Chapter Twenty: Messed Up

Bob Morgan stared at a still-life painting on the wall in front of him. There was something about it that just didn’t seem right, something about its context and color that shouted warnings to his soul. In the back of his head soft sirens were going off, telling him to look away quickly and run. A foreign voice whispered quietly to his subconscious. It was saying something to him; not in words, but in feelings. It was saying that there was something terribly wrong with the nightmare halls. Fear and panic began to rise in his chest. Bob had never listened to his conscious before, but right now he was considering it. He was thinking of just dropping the mission to find the star map, and catch the nearest plane to Babington; he didn’t like being here. He had never felt this way before in his life. He was caged in; complexly trapped in a strange new environment. And yet he couldn’t help but reach out to the disturbing painting and run his finger over the dried strokes. The odd canvas depicted an old, tattered war general from the early history of the continental wars. Behind him could be seen the graphic terrors and ravaging of military battle; human souls were fighting to stay alive and men with long, dirty faces were calling out for help, their mouths seemingly shaped into profound looking screams. Dark storm clouds whirled overhead while bombs exploded from all angles, in a myriad of bright colors and shades to capture lighting.

Bob looked into the war general’s strangely colored eyes and saw that they were hard and stern; capable of piercing the very hearts of men. Bob’s lips moved up and down slowly as if he were quietly speaking to an old friend. Look away, a frantic voice cried from the back of his mind. Look away, it kept calling, but Bob was staring at the painting, hypnotized by the gaze of the general. He wanted to know why the man was now smiling at him. Whispers began to gather around his head like invisible mosquitoes. They were telling him something that he couldn’t understand. They gradually got louder and louder until if felt like he was standing in a crowded room, only there was no one there. “Kill him… kill him… kill him” they kept saying chaotically. And then, quite suddenly, they stopped.

Bob pulled away from the painting and looked down at his hands. If felt as if his meaty appendages were begging him to do something. His mind felt like it was being squeezed to death in a figurative steel trap. He started to breathe in and out, almost to the rhythm of his heart. Phantom images of his passed began to dance before his eyes like a slide show. He didn’t command the thoughts to come, they just came. He saw all the deeds he had done for Shark Inc, each one was more horrible than the last.

Bob discovered something about himself that he had never quite seen before, and it scared the hell out of him; he had been nothing but a pawn to his subjugates. When they had said ‘jump’ he had said ‘how high’. When they had said ‘dance’ he had said ‘to what rhythm’. It was disturbing to witness his own life as if through knew eyes. His whole life, it seemed, had been centered on other people’s agendas.

 “Where the heck are the trays? Tory said they were in the hall,” yelled the chef with frustration as he scratched his big head. He was beginning to despair; nothing was working out at all and soon the guests would be wondering where the waiters had gone off to.

“Tory, that foolhardy cook! He lied to us! I can’t see anything, anywhere! There is nothing in this hall!” He looked under a table and felt around for the missing finger trays. Nothing was there; the whole hallway was empty. Bob shook his head and looked over to the fat cook. The man was searching all around the hall for the lost trays.

“Maybe we should go back to the kitchen,” said Bob. He looked back down at his hands. They were trembling now, but not with fear. They were trembling with anxiety. He wanted to do something with them, but he didn’t know what.

“I don’t like being here… it makes me feel strange…” His voice trailed off as he glanced back over to the painting with the general in it. “I swear I have seen this man before.” More whispers started to gather around his ears. They were chanting the same as before: kill him… kill him!

Bob noticed as small silver plaque at the base of the painting and his eyes ran over the engraved words.

“If a man is lazy, the devil will put him to work.” Bob read aloud.  

“Let’s go back,” said the chef as he eyed the plaque reluctantly. He began to walk over to a door behind Bob. “I don’t think we are supposed to be here. Mr. Tash told us not to enter these halls. We’ll just have to make more finger snacks for the guests, and send them out.” He opened the door and froze. There was nothing but thick blackness in front of him. The room was completely dark.

