So many wonderful words we write,

When we dream of a seed and sow it.

A novel or sonnet may come to light

If we take the time to grow it.

And many are they but plenty are we

Who would yearn to be the poet.

Lovers embrace on the moon tonight

Should our pens' pretenses show it,

And an angel's wing will want for flight

Should the villain reveal what's below it

For limitless bliss or the fury of those

Who would yearn to be the poet.

From the dawn of man at the start of time

One would pick up a verse and bestow it

Upon thirsty mind set afire by a rhyme

A fine lyricist would overflow it

And words were like wine dripping down upon those

Who would dare to be the poet,

Or might care to undergo it

Remember the past or ignore the day

Come the troubadour, minstrel, and bard

Leaving doubt behind, keeping woe at bay

And distresses, disregard

When the words of a beautiful, dutiful voice

bring a healing to the scarred.

Very few children understand

And many who do outgrow it

The Raven, Silence, Fairy-Land

And his name, you surely know it

For it was Edgar Allan's hand

Which put the Poe in poet

And as a child, remarkable he

Was a poet and didn't even acknowledge the fact.

Truly a tale of extremes, my friend. It breaks my heart to be reminded of that self-afflicted torment. Allow me to suggest an alternative: Momus, not Prometheus, is probably a more likely fit. For the mistake of finding Aphrodite the only one worthy and capable, thus deserving, of his (or anyone's) admiration, he torments himself and any around him for their falling short of acceptability. Love, in life, can seem a lottery of hearts, and we hear tales of those who profess to have won. They present themselves to mock our loneliness. Just remember that lottery winners pay heavy taxes--it's not as it appears on the surface. The tales of pure love are often tall, and just as children dream of astronauts and princesses, our mature dreams of passion and love can make our goal of a kindred spirit unrealistically lofty as well.

When we were young, our fathers put pressure on us to be our best, and the more intense the pressure, and the higher the expectations, the more likely we were to fall short. Why should a lover's engagement be any different? We are all but humans, not gods. To expect a commitment, especially to one who loves so deeply as you, to knowing every thread of your soul, to not only bringing forth her own very best, but to inspiring and motivating your very best as well--that's an expectation to rival our fathers' proudest dreams--as if we could ever achieve them.

And streets are lined with tents and sleeping bags--littered with the punished souls who were not granted their winning lottery tickets. I wonder if they look at people passing by--struggling day-to-day, working tirelessly, doing whatever it takes to feed their children, pay their mortgages, and stretch with all their might to reach just one more rung--and think, "Those lucky bastards!" And all the people passing by could pick out this soul or that, give them their days and their nights and their worries; but in reality, they will more likely pick out any one of those souls, and though they may search desperately for some speck of hope, end up thinking, "Why would I give a man such as this anything more than a few bucks for lunch?"

Those who wander the alleys and defecate in the streets so often ramble to themselves, flailing their arms and cursing every last thing, including the wind, are really quite similar to the politicians and lawyers with their arguments and speeches... "Listen, all who are near! Hear me and know this! For anything short of total agreement with all I say or believe, is..." what did you call it? "Mouths full of platitudes, meaningless blabbering with no basis in reality." To be perfectly honest, that was my favorite part--I've always had a soft spot for fatalism.

In truth, I was once you. I think a lot of people have been (if I may risk using myself as the norm). I'd wished for too long to believe that wishes come true. I considered for hours what I, too, called fate. And I threw it all on the winds and accepted it as my own. Then the very next day, The Boss came into my life, on what seemed like chance. It wasn't perfect or easy or completing or any other extremes but one-- it was hard work-- not hard in that I had to complete grandiose tasks or make life-changing sacrifices; it was hard in that I had to tell myself "yes" when so many times I thought "no." I convinced myself "stay" when my pride told me "go." I realized that this woman was not going to magically bring out my best, but that her love was going to require it--it was my choice, and my responsibility, to bring my best out of myself.

