The Missing Room

By November, the Bellweather Hotel belonged to the wind.

In summer, every room filled. Children ran wet-footed through the lobby after swimming in Lake Bellweather. Wedding parties crowded the bar. Suitcases rolled over the old wooden floors from morning until midnight. On warm evenings, guests carried drinks onto the long veranda and watched boats return to the marina.

But after Labor Day, the tourists disappeared.

The boats came out of the water. The ice cream shop in town reduced its hours, then closed entirely. Restaurants covered their patio furniture with blue tarps. By November, the Bellweather had eighty-four rooms and three guests.

Barbara Voss worked the front desk alone.

She liked the quiet at first.

She could read between phone calls, eat dinner behind the desk, and hear the old building settle around her. Pipes knocked behind the walls. Radiators hissed. The elevator sometimes opened on the ground floor without anyone pressing the button.

The manager, Jung Song, said that was normal.

“Old wiring.”

Everything at the Bellweather was explained by age.

The elevator.

The leaking roof.

The lights that flickered on the second floor.

The telephone in Room 214 that sometimes rang the front desk even though the room hadn't been rented in years.

That last detail Barbara didn't learn until later.

On Tuesday night, at 11:43, someone called from Room 214.

Barbara stared at the switchboard.

214.

She checked the computer.

VACANT.

She let it ring four times before answering.

“Front desk.”

For a moment, there was only static.

Then a woman whispered, “Could you send someone up?”

Barbara sat straighter.

“Of course. What seems to be the problem?”

“The window.”

“What about it?”

“It keeps opening.”

Barbara looked toward the lobby windows. Outside, sleet scratched against the glass.

“I can come up and take a look. What name is the room under?”

Silence.

Then the woman said, “Please hurry.”

The line went dead.

Barbara called Jung.

No answer.

She considered ignoring it. Crossed lines, perhaps. One of the other guests could have dialed incorrectly.

Then the telephone rang again.

214.

Barbara picked up.

This time the woman was crying.

“He's in the hallway.”

“Who is?”

“I locked the door.”

Barbara stood.

“Ma'am, listen to me. I need your name.”

The crying stopped.

A man's voice came through the receiver.

“She shouldn't have called you.”

The line went dead.

Barbara took the master key from the drawer.

The elevator was too slow, so she used the stairs.

The second floor smelled colder than the lobby. Most of the lights had been switched off for the season, leaving small yellow pools beneath the emergency fixtures.

Room 214 stood halfway down the corridor.

Its door was closed.

Barbara approached quietly.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

She knocked.

“Front desk.”

From inside came the soft scrape of something moving.

Barbara slipped the master key into the lock.

Then she noticed the carpet.

It was wet.

A thin trail of water ran from beneath Room 214 and continued down the hall toward the stairwell.

Barbara touched it with two fingers.

Lake water.

She knew the smell.

Mud. Weeds. That dark mineral odor from beneath the docks.

Something moved inside the room again.

Barbara stepped back.

The door opened.

No one stood behind it.

Room 214 was dark and freezing.

The window was wide open.

Curtains snapped in the wind.

“Hello?”

Barbara reached for the light switch.

The room appeared all at once.

Bed.

Chair.

Dresser.

Empty.

Then she saw the photograph lying on the pillow.

An old Polaroid, yellow around the edges.

A young woman stood in front of the Bellweather wearing a summer uniform. Behind her, sunlight glittered on the lake.

Someone had written a date across the bottom.

AUGUST 17, 1986.

Barbara turned the photograph over.

Three words were written on the back.

HE CAME BACK.

The door slammed behind her.

The lights went out.

In the darkness, the telephone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She found it by touch and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

Her own voice answered.

But it wasn't speaking to her.

It sounded distant.

Frightened.

“Front desk.”

A pause.

Then Barbara heard herself ask-

“What seems to be the problem?”

She dropped the receiver.

From the hallway came the slow, wet sound of footsteps.

Someone was walking toward Room 214.

Barbara backed toward the open window.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

The handle began to turn.

Then everything went silent.

Barbara waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

She crossed the room and pulled the door open.

The corridor was empty.

But on the carpet outside were wet footprints.

They led away from Room 214.

Not toward the stairs.

Toward Room 217.

Barbara followed them.

The footprints stopped at the door.

Room 217 was occupied.

By Jung Song's father.

Mr. Song

Dok Song had arrived three days earlier.

Barbara knew almost nothing about him.