“Where did the kitchen go?” He looked back at Bob. The tall man was still gazing at the picture on the wall. He grabbed him by the sleeve and turned him around. “Is this the door we came out of!? Was this the door to the kitchen!?” he asked frantically.

Bob looked at the cook almost absentmindedly and looked over to the black room before them. Puzzlement completely dominated his expression.

“Yeah that was the door to the kitchen. Did someone turn out the lights to it?” A creeping sensation washed over Bob’s frame; it started from the tip of his head and ran all the way to his feet and his breathing began to increase. “What does this mean?”

“It means nothing,” said the Chef gruffly. “It means absolutely nothing!” He was growing nervous with each passing second. The nightmare halls were playing tricks on them. “I am sure we just opened the wrong door at the wrong time, that’s all.” he was going to shut the door when something weird appeared from the dark abyss. It was something that both men couldn’t explain. They watched as two bright, red eyes hovered in the cold darkness before them. The strange cat-colored retinas seemed to sway gracefully back and forth like a weighted pendulum. Gentle laughter began to fill the hallway. The harsh sound of it caused the hairs on the back of Bob’s neck to stand up and prickle.

“Who’s there?” asked the Chef.

Bob rested a hand on the chef’s shoulder and squeezed it firmly.

“Maybe we should shut the door.”

“Tory, is that you?” asked the Chef as he squinted into the darkness. The smell of rotting flesh began to pour into the room; it was almost too much to bear. “Did you find Mr. Edington… did the power go out? What’s going on? Where the heck is my staff?”

The red eyes got closer and closer. The outline of a distorted human body began to take shape from the gloom. Bob was going to protest when a soft voice from the darkness spoke up. It sounded like nail running down a chalkboard.

“Mr. Edington is inside here. We all are in here, won’t you join us?” More red eyes began to appear from the gloom. The smell of decay got stronger.

Bob pulled the chef back and shut the door quickly. He leaned his back up against the rough paneling.

“I don’t think that that was Mr. Edington or the missing staff.”

The Chef’s stunned expression melted off his face. He suddenly looked incredulous again.

“What’s going on?” He looked at all the other doors in the hallway at their little brass knobs. “Where is the kitchen? It has to be around here somewhere.” He walked further down the hall and examined the doorways; each one was like a foreign portal to a new world. He hesitated as he reached for yet another one. He gripped the cold metal and opened it up. Nothing but blackness was seen. The Chef closed the door and backed away. He turned to another one and opened it up. It was the same thing. Panic and terror began to fill his mind. It was like they were stuck in a room with no exit.

“We’re trapped! Everything is the same thing. There is no way out!”

Bob looked down the hall at the fat chef. He was reaching the point of panic without exploring all avenues. In situations like these, one had to keep calm and focused; people that panicked would wind up getting killed. It reminded Bob of the time when he was fishing on the northern beach of Aggerton. Someone had swum out passed the life buoys and started to drawn in the sea. Bob remembered how the man had thrashed around and called out for help. It was as if all the civility had jumped out of him. The lifeguards on watch tried to come to his rescue, but the man was in such a primal state that it was impossible to save him. He drowned in the sea because he couldn’t stay calm; at least Bob would like to think that that was the reason the man had drown. People that panic die first.

“Where’s the exit!?” shouted the Chef.

“Calm down!” yelled Bob, but the chef didn’t seem to hear him. He thought bitterly how this man was the one holding him back from getting to the star map. He deserved to get lost in these halls. I am not a stinking cook, Bob thought. I have more important things to do. He looked down at his hands again. They were beginning to tingle and twitch. It felt like he had stuck them into a vat of acid. His index fingers were twitching rapidly as well. The voices began to pick up again, this time they were more audible and firm. “If a man is lazy, the devil will put him to work… if a man is lazy, the devil will put him to work… if a man is lazy the devil will put him to work!”

A smile crossed Bob Morgan’s face at these words. He looked over to the painting of the war general to find that he was smiling right back at him, as if they both understood one another now. Bob shifted his eyes to the table resting underneath the painting and studied all the things resting on top of it. The only thing that stuck out to him was a big, empty, brass candlestick. Bob examined its shiny surface for a second then walked over to the table and picked it up. It felt heavy in his hands as he gripped it tightly. 

