Welcome to the Horne

 

A short story I wrote after a very strange experience at a hotel in 2021.  Some of the events in this story actually happened, though obviously not the more supernatural bits.  I'm going for a Lovecraftian feel here, more the "dreamlike" Lovecraft than the "looming horror" Lovecraft, in this piece.  Without further ado:

Welcome to the Horne

by R. N. Kohn

I find myself in a crisis of perception. From a young age, I made myself a serious student of the natural world, and my belief that everything could be explained through careful observation and rigorous application of the scientific method led me to reject not only all mysticism, but also many of the harmless flights of fancy that my friends in youth deceived themselves with--much to my own dismay, at times. Yet now, after years of work in the natural sciences and a decent record of publication, I discover that I have experienced something I find impossible to describe through rational means. The vivid memories would be relatively simple to dismiss by themselves, as a particularly memorable dream perhaps, but the scars carved into my hands turn that vividness into an irresistible urge to believe that those memories are real, although I cannot find a suitable explanation for them as they stand in my mind.

I feel--perhaps it is appropriate to say that, for the first time in my life, I pray--that by telling this story, by giving voice to the experience my mind begs me to claim, that somehow I may lessen the force of these memories and relieve myself of the fear that they drive into me whenever I close my eyes.

It was the night of October 11th, 2019. I remember that I got in late. I thought I had given myself enough time to get to the hotel at a reasonable hour, but the traffic on my way into downtown Chicago had other ideas. I parked my car in the nearby garage, and staggered, exhausted, into the Horne Hotel, pushing through the revolving door, overnight bag in hand. I was there to attend a small conference of the Society of American Physicists, and it started early the next day.

I approached the front desk, where a slender man in a peculiarly formal suit was typing leisurely at a computer. He glanced up at me, smiled warmly, and welcomed me to the hotel. I gave him my name and reservation number and he deftly tapped away. I took the moment to look around the large, beautifully-decorated lobby of the famous Horne Hotel. It was near midnight, but for a venue as famous as the Horne, the lobby struck me as surprisingly quiet. There were a few people around, mostly heading for the elevators to the right. Further away along that wall was a large room with a wide, open doorway leading to a beautiful cherry heartwood bar, polished to a mirror sheen, that had two people sitting quietly with drinks while the bartender solemnly polished a pint glass. There was something oddly familiar about him that held my gaze for a moment. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, a charcoal-colored vest and a narrow red necktie. He was bald on top, but with unruly black hair, grayed somewhat, on the sides. As I looked at him, I realized that he resembled a picture of the mythical god Pan I had seen in a book I had read as a child, but better-dressed and, of course, without the pipes. I remembered reading the book as a child with a kind of naive scorn, as if I knew an answer, without the basis to reach it on my own--a bad habit I had in the past.

The man at the front desk cleared his throat, and I turned to face him. “Sir,” he said in a clear and even voice, “your room number is 218.” He handed me the keys, thanked me for staying, and pointed me toward the elevator. As I walked to the elevators, I enjoyed the subtle luxury of the fine soft burgundy carpet and the smooth brass wall of elevators. As I waited, I rested my hand on the polished metal, which was distinctly warm. After only a few seconds, a chime rang out and one of the elevators opened for me.

Inside, the light was dim and the air had a vague musty odor that I couldn't identify. At least there was only one floor upward to go, I thought as the elevator hummed upward. I walked out into the second floor hallway and found myself momentarily confused by the signs pointing to various rooms. The groupings of room numbers were strangely disordered, but the general direction to my room was fairly clear. As I walked down the hallway, I heard laughter and happy shouts of children--odd at this hour--and murmurs of adults, but I saw no one. The muffled hissing of the ventilation system was the only other sound in the hallway. There were a few intersections along the way, which, to my mind, made sense of the chaotic numbering. The art on the walls was peculiar--gray landscapes, imprecise human shapes, and dark forests.

As I entered my room, the first thing I noticed was that the shape of the room was oddly skewed, with none of the walls quite at a right angle to any of the others. There were a few lights in the room, but its strange geometry kept two of the corners in relative shadow. The shade was drawn, and I walked over to raise it. As I did, I looked through the window and I gawked for a minute, then shook my head in disbelief. My window was level with and opened into the indoor pool area, something I had never seen before. Even this late, some people were lounging in the hot tub and children were happily running around. The pool itself was uniquely lit with bright gold lights, instead of the common white or bluish lights. The result was a gorgeous deep gold glow around the whole pool, although it lacked somewhat the clean, antiseptic feeling that bright white lights convey. After a few seconds, I began to feel uneasy and more than a bit embarrassed, so I lowered the shade. As I did, I was struck by a nebulous tension that had something to do with the way the children were running, but I was too tired and too self-conscious to raise the shade again.