You see, my friend, it wasn't fate or karma which stood in my way--it was my own image of a love I didn't realize I had to earn to achieve--my unearned Aphrodite. In fact, truly, looking back, I've never met a man, woman, or child who I could not love--I only failed to allow it. I expected perfection and weighed each lover on that scale--not that they never had a chance--I just never gave them one. Those who win lotteries so often end up broke again, because their investment was only a dollar or two; but those who invest every ounce of their being into building a fortune others yearn to possess--a treasure they know through and through, which required their best and provided a fortune in return--they are the ones who will never, ever curse the wind.

Friends, authors, Prosermen, lend me your corneas!

It is with great honor I bestow upon blah, blah, blah, let's get down to the winners, right?!

No way! These participants deserve far more than "Here's who won..." This challenge was freaking awesome! It had a terrible and ironic flaw from the very onset, which I admit, I created myself using an unparalleled lack of foresight, but the potential for greatness revealed itself very early on as well. Please, these are your people. Indulge me.

@InvisibleWriter submitted a brilliant initial entry, "what once was," that was just dripping with talent! The painful scorn of fading love and the inevitable landslide sheered from a mountain of unreciprocated dreams. Alas, the flaw in the challenge revealed itself right away (and I'll further address that below).

Then, @Akitoyu added "A Leap of Faith," another absolutely brilliant write from a voyeur's point of view, looking downward upon a troubled dancer in a storm, so careless with life itself that even death appeared a welcome end to a broken heart. Akito clearly showed up ready to win, but @Mariah came down hard with "The Letter." What a tantalizing approach--a secret letter wrought with vulnerability, seeking clarification of her suspicions: a possible suitor's not-so-covert hints of infatuation, but the letter itself is a calculated risk as it threatens to upset a delicate balance between two peoples.

Then things got interesting. The Letter was, as it demanded, answered post haste by one @DustyGrein with "The Reply." Lady H's suspicions were confirmed, and her vulnerabilities returned as Lord B expressed his will to risk everything at the chance of his infatuation being reciprocated with a single kiss. Fantastic! To bear witness to the birth of such an eloquent love story!

Enter @ChrisSadhill

His Part two to Akito's "Leap of Faith" was out of this world. The perspective of the sullen dancer-- imploring death's release from heartache's pain by taunting any higher power to strike down what was left of an empty soul, only to have death mock the plea, further heightening the rage, before revealing the voyeur's silhouette and clearing a path toward new love.

As if things weren't heating up enough, @U submitted "Something in the Eyes (Part 01). @U, who is rumored to be closely related to @A , kept me soaring this way and that as I shared, for a moment, the aftermath of a life lived in penned fantasies and fictional dreams. An invitation was extended to @Mavia to supplement the downtrodden writer's plea for help, and what an answer to receive! As a child, I had Heather Locklear pinned to my wall. As an adult, I now have this paragraph:

......... --I will fill you. With tireless wings I will lift your blackened carcass as if the weight were meaningless. And I'll breath a single kiss of passion forlorn into your wordless abyss till the color floods back into your fingertips, back into your ankles, elbows, and knees, back to your mind, ventricles, and entrails and all your lifegiving forces-- readied like paint for the making. And when we're fully connected in broadest of daylight, you'll come to your senses. You'll stand with me willingly, forcefully, giving... like it never happened. --@Mavia

@DanPhantom123 took me on an unexpected comedic journey reminiscent of both Alice's Restaurant and Alice in Wonderland! What else can one say, at the end of it all, but "what a trip!" This is an excellent example what happens when psychedelics, video games, and keyboards mix. So. Freakin. Fun! The brilliant mind of @DustyGrein graced this entry with a follow-up prescription, and with the right amount of counteracting drugs, and professional supervision, we think DanPhantom123 will be juuuuust fine.

Right when I thought it was time to put a fork in this challenge, a last-minute entry was submitted by @Fabulam desperately asking, "What do I do Now?" And there's a twist! Read the damn thing! Holy balls! I really, really wanted--aw, hell--I hoped, someone would respond to this slice of genius.

