Hotel of Madness Read online

  Hotel of Madness

  William Tchatchou

  Copyright © 2021 by William Tchatchou

  ISBN: 978-1-7375705-0-9 All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction, all characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Book and Cover Art: Danielle Doolittle – Doelle Designs

  Editor: Kate Seger

  Special Thanks to everyone who took the time and had the patience to read the first draft, rough draft and random spitballs about this book and its characters.

  To Henry C Foulds and Ron James Lindahl, thank you for reading this unedited and often at 2am in the morning.

  To My Wife Jazmyn, thank you for reading the first chapter, calling it utter garbage, and making me rewrite it from scratch.

  Contents

  1. Hotel of Madness

  2. Madness Beginning

  3. Two Cops and a Necromancer

  4. A Written Perspective

  5. Madness Beginning

  6. Method of Operation

  7. Madness Interlude

  8. Everything is Fine

  9. Madness on Display

  10. That Bitch

  11. Dur’ag

  12. Madness Reservation

  13. Madness Proposition

  14. Susan B

  15. Blood Mist

  16. Gods Below

  17. Night with Susan

  18. Bad Idea

  19. Another Bad Idea

  20. Calcium

  21. Alone with a Dagger

  22. The Necronomicon

  23. Daemons and Principalities

  24. The Trident

  Interlude

  About the Author

  Hotel of Madness

  It's Feb 15th, and the national harbor has been invaded by zombies. Well... not actual zombies, just nerds and nerdettes doing their yearly migration to PG County, Maryland to exchange hugs, horrible taste in anime, and, of course, a myriad of diseases that would leave most of them sick for weeks afterward. But, for these hardy folk, who brave sub-20-degree weather in bikini bottoms, this exchange of deadly diseases is merely referred to as con-plague. And like the weekend of fun, this too shall pass.

  But I’m not here for a Katsucon, and its AMV sing-alongs. I’m here on business, with a certain man, possible man-child, residing in a luxury hotel room at the Gaylord. The giveaway was the double doors and distance between the room numbers being several standard rooms long. I knock on the door while checking my surroundings. Even here amongst kids, teenagers, and adults who believe they’re one of the above, you can’t be too careful. Can’t underestimate the teenage girl in bunny ears and a swimsuit and her friend wearing a “fursona” suit.

  The door cracks open, “You Arthur Curry?”

  I resist the urge to kick the door down (old habit) and respond “Yes,” while he ushers me in. The kids from earlier whistle as I disappear beyond the door of one of a handful of luxury hotel suites offered at the Gaylord.

  “Can I get you with anything? Water, coke, maybe a beer?”

  Walking in, I notice a spartan setup, except the suitcases lined against the bedroom and the drinks left unpacked by the bar.

  “I’m fine. Got what I needed on the way.” I take out the book, “You got the money to pay for this or not?”

  My host smiles. “I just need your account info, and we can settle this in ten minutes.”

  I place the book in my handbag, not a purse, not a fucking purse, before forwarding him the offshore details. Now a digital footprint is bad in normal circumstances, but considering my buyer is supported by the Federal government and the purchase of this book would be a tax write-off and fully reimbursed by his employer… well, I’m not too concerned. Besides, my name on the other end of the receipt may earn some brownie points with the League. With business being rather dry stateside, more evidence of being a “team player” could go a long way.

  “I trust you know, I don’t do refunds, nor am I responsible if and when this thing eats you.”

  We give each other measured stares, but he knows what I am, so he breaks contact first.

  “Of course.”

  “And you also know that losing your clearance puts you back on the open market.”

  “I’d rather think positively.” He smiles, though he doesn’t look me in the eye.

  I check my account and see the one-hundred and fifty grand. With a nearly inaudible sigh of relief, I remove the book and give it one more look over, checking the binding, then running my fingers through the flesh-toned pages. Seventy-two hours straight of hand cramping, wrist grinding, back-breaking work that went into this little tome. I was pretty desperate to make one of these things. It was either that or hunt chupacabras in Mexico, which may have been a better gig in hindsight.

  “I hand this book to you, Derek Jameson.”

  Derek half-amused wonders, “Is that necessary?”

  “No,” I smile, “but there is more than one way to get a receipt of labor.” It so happens I turned on a recording app the minute I walked in.

  Understandably confused, Derek shrugs his shoulders. “Whatever works for you, man.” He looks at the bar. “Anything I can get for you before you leave?”

  I glance around before staring at him, an average-sized office drone trying his best to look cool with a graphic tee from the dark ages of 90s grunge bands, sporting a pair of bifocals that look more expensive than they should be. He is doing a good job keeping a mostly calm and collective demeanor despite spending the yearly salary of three average Americans for a book of eldritch spells and secrets.

  “Professional to professional, always be paranoid.” I turn to leave and then stop. “But quick question, why do this here?”

