s any of your damn business, but yes, they come through every summer. Sometimes a couple each season. Usually once they steal some fish they skip town. Guilty conscience, I suppose.”

“And, do you ever see them again?”

“’Course not. What are you getting at?” A note of hostility crept into his voice.

“Nothing. Look, maybe you could at least investigate this scene. This time it might be different.”

“Ain’t nothing worth my time.” The sheriff stood up. “Now if you haven’t got a real problem, then get out of my office. I hope I’ll not be seeing you again.”

I was about to object when I glanced down to the sheriff’s desk. Poking out from beneath a binder was a paper addressed to Alaska Railway. I couldn’t read the message, but I saw enough. The subject line indicated “Request for suspension of service.”

He was part of it all. The sheriff wasn’t going to help me. This man had used his authority to stop the trains and trap me in town. I needed to get the hell away.