“If a man is lazy, the devil will put him to work,” whispered Bob. “To work, to work, to work.” He looked down the hall at the crazy Chef. The man was still frantically opening doors. Bob laughed at his irrational behavior. “If a man is lazy, the devil will put him to work.” Suddenly his hands weren’t itching anymore. Suddenly the clouds of ignorance that had been present Bob’s whole life were clearing up, revealing the whole picture. Bob understood the meaning of the statement. The devil was putting the Chef to work; that’s why he was acting this way. The devil was controlling his mind and making him mad… he had to be stopped. He had to be rescued.

Bob gripped the candlestick and walked over to the chef, careful not to make a sound as he approached his drowning prey. He crept masterfully with the grain of the carpet and held his breathing, his eyes shifting all around the room for any eyes that might be watching. He didn’t want anyone to see the rescue take place. If someone saw, it would prove tragic for reasons Bob couldn’t explain. Voices began to gather in the air. Kill him… kill him… kill him! It sounded like the very paintings were calling out to him. Life’s designed had never been so clear… death was a natural process. Death was the great rescue.

The Chef opened another door and looked inside as Bob approached.

“Hey!” yelled Bob. There was no response. “I’m talking to you. Can’t you see me? I am right here!”

The Chef raised his brown eyebrows and looked over to Bob with surprise. The tall mans eyes had turned slightly red.

“What do you want, Mr. Torrance? Can’t you see I am busy trying to find a way out of here! I don’t want to die in this bloody hallway. I still have a lot more to live for!”

Bob started to laugh and shake his head. The gap between them was beginning to narrow.

“I can see that ‘He’ has already gotten to you.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” asked the Chef. He gripped the door handle tightly and began to work on opening it. “Who is getting to me?”

“The devil!” shouted Bob incredulously. “He’s getting to you!”

“The devil?” repeated the Chef, almost in disbelief. “Have you gone mad, Mr. Torrance? There are no such things as devils!”

“My name is not Mr. Torrance!” barked Bob as he leaped forward and bashed the unsuspecting Chef over the head. Blood splattered everywhere as the man dropped to the ground and went limp. Bob stood over him and smiled menacingly.

“My name is Bob.” He dropped the candlestick and staggered backward. He looked down at his hands and frowned. They were itching again. It felt like someone was holding a blowtorch to his palms. He rubbed them on his pants and looked down at the chef’s lifeless body. Blood was now pooling on the ground from his head injury.

Bob bent down and grabbed his feet.

“You’re coming with me!” He was going to pull the man away from the door when he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw a pair of red eyes watching him from the darkness of the door that the chief had opened. A cold, mind-numbing chill ran down his back. They were the same eyes from before, only this time an unclear form could be seen in the darkness and Bob was sure it was a spirit of some kind.

He froze in place and his heart started beating rapidly in his chest. Sweat was forming on his forehead and his mouth became dry. Leaning back slightly, he let out a big breath. At that moment the atmosphere had gone chaotic. The creature was now looking at him. Had it seen the rescue? Did it know what he was up to?  Was it going to emerge from the darkness and take him? The thing was so close now; Bob could almost reach out and touch it. He let go of the chef’s legs and reached over to the open door. The creature’s red eyes followed him. Bob gripped the base of the door, his hands trembling heavily as he closed the thing and stood up.

What’s going on, thought Bob. What was that thing? He back up slowly and started patting his pockets frantically, seemingly searching for something that wasn’t there. He stopped abruptly when he got to the painting of the war general. He stared at the painting with undeviating eyes. Little droplets of blood were now speckled over his hardened face. The image had changed slightly as well; the general had replaced his drunken smiled with sobriety before Bob’s very eyes. Bob jumped back in horror and hit the other side of the hall. Why did that change? Where did the blood come from? Was it there before? Had he overlooked it before? He looked down the hall at the lifeless chef lying on the ground. Blood was now pooling around his body and soaking into the carpet.