Enter @ChrisSadhill

I can't do it--I'd need the powers of @TheWolfeDen to give this piece the proper wrap up. Just go there. Read it. I only wish there had been more time for these two writers to develop this quid pro quo before the challenge ended. Fan-freakin-tastic!

So who wins, dammit?!

That's easy. I win! It's been such a pleasure reading these entries, I'm just thrilled to death! The winners, for the purpose of choosing winners, are Akitoyu, for "Leap of Faith," and ChrisSadhill for the reply, "Leap of Faith, part 2."

For their wonderful entries, everyone else will receive a whopping $5 donation as well. This isn't some everybody-gets-a-trophy proposition--this is for putting in the effort to create great writing! Thanks to all of you, I am anxiously looking forward to creating A Challenge of Inspiration II!

Now, as for the near-fatal flaw in the challenge, here's where I screwed up:

It seems wherever I go, I always end up looking for ways to circumvent the parameters of my world. After submitting my very first challenge entry on theProse., I wanted to submit another, taking the prompt in an entirely different direction. Alas, editing a challenge entry isn't even allowed, let alone creating a second one. I cheated the system in creating A Challenge of Inspiration, allowing an initial entry to be built upon by multiple respondents, and allowing authors to respond to multiple initial entries. But I really shot myself in the foot by suggesting the initial author tag a fellow Proser, unintentionally implying the invitation simultaneously uninvited all others. The idea, as the title suggests, is that each entry might inspire as many Prosers as possible to compose an appropriate response. Alas, I implied a parameter to my parameter-breaking challenge.

So! In future such challenges, if you read something that inspires you to respond, click on Write, and compose a response. Put a link to the initial challenge entry at the bottom, or in the comments, so people can find it; and place a link to your post in the comments of the initial entry so people can find your response.

Thank you all so very much for picking up the ball and running with it--I enjoyed the heck out of this!

Your friend,

LeCrae

After Gretchen Weider had checked out once again from the Adler, I made a trip to the Clausen place and put a twenty-dollar-bill in the mailbox.

The box in the back of the pickup truck was full of new punch card door locks, which Uncle Mordy had ordered a few weeks prior. I had maintenance get started on them right away. We had more than enough staff to get everything started up again after the weekend. Gregory Cruikshank suddenly felt better and came back to work, along with a few others who apparently chose to keep their distance on carpet-cleaning day. I thought to ask him if he'd had any strange experiences with ghosts or poltergeists during their time at the Adler, but one again, there was a part of me that didn't want to know. I spent another four years as acting GM of the Adler, and after four years of platonic rendezvous, I decided to call it quits. It was too much to weigh on a young heart. These days, they call it, baggage. I never did find someone to take my heart. She's still my "only one."

Over time, the village of Sharon Springs, New York lost its appeal to modern travelers and resort-goers. The vintage 30's fixtures, 70's carpet and wallpaper unique to every room, eight-inch baseboards, and dumbwaiter service just didn't hold up against twenty-first century luxury expectations. Uncle Mordy sold the Adler, while it still had a bit of value, after closing its doors in 2004. Gretchen Weider passed on in '92, thankfully--she didn't see its demise. The reunions stopped. Neither of the sisters have been seen ever since.

I got your letter yesterday from your law firm, and I called his firm to see if I could figure out what had happened. As you know, Mordecai Yarkony passed away a few months ago, and apparently he'd gotten the best of your clients when he sold the property. The records weren't filed properly as I understand, and since his passing, Uncle Mordy's assets and personal papers were gone through more precisely. Among them was a document that suggested the Adler wasn't actually his to sell, which I can imagine is causing quite a stir in the hearts and minds of the folks who paid him for it. It seems Uncle Mordy transferred ownership of the hotel to yours truly back in '79, but didn't bother mentioning it to anyone.

