The Hotel That Kept The Missing

Sam Ihle had learned that every good crime story began with something that did not fit.

The reports coming out of Redwater, Texas, did not fit.

Redwater was a small ranching town three hours west of Houston, depending on which road a person took and how many times he stopped for coffee. For most of the year, it was quiet enough that the local police blotter could be printed on a postcard. Then, over the previous six months, burglaries, assaults, frauds, arsons, and increasingly bizarre cases had multiplied.

Sam was the crime reporter for the Seabrook Viking News, and his editor had circled the pattern in red.

Former Californians.

Not all of them. But almost every suspect had moved to Redwater from California within the previous five years.

Sam stared at the spreadsheet on his laptop.

"That's ridiculous," he muttered.

The suspect list stared back.

A former San Diego accountant arrested for stealing ranch equipment. A former Oakland contractor accused of arson. A former Sacramento real-estate agent charged with fraud. A former Los Angeles nightclub owner implicated in an assault. A former Fresno mechanic suspected of running stolen-car parts through a salvage yard.

Different ages. Different occupations. Different neighborhoods.

One common denominator.

California.

Sam did not believe states caused crime. He believed people did. Yet five years as a reporter had taught him that coincidences became interesting when they repeated themselves.

So he packed his recorder, notebook, camera, laptop, charger, two changes of clothes, and a toothbrush into his battered overnight bag and drove to Redwater.

The town looked ordinary.

That was almost suspicious.

A water tower stood beyond the highway. Pickup trucks filled the parking lots of diners and feed stores. A church steeple rose over a row of pecan trees. The courthouse sat in the middle of downtown, surrounded by square blocks of brick storefronts.

Sam spent the afternoon interviewing people.

Nobody wanted to talk about California.

At least, nobody wanted to talk about it on the record.

"Folks come here looking for a fresh start," one bartender told him. "Sometimes they get one. Sometimes they don't."

"Is there something about Californians?"

The bartender wiped a glass.

"There's something about people who arrive convinced Texas is going to fix them."

That sounded like a quote.

Sam wrote it down.

By sunset, he had enough notes to make a story, but not enough to explain the pattern. The sheriff had agreed to meet him the next morning, so Sam needed a place to sleep.

He found the Lone Star Palms Hotel online.

The website called it "a peaceful seasonal retreat."

The photographs showed a bright lobby, a swimming pool, a breakfast room, and cheerful families standing beside a fountain.

The off-season rate was almost absurdly cheap.

Sam booked one night.

He arrived shortly after ten.

The hotel stood at the edge of town behind a row of live oaks. Its sign buzzed weakly in the darkness.

LONE STAR PALMS.

VACANCY.

The automatic glass doors slid open.

Two coyotes immediately dashed out.

Sam froze.

They sprinted past him, crossed the parking lot, and vanished into the darkness.

He stared after them.

Then he looked through the doorway.

"Okay," he whispered. "That happened."

The lobby was almost completely empty.

There was no bellman. No security guard. No other guest.

And no one behind the front desk.

There was, however, a baby.

A naked baby.

The infant sat on the buffet counter in the breakfast area, crying at full volume and enthusiastically splish-splashing in a pool of milk and cereal.

Cornflakes clung to the baby's legs.

Chocolate cereal rings floated around its bottom.

A spoon had somehow become stuck to its shoulder.

Sam stood in the doorway with his overnight bag.

He looked at the baby.

The baby looked at him.

"Uh..."

The baby cried louder.

"Right."

Sam approached the desk.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

He rang the bell.

Ding.

Nothing.

He rang it again.

Ding.

The baby slapped both hands into the cereal.

SPLISH.

Sam slowly lowered his hand.

"This is either the strangest hotel I've ever stayed in," he said, "or I'm about to wake up."

A back door opened.

A woman emerged.

She appeared to be somewhere in her forties, with dark hair pulled into a careless knot and an expression suggesting that she had personally been betrayed by the entire concept of employment.

She took one look at the baby.

"Oh, for God's sake."

She marched over, scooped the child up, and spanked it once.

"Bad boy."

She set the baby on the floor behind the counter.

The infant immediately sat down among a stack of brochures and began chewing one.

The woman wiped milk from her forearm.

Then she looked at Sam.

"Sorry about my son. What can I help you with?"

Sam blinked.

"I'm checking in."