It couldn’t have come from the Chef, thought Bob. He was too far away from the painting for it to even touch anything. The blood would have never made it that far. He was all the way down there. He paused and looked back over to the painting before him. The blood droplets were still resting on the general’s face. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just imagined it. Bob made his way over to the painting and examined it closely. He reached out and touched the droplets; they were fresh and warm. Creepy laughter began to fill the hall around him. Bob looked back up into the eyes of the painting, and went numb as the thing blinked and then went stiff again.

“What’s going on!” yelled Bob as fear began to grow in his voice. He waited for the painting to do something again. It just sat there quietly holding the same pose. Bob let reasonable and rational thoughts come to his mind to try and calm the madness that was rising in his soul. After a few minutes of self deliberation, he could find no explanation for what he was experiencing right now. It was as if the laws of physics had left the room, and found a home some where else. There was nothing left to ground Bob into reality. He looked around at all the other paintings in the room with suspicion. They seemed to be watching him closely. Bob slowly began to walk to a door at the far end of the hall.

Whispers began to gather all around.

“What are you?!” yelled Bob to the paintings. Panic was now ensuing inside his soul. “What are you?!” He could feel there rigid eyes looking at him. He could feel that they were judging him. “Shut up! Shut up!” he yelled manically. He pointed to all the still life images of boys and young women. “You don’t know me. I am a good person!” Bob got to the end of the hall and gripped the brass doorknob, disappearing from the view of the judging eyes of the paintings. He gripped his chest and tried to calm his breathing. Sweat was now beading on his forehead. He felt like he as going to pass out.

“I have to get these painting out of my head,” whispered Bob. “I need to find a way out of here.” He looked up and went stone cold. On the walls around him rested more paintings of people and their eyes were watching him. Bob started to walk quickly to the door at the far end of the hallway. He kept his eyes focused on the dark carpet as he went along and his thoughts were in a knot. He wanted to know where the blood had come from. He wanted to know what that thing was that saw him rescue the Chef. As Bob got closer to the door at the far end of the hallway, he noticed that on the paneling was carved a blooming rose. It looked masterfully done. It felt as if he could almost reach out and pluck it from the smooth grain. He ran his hands over the niches and cuts and thought it was a lovely symbol and that it must mean refuge.

He was about to open the door when something large rushed passed him. He could feel the very air displace itself on his neck as the thing moved. Blind fear and ill judgment clouded his senses all at once and his thoughts ran back to the general in the painting as he turned around. The words from the plaque would not leave his mind

If a man is lazy, the devil will put him to work.

Bob’s heart started to beat rapidly in his chest. He studied the door at the far end of the hallway; the door he had just come out of, the door that led to the painting of the general and the murder he had just committed. It was bowing heavily with protest and looked as if it was about to snap in half from the strain. A high whistling noise began to pick up from the cracks. Something inside Bob began to stir more than before. He couldn’t look away from the door; his eyes were transfixed on the ghostly image. Laughter began to ring out from all directions, rising and rising until suddenly the door blew open and slammed into the wall with a loud bang. A powerful wind began to sweep the halls. Its forcefulness caused Bob to stagger backward and hit the door behind him. The air left his lungs as he stared down the hall at the Chef’s lifeless body still lying in his own pool of blood on the floor. The painting of the general began to sway back and forth violently. Bob watched as it became unhooked from the wall and fell to the floor with a crash. It landed on the floor and, for a moment, lay still before it began to inch facedown towards Bob.

Bob reached for the brass doorknob behind him frantically and started pulling at it. His mind had shattered into a thousand irrational pieces. In the distance he could hear the frame of the picture rubbing against the carpet. It was getting closer. The strong wind in the hallway was making it difficult to open. Bob started screaming in terror. He could almost see the thing getting closer and closer in his mind but didn’t allow himself to look back. He continued to twist the doorknob harder and pulled with all his might. The door cracked open a little and air from the hallway began to pour into the corridor on the opposite side. The wood from the rose door began to whistle and vibrate uncontrollably. The painting was five feet from Bob when he finally managed to pull the door open and jumped into the other room.