I've included a quit claim deed to the property, naming your clients as the owners of any interest I may have had. It seems fair that your clients have paid for it, and in the end, I'll get the money for it, so this should clear things up. I also thought it wouldn't be right of me to fail to mention the supernatural occurrences and brutal history of the hotel, which is why you know so much (and probably quite a bit more than necessary) now. Truth be told, I just love telling the story.

It's taken a lot of years to put the Adler behind me, and the memories that came with it. Sometimes I wonder, if the right person came around, if she might come back for a chat--maybe stir up some trouble. I'll turn 70 this year, and this letter has reinvigorated the memories once more. So, in case you don't hear from me again, look for me there, in Sharon Springs, NY. I'm going to take another trip out there. You never know what might come up.

Sincerely,

Stephen Goldman

P.S. Below is everything I could find on the state of the Adler as of today.

https://youtu.be/thQnV65mAls

Start at Chapter 1 -- Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741541

"Mrs. Teague, what's happening? There are people inside killing each other!"

"No, Mr. Goldman, the people inside are not killing each other. They're already dead. They have been for years."

"What are you talking about? They're right inside. One of them just chased me out the service entrance. He was the size of a house! I watched him kill three people and he was trying to kill me!"

"Duncan Kessler, yes."

"What do you mean, 'Yes'?! I just said he killed three people and chased me out the door, and all you have to say is 'Yes'?"

The Sheriff spoke, "Mr. Goldman, if you'll give us a chance to explain..."

"Explain then!"

Mrs. Teague went on, "Stephen, the Kessler family reunion isn't a normal event."

"Yeah, I'll say!"

"Sir, please."

"Okay, sorry. Go on."

"In 1947, the Kesslers rented the Adler for their very first reunion. Almost every one of them came from Germany and Austria, having escaped the Nazis. The reunion, wasn't just for the Kessler family, though. The Weider family also came--those who survived. The Jewish Weiders were disbursed around German camps and hiding throughout Europe. The German Kesslers spread the word through the family that they were trying to locate as many Weiders as possible, and doing whatever it took to get them to America. The two families were reunited after years of separation from the beginning of the war. Most of the Weiders were killed by the Nazis. The reunion was as emotional as it was grand."

"Okay..."

"On the day of the reunion, Louis Adler had the carpets cleaned, along with as many other cleaning services they could fit into the day. Back then, the cleaning industry wasn't well regulated, and the combination of chemicals used to clean the carpet and other surfaces created a mild type of mustard gas, along with a strong psychedelic agent which caused the entire hotel to become a crime scene. As the Kesslers and Weiders slept, their minds were bent by the gases. The staff were able to get fresh air outside as they began to complain about headaches, but the guests were exposed in their rooms, thinking the effects were from too much alcohol during the evening.

"The much weaker Weiders were no match for their counterparts. They were the first to die, though the brutality didn't end there. Every man, woman, and child..."

"Dear God, the children."

"...became murderous... beasts."

"How is it possible I've never heard about this?"

"The village had just become a luxury resort destination with five-star hotels and celebrities visiting from all over the country. The last thing the people wanted was to have the news of the massacre getting out. It would destroy the entire town."

"But the people who died..."

"Two entire families wiped out in a single night. There was no one to file a complaint."

"Except for one," the Sheriff added.

"Yes, there was one survivor--the girl--Gretchen Weider. Gerd Kessler had sneaked her and her brothers and sister out of Germany before the war, claiming they were his children. They'd moved to Denmark, then to America."

"How do you know all this?"

"I was a hairdresser in the hotel's salon at the time. I met many of them the day of the tragedy, and Gretchen the day before. She and her sister had come a day early. No one knows why she survived. She wouldn't say where she was or who she was with that night, but when she returned, her entire family was gone--both of them."

My heart dropped.

"Gretchen's father, Bernard, was located in Austria a few years later. Gretchen arranged for him and his new wife to come to America. They ended up buying the Adler from Louis after a few years living in Miami.

"The chemical company paid her a fortune for her extraordinary loss... and to keep quiet about it. She was to be married to one of the Kesslers, and they'd already filed the paperwork. For all the lawyers knew, she was already married--the sole survivor and sole recipient of the entire Kessler fortune, which was quite substantial as Gerd had invested wholeheartedly in American steel and munitions companies to help their war effort.