"I figured."

She held out a hand.

"Name."

"Sam Ihle."

She searched the computer.

"Ihle. Room twelve."

"Is there supposed to be nobody here?"

"There is somebody here."

Sam glanced around.

"You?"

"Unfortunately."

He waited.

She sighed.

"Off-season."

"Right."

"Nobody comes here in the off-season."

Sam gestured toward the buffet.

"Apparently somebody does."

She looked at her son.

"He's not a guest."

The baby gurgled.

"Clearly."

She handed Sam a key card.

"Room twelve. Second floor. Ice machine is broken. Pool is closed. Restaurant is closed. Vending machine takes cards but sometimes charges you twice."

"Anything else?"

She thought.

"Don't open the door if you hear scratching."

Sam paused.

"Excuse me?"

"Probably coyotes."

"Probably?"

"Could be raccoons."

"Could be?"

She shrugged.

"Welcome to Texas."

Sam took the key.

The woman had already turned away.

"Wait."

She looked back.

"Where did the coyotes come from?"

"Pool area."

"The coyotes?"

"Yes."

"Why were coyotes in the hotel?"

She stared at him.

"Why are you asking me like I invited them?"

Sam decided not to pursue it.

He carried his bag upstairs.

The hallway smelled faintly of dust, carpet cleaner, and something sweet that had gone bad.

Room twelve was clean enough.

The bed was made.

The television worked.

The air conditioner rattled.

Sam placed his recorder on the nightstand and opened his laptop.

He had barely typed the headline "Redwater's California Connection" when he heard scratching.

Three slow scrapes.

Sam stopped typing.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

He remembered the woman's warning.

He looked at the door.

Another scratch.

Sam stood.

He approached cautiously.

"Housekeeping?"

Something growled.

Sam stepped backward.

The growl became a whine.

Then a voice said, "Please don't call the police."

Sam stared at the door.

"Who are you?"

"Nobody."

"That's not an answer."

"I'm in room thirteen."

Sam glanced at the wall.

Room thirteen was directly beside him.

"Are you okay?"

A pause.

"No."

Sam opened the door.

A man stood in the hallway wearing pajamas, slippers, and an expression of profound misery.

He was holding a cardboard box.

"Are you Sam Ihle?"

"Yes."

"Viking News?"

"Yes."

The man looked relieved.

"Thank God."

Sam frowned.

"How do you know who I am?"

"I read your article about the Seabrook zoning scandal."

"You read that?"

"I was a subscriber."

"Were?"

"I moved."

"From California?"

The man went pale.

"How did you know?"

Sam stared at him.

The man stared back.

Then he shut the door.

Sam stood in the hallway.

"Okay," he whispered.

He returned to his room.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Sam opened the door.

The man from room thirteen entered carrying the box.

"My name is Daniel Mercer."

"Former Californian?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

Daniel placed the box on the bed.

Inside were newspaper clippings, photographs, maps, and several handwritten notes.

"I came here because I thought I was running away from something."

"From what?"

"California."

Sam waited.

Daniel rubbed his face.

"I lived in Bakersfield. I worked in property management. I had debts. My business failed. I lost my house. I came here because someone told me Texas was where people went when they wanted to start over."

"That's what everyone says."

"Yes."

Daniel pointed toward the window.

"But something followed us."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

Sam's reporter instincts sharpened.

"Who are the people who followed you?"

Daniel shook his head.

"Not people."

The hallway light flickered.

Sam looked toward the door.

Daniel whispered, "You saw the coyotes."

"Yes."

"They aren't coyotes."

Sam stared.

"What are they?"

Daniel looked terrified.

"I don't know."

A noise came from downstairs.

A crash.

Then the unmistakable sound of someone shouting.

The hotel manager's voice followed.

"Get off the breakfast counter!"

The baby screamed.

Daniel closed his eyes.

Sam grabbed his recorder.

"Stay here."

"Don't."

"I need to see what's happening."

"Sam, don't go downstairs."

Sam opened the door.

"Why?"

Daniel whispered the answer.

"Because that's where they come in."

Sam went downstairs anyway.

The lobby was darker than before.

The manager stood behind the desk, holding a broom.

Her son was asleep beneath the counter.

The buffet was empty.

The front doors were open.

Cold night air moved through the lobby.

Sam approached.

"What's going on?"