He was seventy-eight, thin and formal, with silver hair combed straight back. He wore a jacket even at breakfast and carried an old wooden cane he didn't seem to need.

Jung had introduced him simply.

“My father.”

Dok had looked around the lobby as though he disliked what had been done to it.

“You changed the chandelier.”

Jung's face tightened.

“That was fifteen years ago.”

“Still shouldn't have changed it.”

Dok spent most of his time in Room 217.

Now Barbara stood outside his door at midnight with an old photograph in her hand.

She knocked.

Nothing.

“Mr. Song?”

A light appeared beneath the door.

Locks clicked.

Dok opened it.

His eyes immediately went to the Polaroid.

The color left his face.

“Where did you get that?”

“Room 214.”

He stared at her.

Then he tried to close the door.

Barbara stopped it with her hand.

“Who is she?”

“You shouldn't be upstairs.”

“I work here.”

“Not for much longer if you keep asking questions.”

Barbara looked at the photograph.

“You know her.”

Dok's jaw tightened.

Behind him, the television was playing without sound.

“Her name was Lori Vale,” he said.

“Was?”

Dok looked past Barbara toward Room 214.

“She disappeared.”

“When?”

“You have the date in your hand.”

Barbara looked down.

August 17, 1986.

“What happened?”

“Nobody knows.”

“You do.”

Dok's expression changed.

Not anger.

Fear.

He whispered, “Close that room.”

“Why?”

“Close it, lock it, and don't answer the telephone again.”

Then he shut the door.

Lori Vale

The next morning, Barbara searched the hotel's archives.

“Archives” was Jung's generous name for the basement storage room.

It contained tax records, broken lamps, Christmas decorations, old menus, employee files, guest registers and thirty years of things nobody had bothered to throw away.

Barbara found 1986 in a cardboard box beneath a plastic reindeer.

The Bellweather had been very different then.

Dok Song had owned it.

Jung had been seventeen.

Barbara found a staff photograph from that summer.

Thirty-two employees stood on the hotel steps.

Dok was in the center.

Beside him stood his wife, Emma.

Jung was in the back row.

And near the edge was the woman from the Polaroid.

Lori Vale.

Nineteen years old.

Housekeeping.

Barbara kept searching.

At the bottom of the box she found a newspaper clipping.

LOCAL WOMAN MISSING FROM LAKESIDE HOTEL

Lori Vale had disappeared during an overnight shift on August 17.

Her purse had been found in the employee locker room.

Her car remained in the parking lot.

Police believed she might have entered the lake.

Her body was never recovered.

Barbara read the article twice.

Then she noticed something.

A handwritten note in the margin.

Room 214.

She turned the clipping over.

Someone had written another sentence on the back.

Ask Seneca Hampton.

“Looking for something?”

Barbara nearly dropped the paper.

Jung stood in the doorway.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough.”

He came down the steps.

Barbara held up the clipping.

“Who was Seneca Hampton?”

Jung didn't answer.

“Your father told me Lori disappeared.”

“My father talks too much.”

“She worked here.”

“So have hundreds of people.”

“She disappeared inside your hotel.”

Jung took the clipping from her.

“Forty years ago.”

“Why is Room 214 closed?”

“It isn't.”

“The computer says it's unavailable.”

“Plumbing.”

“There's nothing wrong with the plumbing.”

Jung stared at her.

For the first time since she'd started working at the Bellweather, Barbara saw something beneath his calm managerial expression.

He was afraid.

“Barbara.”

“What?”

“Some stories get worse when people keep telling them.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“It will.”

He put the clipping back into the box.

“Stay out of 214.”

Then he walked upstairs.

Barbara waited until his footsteps disappeared.

She pulled the box toward her again.

Seneca Hampton.

She searched until she found the 1986 employee directory.

There he was.

SENECA HAMPTON NIGHT MANAGER

Beside his name someone had drawn a small black X.

The Fourth Guest

That afternoon, Barbara drove into town.

The library occupied an old brick building beside the courthouse. The librarian, Mrs. Hanley, remembered the Vale disappearance immediately.

“Everybody remembers Lori.”

“You knew her?”

“Everybody knew everybody back then.”

“What about Seneca Hampton?”

Mrs. Hanley's expression hardened.

“Him too.”

“What happened to him?”

“He left town.”

“When?”

“The morning Lori disappeared.”

Barbara stopped writing.

“The newspaper didn't mention that.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Mrs. Hanley leaned closer.

“Dok Song told the police Seneca had been fired three days earlier. Said he'd already left.”

