preparations.
i'm a believer, but i'm not a fool.
Every day, it seems like there’s a new stain somewhere.
Seeping through my carpets. Muddying my wallpaper. They’re mold and old blood and moisture left unchecked for far too long. They’re unsightly. Something that would be better off left hidden away should guests arrive. It never lasts long, though. They’re inevitable, the stains and the guests. All we can do is stamp them out and hope that they take longer to reappear next time.
It’s been getting warmer out. Pleasantly so. The breeze doesn’t rock my shutters like it did mere weeks ago. It’s almost vacation season, the height of the year, and we have to be ready. Ready for what, exactly, we do not know, but we have to be ready.
So we prepare.
We adjust the light fixtures. We polish down each window. We aren’t an electrician, but we try to get the lights in my lobby working once again. My wiring is aged, and disuse has only made it worse, but we manage. We heard something about a fire hazard, years back. An investigator, they were. One of the paranormal variety (so not much of an investigator at all, we think.) They were disposed of long ago, but their words may hold merit. It’s of no use being a hazard to our guests.
My walls bubble outwards, wrapping the bare metal in something thick, yet pliable. We give it a tentative poke. I don’t know what exactly it is, but some part of us knows that it will serve its purpose.
(We know it’s part of us. It can feel it wriggling.)
No one came. We should expect this by now, but no one came, and it hurts just as much every time. We spend so much time cleaning and adjusting and repairing. We break and splinter ourselves for a clientele that couldn’t care less.
But we don’t stop. We never stop. We can never stop.
They’ll be back eventually.
The leaves have turned a lovely shade of brown. It’d be quite nice if we didn’t have to constantly sweep them out of my lobby.
Sometimes, while we work, we let ourselves think. About reopening. About managing ourselves with no staff. About… the logistics. Every proprietor we’ve had seemed to know their way around business like we know our way around our halls. We don’t. It’s never been our job to know about property taxes or advertising or what have you. I house the guests. We keep them comfortable until they leave.
We’ve been having more guests leaving than coming in as of late.
My doors swing open, and my flesh scurries out of sight like a startled rat. There’s a gaggle of people standing at my entrance. Warm and breathing, dressed in baggy street-wear with wide, awestruck eyes. We aren’t anywhere near ready. We weren’t expecting guests. But they arrived anyway.
“Dude, look at this place.” This one is round-faced, with sandy blonde hair and glimmering eyes. They run a hand along my banister— it takes all we have not to jump to our feet and clean the oily residue they leave behind. “When’s the last time anyone was in here?”
“Can it.” This one is pale and sallow, with hair and makeup and clothes all the same shade of black. In their hands is a compact, boxlike device, with a dimly lit “record” button in the center. “That’s not what we’re here for. Let me record without you screwing up my results.”
“About 70 years, I’d wager.” This one is tanned and tall, lanky in an awkward, boyish way. The pale one shoots them a cold glare that they don’t acknowledge. “I think we’re the first ones to make it inside.”
They leave the door open at their backs, so I shut it for them.
The round-faced one begged to be let out for hours. They pounded at my doors, leaving splinters lodged in their chubby fists. The pale one mocked them for it, device held high in the air, searching for something we couldn’t provide. The tall one ignored them both, engrossed in the decor, muttering about being part of history.
They seemed proud of themselves, all because they managed to get past my doorway. It’d be easy to mock them for that. It would also, however, be rude, and unbefitting the standards of quality and customer service that we hold ourselves to. So we gave them something to brag about and carry home and spread to all of their friends. Word of mouth makes for great publicity.
They left nothing, and they took nothing. But they didn’t stay.
More come. More go. Some bring cameras, take a few pictures with their friends out front and leave. (This sort is always a delight. They always have such interesting tales to tell.) Some bring toilet paper and eggs, and run as fast as their legs can carry them as they watch my front steps slowly swallow the more daring of their number. Then, by the time the air gets so cold that I have to shutter myself to keep my flesh from freezing, they’re gone.
It’s hard for us to keep track of time. We don’t have anything that could indicate a date, even a year. We do, however, have them. Always around the same time, always with the same chill in the air. We figure, in that case, that a year has passed. Another year without any patrons, but a year nonetheless.
We try not to dwell on it.