Ike Hamill - The Vivisectionist

Despair flooded through the boy, and he felt helpless to shake it off. After everything, he stood right back in the same situation. He considered his options — he could run upstairs and try to find one of the third-floor windows he had spotted earlier. He could press further down this hall, or he could try the door.

The boy couldn't make a decision; too much weighed on his choice. He felt sleepy, and gave into the feeling. He just wanted to sit down for a minute, to think it all through. The boy leaned heavily on the wall as his legs weakened. He slid down the wall and dropped his head to his chest. His left hand flicked off the wavering otoscope and his only light was leaking from under the door next him.

A loud bang startled him. He raised his eyes, but his head didn’t move. A second later, blinding overhead lights came on, forcing him to squint. He didn’t move. Another noise down the hall drew his gaze. He saw a large form approaching. He didn’t try to run.

On Monday night the boys sat in front of the television. Jack didn't pay attention to the program — something about a club of people who investigated haunted houses. He was too busy reviewing his plans.

Jack attacked problems with fierce concentration, but few things occupied his full attention for long. He relished the small number of challenges that had really taxed him. The first he remembered was a set of IQ tests his parents had arranged when he was still in grade-school.

Jack had really enjoyed the tests, but despised the idea of skipping grades. At that time, being in school with his best friend Ben was the only thing that made class bearable. When Ben transferred to a private school for fourth grade, Jack’s parents had asked him again to advance. At that point he didn't want to be the small kid in fifth grade. That extra year meant a lot at that age, and the fifth-graders intimidated Jack. So, he had stayed back and found his own ways to challenge himself.

A really good puzzle could also inspire Jack, especially if it was one posed by his dad.

The previous weeks, the puzzles of the hotel had thrilled Jack. He didn’t see danger, only opportunity. The man who had set up this whole situation, the one they referred to as “The Management,” had left specific clues for Jack, and Jack knew he could defeat The Management at his own game. Stephen remained the weakest part of Jack's plan. He needed Stephen to come along, and it seemed that he had accomplished that with his story about Albuquerque.

Tricking Stephen had been easy. Jack had produced the fake United Airlines itinerary in about five minutes — taking the logo from their website, and making up the rest. The CNN site had required more work, but not much. Jack had copied one of their headline pages to his computer and then written his own story. He took much of the text directly from the report about Gabe Vigue and then told his computer to redirect any requests for CNN back to his version of the page. He had worried that Stephen might click on one of the links on the page, exposing the facade, but by stepping in with the itinerary as soon as Stephen had started to question the details, Jack had thwarted Stephen’s curiosity.

He only needed Stephen to return to the hotel one more time.

“This is creeping me out,” said Stephen, commenting on the television show. “Reminds me of the hotel.”

“Let’s change it then,” said Jack, reaching for the remote.

“No, leave it,” said Stephen. “It creeps me out, but I like it — they don’t give up even though they’re spooked.”

To get to The Management, Jack needed Stephen.

The Management had painted the first clue into the portraits in the red room. They featured an older man and a boy facing each other. Jack was the boy, he reasoned, and he was facing The Management. When Jack studied the eyes of the boy in the portrait, he saw an image reflected in the painted pupils. The boy held out a child as a gift to The Management.

Jack had found the next clue in the bathroom of the second hotel room they had entered. In that room, he found recent signs of activity: a toothbrush, comb, wet towel, and a very odd painting on the mirror. When Jack stood in front of the mirror he saw his own body capped with a bull’s head. An angry bovine face looked back from atop his shoulders. Written on the lower left-hand corner of the drawing, like a signature, was the name “Baal.”

Hours of careful research had revealed Baal to be an ancient god who required child sacrifice. The ritual was brutal: his worshippers would heat up a statue of Baal until the arms glowed red and then place a child in his arms. The child would die of the burns from Baal’s embrace.

Jack read quote after quote of Baal, and started to think that he had seen that name somewhere before. In a bright flash, the answer came to him. A little over a week before, Jack had stayed up most of the night decoding the letter from The Management. One of the details he could never decipher was the pattern of the sentences. The letter contained seven sentences per paragraph, and in each, the first letters of sentences spelled out “IAMBAAL.” Jack added spaces to that phrase to make it “I am Baal.”

Stephen wasn’t quite as young as Baal would prefer, but Jack figured it would be close enough to get him into The Management’s presence. Jack thought through his itinerary one more time and decided he had planned enough. Now he needed to turn off his brain and just relax — tomorrow would be a tough day, and he would need his rest.

Jack was relieved to finally get underway on Tuesday morning. So far, everything was perfect. His mom had agreed that they could go play until lunch again, and Stephen hadn't backed out.

They walked along the path to the hotel in silence until Stephen asked, “Hey, what do you think ever happened to Ben?”

His tone surprised Jack. Stephen sounded a little sad.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jack replied. “Probably just on vacation with his mom.”

“I bet your mom tries to track him down before long,” said Stephen.

“You’re probably right,” Jack admitted. After Gabe disappeared, his parents had been extremely overprotective. Jack couldn't leave the house by himself for months. If something happened to Ben, Jack couldn't even imagine how his parents would react. He hoped for his own sake that Ben would call, but secretly believed that he wouldn't hear from Ben any time soon, if at all.

When they reached the hotel, Jack prepared Stephen for some small changes — “I think we’re going to have to do the whole trip. I accidentally let the secret door in the chimney close behind me the other day.”

“Oh, bummer. How did that happen?” asked Stephen.

“I don’t know,” Jack lied. It had taken him almost ten minutes to figure out how to close that door. He needed Stephen with him in the other part of the hotel, so it had been a necessary expense.

They worked together, exchanging few words, to set up the ladders and climb down into the drawing room.

Stephen hadn’t seen the anatomical drawing for several trips. “What do you think this means?” he asked, pointing to the painting which featured a half finished, half dissected man.

“Maybe we’re seeing inside him — you know, how he thinks of himself?” suggested Jack. “It kind of reminds me of a diagram we had in biology. But that one showed half a skeleton, and half exposed muscles.”

The boys climbed the ladder into the bishop’s room.

“We never did check behind those other doors,” said Stephen.

Jack noted that Stephen's voice had an air of finality. Jack saw all the possibilities of interesting things to discover, and Stephen talked about the things they had never done, as if they never would.