"She put the bulk of the money into a bank account, and insisted, if she was to promise not to speak of the event, the hotel would promise to clear the books for two days every time the carpets were cleaned, and the staff would be handsomely compensated, when the bank paid for the rooms, for their time away from work. Louis agreed, the town agreed, the staff agreed, and no one spoke a word of it for fear of losing everything. Once the cleaning chemicals were no longer a threat, Ms. Weider insisted on booking one room for herself, and she always comes a day early."

"Are you ready to go inside, Mr. Goldman?"

"I don't know. I guess."

We entered the front doors. Nothing was out of place. There were no bodies, no blood, no decorations, no strings of lights. The banquet hall was empty--all the tables and chairs stacked on stage to make room for the cleaners--right where Tommy Mericle and his crew had stacked them. There was no music, no screaming, no rampaging guests. But the most noticeable absence was no pleated skirt, no waistcoat, no gloves or hat.

"There was a girl," I eked, "She was real." I thought maybe she was the survivor.

"I'm afraid not, Stephen."

"But she showed up in a taxi..."

"Gretchen showed up in a taxi, yes."

It was then she walked into the foyer. We watched her come slowly around the corner from the main hall. The skirt, waistcoat, and hat--just as she'd worn since she arrived. I hurried to meet her. But, it wasn't her.

"Gretchen? Is that your name?"

"Yes."

She was every bit as lovely, dressed the same, but easily twice the age of the girl I thought she was when she came around the corner. The look on my face told her everything.

"You saw her? My sister?"

"I think so." Tears streamed down my face.

"What was she like? Was she happy?"

"Yes, ma'am. I think she was very, very happy. We went on a pedal boat. Wait! We went on a pedal boat!" I exclaimed to the deputies and Mrs. Teague. I wiped my face as if it wasn't too late for them to see me bawling. "Clint Clausen's pond, across the highway! We were there! Mr. Clausen and his kids saw us together--he'll tell you!"

"Son, Mr. Clausen put a bullet in his eye eight years ago. He couldn't take the guilt of losing his two young sons when they drowned in his little pond while he wasn't watching--not that he could've gotten to them before they drowned anyway."

A deputy added in, "We had a call about someone messing around on Mrs. Clausen's dock yesterday. Someone had gone out on one of the boats. By the time Mrs. Clausen got out there, he was back on the dock and he ran off to his car when she yelled at him."

It was like my world was falling apart.

"But you saw her in the foyer, Mrs. Teague, this morning. You said she'd been wandering around all night."

"That was Gretchen in the foyer, Mr. Goldman. I'm sorry."

"This can't be happening."

"What's your name, if I may?"

"It's Stephen, ma'am."

"Stephen."

It might as well have been her voice.

"What was her name?"

"My sister... hmph... that sounds like her. Neglecting the simplest things and jumping head first into the next adventure. That's how she died--I know it's awful to say. The gas got to her, too. Best we could figure, when the fighting started, she tried to get out, but couldn't find a way. They think she'd been hiding somewhere, but the gas took her mind. When she came out, she just started running..."

Outside, we heard what sounded like plate glass exploding, coupled with a woman's scream. The deputies turned to look, but the scream died out and there was nothing to see.

One of the deputies had had enough. "Sheriff, if you don't need us anymore, I've got someplace to be..."

With that, the Sheriff dismissed his men, and Mrs. Teague, Ms. Weider, and I shared a long chat about the days' events... well, not all of them.

"Oh no!" I blurted.

"What is it?" Mrs. Teague asked.

"I'm going to have to have a long, serious talk with Sonya Vera."

Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741584

"Stephen! Wake up! Stephen! Please!"

"What?!"

"Something's happening! Everyone's gone mad! They're fighting!"