  He laughs. “Have a problem with nerds?”

  “No, but,” he looks around one more time at the luxury suite he rented out for the weekend, “Necronomicons don’t grow on trees. Always an extra… friend… who would love to borrow what they have no business trying to buy.”

  “I can take care of myself for one.” Derek pauses. “And besides, thanks to you, I have plenty to celebrate. This is going to be the best Katsucon of all time.”

  I shrug. “Might as well, I guess, but for future reference, you didn’t need it in ancient Sumerian.”

  * * *

  I was halfway to BWI in a rental car when Mr. Jameson called me. I would like to say the series of clusterfucks started right then, but it really started a few weeks ago. You see, I’m a caseworker by occupation, and when work gets slow and your last freelance gig landed you in a Missouri jail for three days before the diplomatic immunity kicked in… well, you tend to get a little desperate for cash.

  As my un-luck would have it, a friend of a friend of another friend figured they would cash in a favor. And with a little research, it wasn’t too hard to guess what my financial situation looked like, so after a few conversations and some male posturing, I agreed to help Uncle Sam’s occult services with some “employee training.” Why the posturing, you may ask? Well, the simple answer is that I don’t take apprentices, and I tend to get paid when certain amounts of institutional knowledge are lost due to many-tentacled monsters ripping senior staff in half. So when the client in question wanted a Necronomicon, it was a win-win in my book. Well, until the asshole lost it.

  "I really need your help, man."

  "I'm thirty miles away and have a plane due to take off without me in an hour."

  “I can’t do this by myself.”

  “I’m sure you have friends.”

  “None of them are cleared!”

  “Well, shit out of luck then!” I’m forty miles away and ready to call his supervisor when I hang up. In
about a week, his name and face will be given to every private contractor in the tri-state area, and in two weeks, they’ll double their offer and make him public enemy across all 50 states, plus Puerto Rico. Gotta love the Feds.

  “Look, I’ll… match what I paid for the book. Fifty percent upfront wired right now if you can meet me in 45 minutes.”

  Now I’m going to be very honest… the cash sounds nice. Can’t say it wouldn’t hurt, especially if I’m planning to do “consulting” for some European assholes for a while. Nope can’t say it wouldn’t help. However, at this point, between the stupid asshole who lost a freshly minted copy of the Necronomicon and counting the time lag between when it went missing and when this idiot probably noticed…. you'd probably be better off sending the marine core followed by a tactical nuke than one lone asshole who thinks he is the boy king of Atlantis.

  Being said lone asshole, I can already feel the strong impulses imposed on him by a very special geas, invading his mind and compelling him to turn around and give a shit. That lone asshole is on the verge of shaking uncontrollably, as self-preservation and a vacation to Istanbul are wrestling with the image of a hundred thousand souls being consumed by the careless act of a single horny teenager. Their painful deaths being the catalyst for a cataclysm that will inevitably ruin my vacation and most likely all life on planet earth. Like a rapture but with tentacles.

  “I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”

  Madness Beginning

  “Motherfucker!”

  The geas hits me hard before I realize it. Like a virus being SQL injected, one minute I’m calling in a possible national security incident, and the next, I’m fighting the urge to toss my phone out the window while slamming on brakes to stop myself from rear-ending a dodge caravan on the highway.

  “That rat fucker”

  My body itches all over as the geas travels up and down my subconscious finding ways to supersede the ironclad will necessary to avoid death on the road in PG County, Maryland. It must have bypassed my wards to not short them out! I just need to pull over like so and give myself some time—

  “Can I help you, sir?” someone asks with a tap on my driver-side window. I’m concentrating so hard on willing myself not to speed off for the next exit that I barely notice the blinding lights of the patrol car.

  “No, no, officer.” I really am trying to remain calm despite the itch traveling up and down my spine, telling me to run this fucker over and keep driving until I reach the national harbor. I try to give him a ‘really I’m ok, nothing to see here,’ smile when—

  The flashlight’s beam hits my face before I have time to correct my facial expressions. The officer's un-warded mind has a good look at the mucus-green circles swirling inside my iris, and he nearly doubles over into oncoming traffic on reflex. For a second, I fear (for his sake) he is going to reach for his gun— six foot-ish black men in nicer cars than this have gotten worse for less, but thankfully something rational and professional takes over.

  “License and registration, please.”

  I slowly release my death grip on my Samsung Galaxy before removing the necessary documents with one hand while keeping the other hand on the steering wheel. It’s something I have a lot of practice doing and the primary reason why I prefer flying. The fact that he saw me on the road at all is a problem in and of itself, but dwelling on it won’t help me right now. I need time to remove this geas before it flares up again.

  “Can you step out of the vehicle?”

  Another car pulls up, also flashing its lights while parking in front of my car. I look at the first officer without expression.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Step out of your vehicle.”