I checked the papers around the phone and was pleasantly surprised to find that room service was still available at this hour. I picked up the phone and pressed the button for service, but all I got was a busy signal. I waited a minute and tried again, with the same result. However, the third time was the proverbial charm, and I mention this only because it differs from every dream I have ever experienced. Never before nor since have I remembered the flavor and texture of food from a dream, yet this experience is still as clear as day. I ordered a hot turkey sandwich and a small cup of vegetable soup. About fifteen minutes later, I answered the knock at the door and the clerk who had checked me in was there, pushing a cart with my food. I thanked him and went to sit at the table, which complained with a creak. The food was fully up to the standards of a famous hotel. The sandwich was on toasted sourdough, the turkey was thick and juicy, and the cheese and mayonnaise were subtly seasoned. The soup was a perfectly spiced broth with a generous helping of large, soft, savory chunks of vegetables. The clarity of this memory is so profound to me that it practically demands I recognize it as reality, as much as that disturbs me in the light of my experiences later that night.

After eating, I unpacked my bag and headed into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I turned on the cold water, wet my toothbrush, and applied toothpaste, but discovered as I started to brush that it was unexpectedly warm. I was baffled that hot water could somehow collect on the cold side of the plumbing--not a common occurrence. When I finished, I turned on the cold water again and it was still extremely hot. Thinking perhaps the connections were reversed, I tried the other faucet, but got more hot water. I looked carefully at the fixtures and the first knob, on the right, was indeed labeled Cold. I turned it on and let it run for a little bit, to clear out the hot water, but when I absentmindedly ran my hand under the stream, I recoiled in sharp pain. The back of my left hand was an angry red, burned from even momentary contact with the stream of water. At that moment, I noticed that the sound of the rushing water had a strange timbre to it, with a high-pitched whine that I found oddly discomforting. I turned off the faucet, and as I did, I caught a pungent whiff of something that reminded me of well water, which was impossible in the middle of downtown Chicago. I wrapped a small towel around my hand and gave up on the water for the moment.

The bed, at least, was comfortable. I often find hotel beds so soft that I sink into them and overheat, but this one was cool and had exactly the right firmness. I yawned and pulled the sheet over me, turning out the lights. The air conditioner was humming away. As the day's stress fell away, I fell into a deep sleep.

I opened my eyes--the room was completely dark. I glanced at the clock--2:07 AM. I had a peculiar impression that something distinct had awoken me, but now there was no sign or memory of it. I turned on the light and something about the wood paneling on the walls sent a chill down my spine. For a moment, the knots and blemishes seemed to coalesce into faces. Irritated at my own overactive imagination, I shook my head blearily and stood up, and a silly but practical thought hit me: if the water in the faucet was all scalding hot, would I even be able to take a shower in the morning? Now fully awake, I shuffled into the bathroom and tested the shower. Set all the way to cold, the water in the shower was so hot that steam filled the room in seconds. Turning the faucet to hot, or any other setting, changed nothing.

I sat down at the desk and noticed that the hiss of the ventilation seemed louder and harsher than before. I tried to use the room phone to reach the front desk but got a busy signal three times over ten minutes. I went over to the bed and picked up my cellphone, thinking to reach them that way. I had to fight my way through the garbled automated menus, but I soon connected to someone at the front desk. The problem was so unusual in my mind, and my fatigue was so great that I had trouble explaining it. Eventually, he told me he would move me to another room, and he would send someone up with a new key shortly. I hurriedly dressed and packed.

It wasn't more than a few minutes later that there was a knock at my door. I was a little surprised to see the same clerk from when I checked in. He asked how I was and I showed him the hot water. He tested it himself and stood puzzled for a moment before he agreed how strange it was and said, “Let's get you to your new room,” in his calm and reassuring voice.

We walked down the hall and around a few corners. The lights in the hallway seemed dimmer than when I had first come up. In the low light, I noticed a few subtle old stains on the walls and that the carpet was worn threadbare in a few places, and bunched against the wall at others. At room 237, he handed me a new key and stood by as I opened the door. I immediately tried the faucets, but, if anything, the water in the new room was hotter, and the well-water smell was stronger. I showed the clerk and he spent a little time playing with the faucets, a perplexed look on his face. Finally, we agreed that it made no sense to move me to a room with the same problems, so we headed back to 218. The route felt different on the way back, but I thought it was just exhaustion and I didn't mention it. The clerk promised to have someone look at the plumbing at the earliest possible opportunity, but told me no one would arrive until 7 o'clock or so. I thanked him anyway, and resigned myself to a morning without a shower. I got ready for bed again, and drifted off to sleep.