She looked at him.

"You should be in your room."

"So should you."

"I'm working."

"At ten thirty?"

"It's eleven forty."

Sam checked his watch.

"Right."

Something moved outside.

Two yellow eyes appeared beyond the glass.

Then four.

Then six.

The manager sighed.

"They're back."

"Those coyotes?"

She nodded.

Sam watched the animals gather around the entrance.

There were at least eight.

None crossed the threshold.

Instead, they sat in a semicircle and stared into the hotel.

The manager lowered the broom.

"Don't make eye contact."

Sam looked at her.

"You told me they were coyotes."

"They are."

"Daniel Mercer says they aren't."

She went still.

"You know Daniel?"

"Room thirteen."

Her face changed.

"Then you need to leave."

"Why?"

"Because if Daniel talked to you, you're involved now."

"With what?"

She looked toward the animals.

"The California problem."

Sam felt a chill.

"What is the California problem?"

She was silent for several seconds.

Then she said, "People come here thinking they're escaping California."

"And?"

"They aren't."

The coyotes began to howl.

The sound rose around the hotel.

One by one, lights came on in empty rooms.

Sam looked up.

"How many guests are here?"

"None."

"Then who turned on those lights?"

The manager did not answer.

A door upstairs slammed.

Then another.

Then another.

Sam heard footsteps running down the hallway.

Daniel appeared at the top of the stairs.

"She's telling you, isn't she?"

The manager shouted, "Daniel, get back upstairs!"

"No!"

He descended.

"The hotel keeps them."

Sam looked from one to the other.

"Who?"

"The people who come here."

Daniel pointed toward the coyotes.

"Those are the ones who came before us."

Sam stared.

The manager whispered, "Every off-season, they come back."

"Why?"

"Because they have nowhere else to go."

Daniel shook his head.

"That's not true."

The manager glared at him.

"You know it is."

"No. They come because the hotel calls them."

Sam's stomach tightened.

"Calls them?"

Daniel nodded.

"You hear the scratching. You hear voices. You dream about California. Then you start driving."

"Driving where?"

"Here."

The manager's face had gone pale.

Sam asked, "How long has this been happening?"

"Thirty years."

"Since when?"

"Since the hotel opened."

The coyotes began scratching at the glass.

Sam stepped closer.

A strange thing happened.

One of them lifted its head.

Its eyes reflected the lobby light.

And Sam saw a human face.

Not clearly.

Just for a second.

A man.

Older.

Frightened.

Then the animal blinked and became a coyote again.

Sam stumbled backward.

Daniel caught his arm.

"You saw him."

"Who was that?"

"Someone who came here from California."

"What happened to him?"

Daniel swallowed.

"He tried to leave."

The automatic doors opened.

No one touched them.

A cold wind swept through the lobby.

The coyotes entered.

Sam reached for his phone.

No signal.

The manager picked up the desk telephone.

Dead.

Daniel grabbed a fire extinguisher.

"Stay behind me."

Sam almost laughed.

"You're holding a fire extinguisher."

"I know."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I haven't thought that far."

The coyotes spread across the lobby.

They did not attack.

They simply watched.

Then the smallest one walked toward the desk.

The baby woke.

He sat up.

He looked at the animal.

And smiled.

The manager whispered, "Oh no."

The baby crawled out from beneath the counter.

Sam stared.

The child toddled toward the coyote.

"Get him!" Sam shouted.

The manager lunged forward.

The coyote lowered its head.

The baby reached out.

Its tiny hand touched the animal's muzzle.

The coyote disappeared.

There was no flash.

No explosion.

One moment an animal stood there.

The next moment a man was kneeling on the floor.

He wore an old California Angels sweatshirt.

He looked around, bewildered.

"Where am I?"

The other coyotes began to whine.

One by one, they transformed.

A woman.

A teenage boy.

An elderly man.

A construction worker.

A nurse.

A college student.

Eight people stood in the lobby.

All looked confused.

All looked exhausted.

The manager covered her mouth.

Daniel whispered, "They're back."

The first man looked at Sam.

"Who are you?"

"Sam Ihle. I'm a reporter."

The man began to cry.

"Please."

Sam lowered his recorder.

"What happened to you?"

The man looked toward the doors.

"We moved here."

"From California?"

He nodded.

"We thought we were starting over."