I jumped to my feet and ran to the door. She'd left it open and I heard the yelling and screaming echoing through the hall. I ran back and grabbed the phone while I pulled on my pants. No one was operating the switchboard. The phone was useless. I laced my shoes and got one arm in a shirt sleeve. She was already dressed.

"Come on, we have to get out of here."

"Stephen, listen to them! They'll kill us!"

I ran to the door again and looked in the hall.

"Look, we just need to get to the stairwell..."

"They'll be in the stairwell. We can't take the stairs."

"We only need to get to the fourth floor. The stairs come out right across from the laundry chute. We can slide down to Laundry and run out the service door."

"What about a fire escape?"

"There is no fire escape. This place was built fifty years ago. Come on!"

We only paused at the door, then made a run for the stairs. We could hear fighting down below, but there was no one in the staircase. We quickly and carefully sneaked down to the fourth floor. A man was tromping around celebrating having beaten a smaller man apparently to death in the hall. He grunted like a mad gorilla as he stomped away from us to the next door. He looked at the door, huffed and flexed, then kicked it in screaming like a wild man as he rushed inside.

"Come on."

We jumped into the hall and across to the laundry chute. I opened the door.

"Climb in, hurry."

She looked down the chute, "Stephen, I can't. It's too far down."

"It slides diagonally starting at the third floor. I promise, it's like a playground slide, and the bottom is a huge pile of sheets and towels and pillow cases."

"I can't," she cried, slowly backing away.

"Yes, you can. You have to." We both looked down the hall when we heard the crazy man fighting again. A terrible scream came from the stairs behind us. Someone was coming up. "We have to go, now."

Still, she refused. Then I saw it. On the other side of the hall--the dumbwaiter.

"There! Come on, get inside. I'll go down the chute and lower you down once I'm at the bottom. Just get in and stay quiet."

She wasn't thrilled, but I got her tucked in and closed the panel before diving down the laundry chute, head first. Four seconds later, I was close to the bottom, but the linens had backed up into the chute. The skeleton crew hadn't been able to clear the pile before leaving for the night. I had to dig through sheets and damp towels until I finally tumbled down the massive white pile at the bottom.

The service door was thirty feet away. The dumbwaiter was thirty feet away, with a wall between us, and a hallway wrought with blood-thirsty mad men. I made my way through a maze of small hallways and offices, heading through to the switchboard room. I ducked inside to make the call to the police.

A bloodied woman screamed and charged at me with a chair held over her head. I barely dodged it as she brought it down, smashing it onto the floor and falling forward over it. She got up, bringing with her a couple of pieces of broken chair. Her eyes were wild with rage as she charged again. Paying no attention at all to the debris at her feet, she slid on a piece of wood and slammed into the tile floor, leaving her unconscious, crumpled on the floor. A man lay dead in the corner, beaten to a pulp with a switchboard cable wrapped tightly around his neck. I closed the door and locked it.

"9-1-1, what is the location of the emergency?"

"You gotta come quick! Get cops and, and, and ambulances! You gotta hurry!

"What's going on, Sir? I need you to calm down and tell me what's going on."

"The guests! They've all gone crazy! They're fighting each other! They're beating each other to death!"

"Where is this happening, Sir?"

"The Adler hotel! Please hurry!"

"The police are on their way. Are you in a safe location, Sir? Sir?"

The woman regained consciousness and growled as she rose to her feet. I readied myself for another knockout blow, but she ran past me, headlong into the wall at the other end of the room, knocking herself out.

I left the switchboard room and took a right, down the narrow hallway toward the door and the end, which led into the main hall. Across the hall was the kitchen, where the dumbwaiter was operated.

Even if someone saw me in the main hall, I could hurry back through the little maze and escape through the service door without any trouble. No one could navigate the turns as quickly as I could. It was a quick dash across the hall to the other door, and one inside, I'd have maybe a minute to lower the dumbwaiter. That was the easy part. The kitchen itself presented an entirely different challenge--a vast array of potential weapons. The main hall echoed blood-curdling screams from men and women alike, but no one was there-- no one alive anyway. I made the dash.