Only to wake up abruptly once again, this time to a knock at the door. The clock said 3:13, and I slowly walked to the door and looked through the peephole. It was the clerk again. I opened the door and he apologized for disturbing me. He said he had been bored and had found an empty room on the seventh floor where the water was, at least, not scalding. Still groggy, I didn't even bother to change out of my pajamas. I gathered my things and followed him to the elevator. The dim light and stuffy air in the elevator were even worse than before. I thought to myself that the clerk had certainly gone above and beyond the call of duty in these circumstances, but something still bothered me and I couldn't put my finger on it through my haze of sleepiness.

On the seventh floor, we walked to room 736 and the clerk handed me the keys. I opened the door and immediately tried the faucet. The water was warm but not uncomfortable, and the well-water smell was gone. I thanked him and he smiled and nodded and was off. I collapsed onto the bed. The orange glow of the city lights below coming up through the windows did not delay me from falling asleep.

However, despite the bed in the new room being just as good as the first, it was not long before I awoke again. I tried to lay still and will myself back to sleep, but I suddenly realized that the well-water smell had returned, which woke me abruptly and completely. Had I left the water running? There was a faint sound, but not of rushing water, more like the air conditioner. After a few seconds, the odor seemed to fade away. Had I imagined it? I blinked groggily and looked around the room. The orange lights of the city were still streaming in through the windows. The clock said 4:31. The sky was still dark. As I gazed out the window, I realized that it almost looked like something was smeared on the windows, making them hazy and translucent. I could see the glow of the city but couldn't make out any buildings or other details. Then I noticed that the light coming through the windows was not the soft, gentle light of streetlamps, but was flickering arrythmically. I got up and walked to the window. I tried rubbing my sleeve on the glass, to no effect. Whatever was clouding the glass must have been on the outside--the glass itself didn't appear to be frosted or anything like that. As I turned back, I noticed something that I would swear was not there when I first entered: In the far corner, away from the door and bed, there was a long, narrow crack in the floor. I crept toward it and looked down into it, and instead of insulation and pipes and the ceiling of the floor below, I saw the same orange flicker as from the windows, but clearly, and what I saw were not the lights of a city but the dancing glow of flames. Stunned, I gazed into the void below and a burst of the well-water smell hit me, causing me to cough violently at the same time that a sound, like an out-of-breath attempt at a scream, assaulted my ears. I fell back and scrabbled away from the crack in terror.

I had to stay calm. It had to be a dream, or a hallucination, or some kind of prank. Trembling, I got to my feet and quickly dressed in the dim light. I threw my things haphazardly into my bag and struggled to close it. The crack in the floor was quiet now, and the smell was gone, but in a flash of recognition, I realized what that smell was.

It was sulfur.

At this point, I was frantic. I threw my clothes on, grabbed my things and the key from the desk, and walked out. The hallway lights were dim now, like they had been in the elevators, and shadows loomed out of every corner. The only sound in the hallway was something like rushing water. For the first time, I sensed real danger, not just vague dread. In the face of some unknown attacker, I knew I would be helpless. I rushed along the halls as quietly as I could, desperately looking for the elevators, trying to recall the tortuous path from earlier. The dim light made it difficult to read the signs, and there was something oddly indistinct about the lettering.

By the time I found the elevators, I felt like I had covered the same ground several times, at least. I was out of breath, and thankful that nothing had appeared to obstruct me. I pressed the call button and watched the indicator closely. Somehow watching the number silently count up made me feel less vulnerable.

At six, the indicator stopped. I waited breathlessly for a few seconds before turning to the stairwell to the right of the elevators. I pushed open the door and was greeted with total blackness. And then something growled and clawed at my hand. I couldn't see it--not even a shadow. I fell backwards and the door to the stairwell slammed shut in front of me. My right hand was bleeding from three deep gouges. Before I could even muster the strength to stand, the elevator chimed and the doors opened. I scrambled to my feet and stared inside. The inside of the elevator was dark, but not pitch-black, and I could see at least that it was empty. I stumbled in and slumped against one of the walls. Then I heard another sound, half-breath, half-growl. My hand darted out for the buttons, but there was no button for the lobby or the ground level. In desperation, I pressed the button for the second floor and stood, holding my breath as the elevator doors closed, bracing for the incoming attack that didn't come.