The manager sat down.

For the first time, she looked less angry than tired.

"I told you," she whispered. "The hotel keeps them."

Sam looked around the lobby.

"Then let's find out why."

The investigation took three days.

Sam discovered that the hotel's original owner had been a developer from Los Angeles. In 1994, he bought the property and converted an abandoned roadside motel into the Lone Star Palms.

The hotel's first manager was his brother.

The first missing person was a woman from Riverside.

Then another from San Jose.

Then another from Stockton.

They had all checked in during the off-season.

They had all disappeared.

The police reports called them runaways.

Sam found something else.

Every disappearance occurred after the person had complained about hearing scratching at the door.

He also found financial records.

The hotel had been used as a dumping ground for stolen money.

The original owner had recruited desperate newcomers from California, promised them jobs, then blackmailed them into transporting cash and contraband.

When some threatened to go to police, he murdered them.

Their bodies were never found.

The hotel had been built over an old limestone sinkhole.

The murders had created something nobody understood.

The victims returned as animals.

Coyotes.

Waiting.

Watching.

Waiting for someone who could hear them.

The sheriff's office gave him missing-person files before breakfast.

There were forty-seven names.

Every file had the same final notation: presumed voluntary departure.

Sam photographed every page.

At noon, he sat in the courthouse archives, reading property records until his eyes burned. The owner had declared bankruptcy in 1998, yet the hotel never closed. Ownership changed hands three times, through shell companies. The current manager had inherited the property from an aunt who had died under circumstances nobody could explain.

Sam called.

"You're going to love this," he said.

"That's usually what you say before giving me a migraine."

"I found forty-seven missing Californians."

A pause.

"Sam."

"Yes?"

"Please tell me you didn't spend the night in the haunted hotel."

Sam looked through the archive window toward the distant line of live oaks.

"I spent the night in a hotel with coyotes."

"That's not better."

"I know."

He told Pat everything.

There was silence.

Then Pat said, "Get out of town."

"That's the plan."

"Now."

"Already packed."

"Good."

Sam hung up.

For once, he did not feel embarrassed by the strange details of a story. He had spent years learning that the truth was often less tidy than people wanted it to be. A reporter's job was not to make reality comfortable. It was to document what happened, even when the facts sounded impossible.

He filed the first draft from a diner forty miles away.

By the time he finished, his headline had changed.

THE HOTEL THAT KEPT THE MISSING.

He stared at it.

Then he added a subheading.

FORTY-SEVEN CALIFORNIANS DISAPPEARED AFTER CHECKING IN.

Sam hesitated before clicking send.

Somewhere behind him, a coyote howled.

He turned.

The diner windows showed only empty highway.

He sent the story anyway.

Sam returned to the lobby on the third night.

The manager was sitting behind the desk.

Her son slept in a playpen beside her.

The rescued victims were gone.

The coyotes were gone too.

Sam placed his recorder on the counter.

"Why did they need me?"

The manager looked at him.

"Because you investigate."

"That's all?"

"No."

She smiled sadly.

"You listen."

Sam thought about that.

Then he heard scratching.

Three slow scrapes.

He looked toward the front doors.

Nothing was there.

The manager sighed.

"Don't worry."

"About what?"

She pointed toward the window.

A single coyote stood beneath the hotel sign.

It looked at Sam.

Then it turned and walked into the darkness.

Sam packed his bag the next morning.

Before leaving, he stopped at the desk.

The manager handed him a cup of coffee.

"On the house."

"Thanks."

He looked at the baby.

The child was fully clothed now and happily chewing a plastic dinosaur.

"Your son?"

She nodded.

"Does he always behave like that?"

"No."

The baby threw the dinosaur.

It struck the wall.

The manager closed her eyes.

"Apparently he does."

Sam laughed.

Outside, the Texas sun was rising.

He loaded his bag into his car.

Then he stopped.

Something was tucked beneath his windshield wiper.

A newspaper clipping.

The headline was dated 1994.

THE CALIFORNIA MAN WHO VANISHED.

Beneath it was a handwritten sentence.

YOU MISSED ONE.

Sam looked toward the hotel.

Every window was dark.

Then, from somewhere inside, came a distant howl.

Sam folded the clipping and put it in his notebook.

His investigation was not over.

But for now, he had a story.

He started the engine.

And drove back toward Seabrook.