“But he hadn't?”

“I saw him.”

“Where?”

“At the hotel.”

“When?”

“The night Lori disappeared.”

Barbara felt a chill.

“Did you tell the police?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“They said they'd look into it.”

Mrs. Hanley gave a humorless smile.

“Dok Song had friends.”

“Do you think Hampton killed Lori?”

“I think Lori found something.”

“What?”

“That I don't know.”

Barbara thanked her and returned to the Bellweather before dark.

A car was parked near the entrance.

She didn't recognize it.

Inside, Jung was behind the front desk.

“We have another guest,” he said.

A man sat beside the fireplace.

Mid-sixties.

Gray beard.

Heavy coat.

He looked at Barbara as she entered.

“Room 305,” Jung said.

The man stood.

“Barbara Voss?”

She froze.

“How do you know my name?”

He crossed the lobby.

“Seneca Hampton.”

Jung dropped the room key.

It struck the counter with a sharp metallic sound.

Barbara looked from Jung to the stranger.

“You're Seneca Hampton?”

The man nodded.

Jung came around the desk.

“You need to leave.”

“I paid for three nights.”

“I'll refund you.”

“I didn't come for the room.”

Dok Song appeared at the top of the staircase.

Nobody had heard him approach.

He looked down into the lobby.

Seneca looked up.

Forty years passed between the two men without a word.

Then Dok said-

“You.”

Seneca smiled faintly.

“Hello, Dok.”

What Happened in 214

The storm arrived that night.

By nine, the road into town was closed.

At ten, the power went out.

The Bellweather's generator started with a groan, but it supplied electricity only to the lobby, kitchen and emergency lights.

Four guests.

Three employees.

One hotel surrounded by snow.

And somewhere above them, a telephone began ringing.

Room 214.

Nobody moved.

Seneca looked at Barbara.

“You've heard it.”

Jung said, “Don't.”

“Heard what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Seneca turned to Dok.

“Does she still call?”

Dok's hand tightened around his cane.

“You killed her.”

Seneca laughed once.

“No.”

“You ran.”

“Because you told the police I killed her.”

“You did.”

Seneca stepped closer.

“I helped her.”

The lobby went silent.

Barbara said, “Helped her do what?”

Seneca looked toward the ceiling.

“Find Emma Song.”

Jung stared at him.

“My mother?”

Seneca nodded.

Dok whispered, “Stop.”

But Seneca continued.

“Your mother didn't leave you, Jung.”

Jung's face emptied.

“She died.”

“No.”

Dok struck his cane against the floor.

“Enough.”

Seneca looked directly at Jung.

“Your father told everyone Emma ran away in 1985. Lori found out that wasn't true.”

Jung turned toward Dok.

“Dad?”

Dok said nothing.

Seneca reached into his coat and removed an old brass key.

Room 214.

“Lori found this in Emma's things. She believed your mother had been staying secretly at the hotel after Dok told everyone she'd left town.”

“Why?”

“Because she was trying to leave him.”

Dok suddenly moved.

Fast.

His cane swung toward Seneca.

Jung caught his father's wrist.

“Dad!”

“Give me that key!”

Seneca stepped back.

Then the telephone at the front desk rang.

Barbara looked down.

214.

Dok stopped struggling.

The ringing continued.

Barbara answered.

“Hello?”

Static.

Then the woman's voice.

But this time she said something different.

“Not the room.”

Barbara frowned.

“What?”

“Under it.”

The line went dead.

Barbara slowly looked toward the staircase.

“What's under Room 214?”

Nobody answered.

Then Seneca said:

“The old laundry.”

Beneath the Hotel

The laundry had been sealed in 1992.

Jung claimed there'd been flooding.

Seneca claimed Dok had closed it because of what was inside.

They entered through a service corridor behind the kitchen.

Barbara went first with a flashlight.

Jung followed.

Seneca came next.

Dok refused to come.

They descended seventeen concrete steps.

The smell hit Barbara halfway down.

Lake water.

Exactly what she'd smelled outside Room 214.

The basement stretched beneath the oldest wing of the hotel.

Rusting machines stood beneath sheets of plastic.

Old pipes ran overhead.

Seneca pointed toward the far wall.

“There.”

A section of brick was newer than everything around it.

Jung stared at it.

“No.”

Seneca handed him a crowbar.

“Your father built that wall two days after Lori disappeared.”

Jung didn't move.

Barbara took the crowbar.

The first brick came loose after five minutes.

Behind it was darkness.