The elevator moved slowly, with a discomfiting grind. The lights were just bright enough to see the details of the interior. The formerly mirrored walls were smudged and distorted, and what had been glossy brass rails were patchy and dull, and warped as if some monstrous strength had been pulling at them. I clutched my bleeding hand, my eyes squeezed closed in abject fear. The rumbling of the elevator continued for what seemed like an eternity, before it ground to a halt and the doors slid open. The sound of the chime was strangled and drawn-out, as if some devilish finger were on the bell. I opened my eyes, steeling myself for the worst, but was surprised once again.

The second floor hallway looked completely normal.

I stepped out of the elevator and the doors closed behind me. I glanced in both directions, and a sign on the wall to the right said, “Lobby,” with an arrow pointing toward an open staircase, not the enclosed stairwell next to the elevators. I walked, just a little quickly, feeling a bit safer. The lights were brighter, and the sulfurous odor was completely absent. I must have hallucinated my earlier distress. Was it something in the air? Had I been half-asleep?

It was only a hundred feet, maybe less. As I walked down the hallway, I glanced at each door and intersection. As I passed the pool, there was another window opening into it much as the window from my first room had. At this time of morning, the pool should have been empty, but there were still people there, nearly the same as when I had first looked in. A few swam lazily in the water and children were still running around. As before, something bothered me about the way the children were running, and, perhaps due to the different angle, or perhaps because my distress had sharpened my senses, I realized what was wrong. I stopped and dropped my luggage in a blast of hopelessness, because the reason the children were running strangely was that they had hooves.

I stood stock-still and silent for a few seconds, hoping no one would notice me, but then I violently grabbed my bag and ran the few dozen paces to the staircase, nearly tripping going down to the lobby. There was not a soul there. The bartender was gone and the bar was empty. The front desk stood vacant. No. I blinked and shook my head. The clerk was there, just as when I had arrived. I ran over to him and he smiled at me, as if nothing was amiss.

“Is there something wrong, sir?” I remember him saying, as calm as ever.

I felt completely powerless. I wanted to shout about the things I had seen, and heard, and smelled. But I knew it would be useless, that either the clerk was part of this nightmare, or that he too would be powerless against it. So I stopped, took a deep breath, and in the calmest voice I could muster, said, “I would like to check out now, please.”

The smile on his face did not flicker, not even for an instant, and he showed no acknowledgment of my obvious distress. He looked directly into my eyes and I heard him say, almost playfully, “You can check out any time you like.”

That was the last straw. It was terror and comedy chained together into a grinning monster. I should have laughed, collapsed into a heap. But I managed to hold on. I looked back at his unchanging face for a second, then turned to my left and made for the revolving door. I could see the dark sidewalk and street outside, and they screamed salvation at me. I ran over and pushed the door and went around and stepped out into the cool autumn air.

But I was back in the hotel. The clerk stood, still motionless, still smiling, still silent. Barely managing to stay standing, I turned around madly and pushed the door again, staring intently, unblinking, unwavering, at the outside, determined to reach it. But this time as I pushed out onto the sidewalk, everything went dark and I felt a sensation of weightlessness that seemed to persist for minutes, maybe longer.

I woke up. I was in my hotel room in southern Illinois. Memories flooded into me, one half in contradiction to the other. I had started driving too late the day before and had not made it to Chicago before stopping for the night. Wasn't that right? I felt confused, but safe. The room was dark, and quiet, and cool. The bed was soft and warm. Gentle moonlight trickled in under the window shade. I tried to sit up and look around, but a sharp pain shot through my left hand. I reached out and switched on the lamp and saw them. A stained gauze bandage wrapped around my right hand, and angry burns on my left. I have never been able to explain either of those injuries from any memories I had outside that nightmare in the Horne Hotel. The next day, I continued on my way to Chicago and arrived somewhat late at the conference. Yet the Horne Hotel that held the conference bore no similarity to the hotel that I want to believe was a figment of my imagination. Though when I remember the end of the conference, there was something strange about the smile of the clerk.

THE END

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Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this weird tale, actually inspired by real events! If you like cosmic horror, may I recommend my fourth novella, What the Soul Still Fears? It might just scratch that itch for you. Go check it out and read the preview and pick it up if it sounds like it's up your alley!

Another of my free stories that has this kind of dreamlike, personal horror feel to it is The Corner of My Eye. You might like that one, too!

By the way, the cover image was edited from an image created by Tony Yakovlenko, courtesy of Unsplash.