The door slammed shut behind Bob as the air stabilized.  He fell against the rose door and sat down on the ground just outside the nightmare halls. He put his face in his hands and started to cry. His limbs were shaking with fear and fatigue. He had never been through something like that in his entire life. It felt like he had just walked through the corridors of hell. After five minutes he wiped the salty tears from his eyes and stood up. His throat was sore and dry. He snuffed some snot back up into his nose and brushed off his clothes as he tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling.

“Get with it, Bob,” he whispered encouragingly to himself. “You’re here to complete a mission, not to mope and cry like a frightened school girl. That’s not why you’re here… be a man… be strong!” He looked at the door he had just come out of. There was a little plaque mounted in its dark surface that read:

The Nightmare Hall’s: Everyone BEWARE

“That is an understatement!” huffed Bob hoarsely. “An absolute understatement if I have ever seen one.” He kept repeating this as he walked away from the terrible place. He had to find where Lee and Marten were staying. He had to see if they had a copy of the star map.

*          *          *

Bob found it easer to forget what had happened in the nightmare halls the further he got away from them. With every step he took the bizarre experiences seemed to fade rapidly from his mind. Pretty soon it seemed like only a terrible dream. He couldn’t ex-plain the feeling. If felt as if the whole thing hadn’t happened at all. If felt like Bob had gotten scared for no good reason. He laughed at himself and shook his head. He felt embarrassed and ashamed.

“Why was I so frightened by something so stupid? Paintings can’t hurt people. They’re paintings for heaven’s sake!”

Bob brushed the whole thing aside and studied the new atmosphere all around him. It was brighter and wider in this corridor. Huge chandeliers were hanging from the ceiling at symmetrical intervals and bright red rugs with embroidered shapes on them ran up and down the long hallway. Bob marveled at the grandeur of the Fantas House. He had never been in such an elegant looking place before. It looked as if he had stepped into a castle or a palace. His stomach churned with delight, and yet at the same time, it churned with distaste and contempt. He hated seeing people that had more money than him. He hated people that had what he couldn’t have himself. Bob had grown up in a very poor family. His father had been a sanitation engineer for IB solutions in Aggerton. The IB Company was the biggest on the Eastern Seaboard. He father had driven a big white garbage truck with one green line down the center of it.

Bob painstakingly recalled the time when his father had come to his school for career day. He was wearing his baggy white jumpsuit with a bright orange hardhat. He talked to the kids about the cool things one could find in a landfill. He told everyone that most of the stuff in their house was from the landfill. After that day all the other kids never looked at Bob the same again. They called him William the “WOG”.

A “WOG” was the name they gave to people that were less fortunate than themselves. A hobo would be considered a WOG. A factory worker would be considered a WOG… and most definitely a garbage truck driver and all of his family would be considered a WOG.

“No good rich folk,” grumbled Bob. “Thinking they own everything. Money can’t buy happiness! Money can’t buy love and friends! Money can’t do anything for you!” The profound words left his mouth, but yet, he didn’t believe them. Bob was a peculiar man. He could say one thing one minute and do the complete opposite of that thing the next. He was a hypocrite and a liar. Bob wanted riches more than he wanted to be alive. He wanted to be something in life… he wanted to get ahead of others.

Bob walked over to a mahogany door resting in the far wall of the hall. The thing had the words ‘Boarding Office’ written on its front paneling. He opened the door slowly and walked in. The lights were on but the room was quiet; no one was around. Bob’s dark eyes ran over the furniture and fixtures. In the far corner rested a desk with a computer on top of it. It looked pretty high tech.

“Bingo!” said Bob. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He walked over to the desk and started sifting through the drawers. He pulled out tons of papers and examined them closely. Nothing really stood out; they were all written in a different dialect. After a few minutes Bob sat down in the chair and messed with the computer for awhile. He jiggled the mouse and perused the monitor carefully. It was blinking black and blue; the thing wasn’t responding. Bob reached over and hit the ‘Enter’ button on the keypad. A small toolbar popped up on the screen. It had a little curser inside of it that seemed to blink at him. Below the bar were the words “password required”. The whole thing was locked up. Bob fiddled with it for a minute or two. He typed in names and numbers of places Mr. Tash might have used for his password, but found it impossible to get into. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. His eyes shifted from the stubborn monitor and over to all the bookshelves that lined the walls of the office. Each one was covered in leather bound books; small trophies and statues could also be seen resting on the dark wood. The place looked classy; quaint, yet spacious, with green wallpaper.