Then another brick.

Another.

Eventually Barbara's flashlight passed through the opening.

There was a room behind the wall.

Small.

Windowless.

Inside sat a chair.

A suitcase.

And a woman's red coat.

Jung crawled through.

He touched the coat.

“My mother had one like this.”

Seneca said quietly, “It was hers.”

Then Barbara saw the suitcase.

The initials were still visible.

E.S.

Emma Song.

Jung opened it.

Clothes.

Letters.

Photographs.

A train ticket dated November 3, 1985.

And a diary.

Jung opened it.

Several pages had been torn out.

The final surviving entry was only four sentences.

Dok knows I'm leaving.

Lori has agreed to help.

I'll stay in 214 tonight.

Seneca will drive me to the station tomorrow.

If anything happens, Jung must know I didn't abandon him.

Jung sat down on the floor.

Seneca closed his eyes.

Barbara looked at him.

“You knew?”

“I knew she was leaving.”

“What happened?”

“I never saw Emma again.”

“And Lori?”

“She called me that night.”

Barbara's skin prickled.

“From Room 214?”

Seneca nodded.

“She said Dok had found them.”

The Lie

They returned to the lobby.

Dok was gone.

So was his coat.

Jung ran outside.

His father's car remained beneath the portico.

Barbara checked Room 217.

Empty.

Then the telephone rang.

214.

Barbara answered.

This time, nobody spoke.

She heard breathing.

Then three knocks.

Not through the telephone.

From somewhere behind her.

Barbara turned.

Three more knocks came from inside the wall beside the front desk.

Seneca went pale.

“There used to be a service passage there.”

Jung grabbed a flashlight.

They found the entrance behind an old tapestry.

The passage was narrow and full of dust.

Wet footprints crossed the floor.

Dok's.

They followed them.

The passage descended.

Toward the lake.

Toward an old service tunnel Barbara hadn't known existed.

They found Dok halfway down.

He was sitting against the wall.

His cane lay beside him.

He looked suddenly ancient.

Jung stood over him.

“Where's my mother?”

Dok closed his eyes.

“Gone.”

“Where?”

“Gone.”

Jung grabbed his father's coat.

“Tell me.”

Dok looked at his son.

“She was going to take you.”

Jung released him.

Dok continued.

“I couldn't allow that.”

Barbara felt sick.

“What did you do?”

“I confronted her.”

“In Room 214?”

“Yes.”

“And Lori was there?”

Dok nodded.

“Emma fell.”

Jung whispered, “Fell?”

Dok didn't answer.

Seneca said, “You pushed her.”

Dok looked away.

“What about Lori?” Barbara asked.

“She saw.”

The tunnel seemed to contract around them.

Barbara understood.

“You killed Lori too.”

“No.”

Dok's voice cracked.

“I chased her.”

“Where?”

Dok looked toward the darkness at the end of the tunnel.

“The lake.”

The Frozen Door

The service tunnel ended beneath the old boathouse.

Wind screamed through gaps in the boards.

Beyond the doors lay the frozen shoreline.

Dok stopped.

“She ran out here.”

Seneca stared at him.

“You told police she'd stolen money.”

“I needed them looking in the wrong direction.”

“And Emma?”

Dok said nothing.

Jung stepped toward him.

“Where is she?”

Dok looked down.

“Under Room 214.”

Barbara remembered the sealed laundry.

The wall.

The hidden room.

But there had been no body.

Then she remembered the chair.

The suitcase.

And the floor.

“Not behind the wall,” she said.

Dok looked at her.

“Under it.”

They returned to the basement.

Beneath the hidden room's carpet was a square of concrete newer than the surrounding floor.

Jung didn't speak.

Nobody did.

There was nothing left to say.

Seneca called the police.

The storm prevented anyone from reaching the hotel until morning.

At 4:17 a.m., while they waited, Dok Song disappeared.

The front door never opened.

The security camera showed nobody leaving.

His footprints ended outside Room 214.

Barbara found his cane leaning against the door.

Inside, the window stood open.

Snow blew across the carpet.

Dok was gone.

They searched the hotel.

Nothing.

Then Jung heard something.

A telephone ringing.

Not Room 214.

The front desk.

They ran downstairs.

Barbara answered.

“Hello?”

A man's voice whispered through heavy static.

“She's in the water.”

Barbara knew the voice.

Dok.

“Where are you?”

“The lake.”

Then another voice came onto the line.

A young woman's.

“He came back.”

The call ended.

?Continues on my bio?