The kitchen had been ransacked. There were pots, pans, cooking utensils, and unidentifiable commercial cookware scattered everywhere. Two bodies and a spattering of blood completed the ensemble. I wasted no time once I was certain no one was in there waiting for their opportunity to add my body to the list. I grabbed the cable next to the dumbwaiter cabinet and started reeling. It went faster than I had imagined. Maybe twenty seconds and I was already almost there.

The kitchen doors smashed open next to me as two men crashed into a stainless steel prep table before falling to the ground. They grappled with each other, fighting and biting and clawing at each other. One found a small knife and began stabbing the man on top of him. The man on top kept bludgeoning the man with the knife, as if there were no knife at all. I kept reeling the cable downward. An impossibly large man ran into the room hefting a fire extinguisher over his head. He brought it down, crowning the man on top of the fighting twosome. The man on the floor stabbed the huge man in the leg with the knife before taking a crushing blow from the extinguisher as well. I grabbed the nearest thing--a cast iron pan--and did what anyone would in my situation. I cowered behind it as if it would somehow protect me from the gargantuan man.

He turned to me and took a step in my direction, then something caught his attention in the hall--another gladiator. He roared and launched himself into the hall. I dropped the pan and immediately reeled the dumbwaiter to the bottom, hitting hard as it reached its limit. I side-stepped to the cabinet to help her out.

It was empty.

Seconds passed like minutes as I contemplated the horrific possibilities. I heard sirens outside, breaking me from my trance. My best hope of saving her was to get to the police and help them put an end to the melee. I jumped back to the doorway to escape, but the behemoth man stood directly between me and the door to the offices. He held a lifeless man's body with a clearly broken neck, dangling in his humongous hand. He faced away from me--I had only a moment to act. I dashed past him and slipped through the door right in front of him. His mass would make it impossible for him to keep up with me through the maze, but he sure tried. He let out a roar and chased me down the narrow hall, his huge arms banging into the walls as he ran. I ducked to the right, across from the switchboard room, then left through Mrs. Teague's office which adjoined the mail room. The huge man slammed into walls and desks as he tried to catch me, but he never had a chance. Into the laundry room, I broke for the service door. I heard him make the final turn behind me as I smashed the lock bar and burst through.

I raced around the west wing to the front, where sheriff's cars were filing in and turning the court into a massive red and blue disco. Three cars had already parked and two more were just joining. They likely made up the entire police force in the village, but I was sure happy to see them. The huge man had apparently lost interest in me. He'd either gone back inside, or taken off into the woods, which was a scary thought.

Flagging down the first deputy I saw, I warned him that the man might be on the loose. I explained who I was and that the people inside were in a murderous rage, killing each other and even themselves. He escorted me to where the others had gathered. The other deputies were at the front, along with the Sheriff, standing on the steps leading up to the main entry doors, chatting and laughing with Mrs. Teague.

My escort spoke smoothly and calmly, as deputies do. "Mr. Goldman, this is going to be hard to comprehend, but just try to keep an open mind, and we'll explain everything to you. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I guess. What's going on? Why aren't they going inside? There's a girl in there--a woman--she's not crazy like the others. She may still be alive."

"She's not."

"You don't know that! You guys have to..."

"Mr. Goldman, please try to stay calm. Remember what I said."

Mrs. Teague met me at the bottom of the steps, the Sheriff was at her side.

"Okay, somebody please tell me what the hell is going on!"

Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741581

It was dusk when I got back from my jaunt to the state capitol and back. Another successful trip in the old Chevy. The maintenance crew would have to deal with whatever was in the box come Monday. It was way too heavy for me to lift, and I wasn't worried about letting it sit in the parking garage til then. I was far more concerned about the huge mistake I'd signed up to repeat at midnight. Maybe she'd come to her senses and call off the rendezvous. Right... fat chance.

I'm not sure what I expected upon entering the Adler, but it sure as heck wasn't what I saw. The foyer and banquet hall were both littered with strings of lights, there were huge paper lantern displays, strings of beads, music was playing, people were dancing--it was the best I'd ever seen the Adler look for an event--absolutely stunning!