  I smile. “Yes, of course,” while very deliberately exiting the rental.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” I repeat.

  The middle-aged man with a good medium build and clean-shaven takes a casual stance before nodding toward another approaching officer. This one black, broadly built, and very bald.

  “Reckless driving for one. Also, this vehicle has been reported stolen.”

  Well, that’s new. “This is a rental, officer.”

  “License plate and model matches the description.” He pauses as if trying to realign facts to match an ever-evolving story. “Please turn around, sir.”

  I know where this is going, and I’d rather not waste any more time. I reached out to both officers simultaneously before I snag my mental tooth on something hard, really hard, and end up blacking out.

  * * *

  Terror (the after effect of encountering an alien life form) is like a disease, highly contagious, and often eats the infected alive. A sensitive person, artist, poet, general creative type has the acute wherewithal to notice, but without occult training, they’ll spiral into an uncontrolled existential crisis once they realize they lack a way to cure themselves.

  However, if terror is considered the common cold, a geas is like contracting an STD specifically tailored to limp your dick and your dick only. You see, a geas is a subroutine running in your subconscious, waiting for a chance to supersede any normal decision you make for one(s) that satisfies the geas’ prerogative.

  I already have one, so I know firsthand of its ability to warp your destiny, i.e., your place in the grand scheme of the Multiverse. Usually, it is given to you by natural forces beyond your control, like, say, having too much in common with a great great great grandfather who may have been the pre-Hibernia ruler of Atlantis, but they can be man-made too. And considering destiny can be a bitch at the best of times, no Necromancer who truly understands the principle would place one on an actual person in the wild unless they had a really good reason...

  To his credit, retrieving the Necronomicon is a good reason (in theory), though the geas Derek constructed was rather reckless. A geas is potentially destiny binding, i.e., very capable of casually ruining someone’s life in very unpredictable ways, and is generally tailored for one person. What Derek did was make something like a geas “infectious,” which explains how I ended up in handcuffs inside of the trunk of a police car. I get the necromantic equivalent of crabs, which is then passed on to the cops, who in turn get their subconscious overwritten to detain me and ship me back to Derek like an amazon package.

  So while I’m sitting here folded up inside the trunk of a squad car with a tire iron and something with buttons digging into my ass, I might as well figure out how he did it. During the phone call? Possible, but that wouldn’t be enough by itself to explain everything; a geas is conditional in nature. Something else must have been the hard trigger—

  “Oh.”

  My attempt to call the Feds instead of helping him find the book must have done the trick. With a little bit of probability manipulation, it would be easy to assume my reaction to the subroutine would draw unwanted attention. He even took into account my reflex to simply disable (the cops) mentally and left a feedback loop if I tried.

  Now the only question left is why me? Deductive reasoning says that given his demonstrated abilities, he should be able to find the book on his own. But that would be assuming what he was looking for was something that wasn’t the Necronomicon, a book notorious for having a mind of its own and doesn’t play well with others. Even if you are reckless enough to warp the destinies of innocent strangers to find the Necromancer’s equivalent of a first edition copy of Harry Potter, not even Derek Jameson would risk something as unpredictable as what would happen if the simple request to find a notorious book of unspeakable horrors meets the said famous book’s desire to be read.

  Unless you knew a friendly Necromancer who could handle the book safely, probably knows how to find it, and is still within the state of Maryland.

  Two Cops and a Necromancer

  “Let me guess,” I give my captors a dramatic pause, “it really didn’t have to be this way?”

  So it’s me, Derek, and the two police officers who are basically drooling on themselves from the lack o
f commands reaching their upper brain functions. We are at an impressive two casualties even before the Friday night rave. A new record for Katsucon.

  Speaking of the con, the convention crowd is actively ignoring us. Probably due to a combination of, “Whatever happens outside the hotel involving police officers is best left alone” and Derek packing a ward with an inscription set to “stay away.” So, no help from the locals, though that’s also partially my fault; I look like a very boring late 20s black guy, the kind who probably works at an office building where the casual Friday uniform is straight fit jeans and a white short sleeve button up. Deprived of my signature overcoat, I might as well work in IT.

  “You can—'' he looks at me and then the two cops, “—bring him with us. Going to need you two.”

  So Igor and Jim, their new names in my head now that they're both official henchmen, grab me good and tight and march me back into the Gaylord trailing Derek as he tries to make his hurried gate seem natural and draw less attention.

  “You know…” I choose my words carefully here, “normally a geas doesn’t give you mind control.”

  “No reason why it can’t.”

  Shaking my head, “I can name a few.”

  “Are you going to give me an ethical lecture?” After I sold him a Necronomicon, is what he wants to add.

  I shrug. “No. but there is something to be said for solving all your problems with a hammer.”