“Well, there is nothing here to help me.” Bob stood up and was going to leave when he noticed a sliver of white light coming out from one of the cracks of the bookshelves. It wasn’t very big, but it was noticeable and odd to see. He walked over to it and ran his hand up and down the crack. Cool air could be felt rushing out from behind the fancy shelf. Bob stood back and examined the whole structure. Sure enough, the thing was hiding a room. He rushed over to the shelf and started pulling on it. The structure slowly began to give way and swing outward.

“What kind of idiot leaves the lights on to a hidden room?” said Bob as he pulled the thing all the way open. He looked inside and marveled at what he saw next. The room before him was a small space with tiled floor. Sitting in the middle of the floor was a single filing cabinet with three square drawers. Bob walked up to the thing and started sifting through the papers and documents inside of it. His eyes slowly began to light up as he realized what he was looking at. He smiled and laughed almost uncontrollably. He had found a gold mine of information. These were the papers that the police were after. These were the papers that the news was talking all about.  All of Mr. Tash’s illegal overseas trips were written all over the papers. Everything he had traded… every island he had visited… every tribe he had made deals with: it was all there in black and white. There was enough evidence to convict him for two life times. Bob was brewing over the papers like a kid would brew over a hot-fudge-sundae. He could use it for his own devious purposes. He started shoving the papers into the folds of his catering shirt.

Why would someone leave this open like this? Thought Bob with delight. He was going to stuff another paper into his shirt when he heard the door to the boarding office open and then close. He froze in his place and looked behind him. A black haired lady in a blue striped dress had walked in and was now vacuuming the dark green carpet. She didn’t seem to notice Bob standing quietly in the secret room. Bob crept over to her and grabbed her from behind. He clasped his hand over her mouth and whispered quietly in here ear.

“Surprise!”

The maid tried to struggled free, but found it impossible.

“Stop moving,” demanded Bob. He waited for the maid to calm down. “I am not going to hurt you. I just want to know where a couple of my friends have gone off to in this house… maybe you my have heard of them. Their names are Marten and Lee. They said that they were coming here.”

“Let me go!” Came the muffled cry of the maid through Bobs fingers.

“I’ll let you go on one condition,” said Bob rigidly. His grip around her got tighter. “That you don’t run. If you run I will catch you and kill you. You understand? I will hunt you down and end your life.”

The maid nodded her head.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” said Bob in what he thought was an amiable voice. “I just want to find my friends. If you help me with this, I promise you that everything will be all right… all right?”

The maid nodded her head again.

Bob slowly let go and stepped back. The maid turned around and backed up to the far wall. Her brown eyes shifted all over Bob’s rough features. Strands of her dark hair were resting over her face.

“What do you want?”

Bob smiled; he could tell that she was going to cooperate with him. Usually people got difficult in situations like these. Usually he had to kill somebody.

“Like I said, I am just looking for some old friends of mine. I want to know where they are staying. There names are Marten and Lee.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” stated the maid in a thick accent. She was pronouncing her T’s as D’s. It was almost amusing to Bob to hear the maid speak. She was foreign to the day’s.  Bob’s smiled faded a little from his face.

“Have there been any visitors that have come to see Mr. Tash’s house today? Are you housing any visitors?”

The maid though for a moment.

“Can you think of anyone?”

The maid shrugged her shoulders.

“We did get two men a while back… but I am not sure if they are still here.” She shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “Mr. Fantas was pretty mad at them. He told us not to talk to them.” 

“Can you take me to their rooms?” Bob asked. “I want to look around.”

The maid nodded.

Bob reached out and grabbed her by the arm.

“Well let’s go.” He pulled her to the door. “I haven’t got all day!”

They both left the room quickly.