The only thing that struck me as odd was that I didn't see a single hotel employee present. I know most of the staff had the night off, and some had called in sick, but this group seemed to me to be completely self-sufficient. I walked in just to make my presence known in case anyone needed anything. I figured I'd wait at the reception desk just to make myself available.

I jarred myself awake at 11:49. Looking quickly and thoroughly across the foyer, I saw no one who might have noticed I'd been asleep at my post. Then the mezzanine caught my eye. It was her. She'd dashed across behind the banister as if she'd been on wheels--so graceful.

11:49!!! That's almost midnight! Dammit, I'd missed my opportunity to talk some sense into her. I only stopped for a moment at the water cooler on my way up. We're just going to talk this time, Stephen. Just talk.

Talking. Right. She was remarkably discrete, so as not to arouse suspicion should anyone happen to wander up before I arrived to unlock the door. When I topped the stairs, I found her dressed in nothing but her bobby socks. I rushed to the door to open it before anyone other then me came up to see the top floor view--and what a view?!

"What happened to your clothes?"

She just smiled and shrugged. I ushered her in quickly.

"Aren't you cold? You must be cold. Hell, I'm wearing clothes and I'm cold."

"No carpet up here."

"Nope, no carpet."

I felt another goofy grin coming on.

Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741578

After an hour or so of blissful debauchery, she finally allowed for rest--which came in the form of complete collapse.

"Have you ever been in the penthouse?"

"No."

"Do you want to? I have to get out of here; this wet carpet smells awful."

"Okay."

We made short work of getting dressed again. I don't know when or how it happened, but her hat was destroyed. I led the way to the staircase leading up to the penthouse overlooking the forest to the south. The view is impressive, to say the least.

"The Kesslers will be arriving any time now, don't you think? Maybe we should get you back downstairs. We don't want to give the wrong impression."

"I guess you're right, but... meet back here at midnight, Stephen! Say you will."

"Absolutely."

"You go down first. I'll make my way down, and I'll see you here at midnight. Don't keep me waiting."

I didn't see her come down. I only assumed she must have. I stopped by room 413 to make the bed. It really wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I still flipped the mattress. I dropped the dirty linens in the laundry shoot at the end of the hall and decided to see if Tommy Mericle needed any help. With any luck, they'd have everything set up already.

"We've only just began, Mr. G, but I've no reason to believe we won't have everything up and going well in time for the event. Mrs. Teague was lookin' for you earlier. You'd better see what she needs first, and I'll let you know if we need a hand."

"Thanks for letting me know. I don't know that she won't put me to work somewhere else, but if I'm available, I'll be in the foyer or at the registration desk. If you don't see me there, and if it'll wait, just leave a note and I'll get to you as soon as possible."

"Right then. Gut Shabbos."

"Gut Shabbos."

It didn't take but a minute to find Mrs. Teague--more like, she found me.

"You've got a message from Mr. Yarkony. He's expecting your call."

Oh boy. I was expecting this, but not so soon. Word travels fast, I guess. I opted for the mail room to make the call. It's a bit more secluded than most other rooms, and far less likely to result in someone barging in looking for the restroom.

Mrs. Teague was a different matter. She watched me walk until there was nothing left of me to see. To my surprise, Uncle Mordy knew nothing about the fourth floor frolicking. Instead, he wanted me to drive to Albany to pick up supplies for hotel... tonight! It's only about fifty miles to Albany, but I was definitely weirded out by the urgency of the delivery. I wasn't thrilled to have to make the trip, but I was pretty happy that I wasn't apologizing for my behavior over the past hour. I grabbed the key to the pickup truck from the main desk, traded a gut shabbos with Melvin, and got on the road all the while wearing a big goofy grin.

Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741574

"Good morning, George."

"Good morning, Mr. Goldman."

"Are the carpet people here?"

"Yes, Sir. All morning. It's been a challenge getting the last guests out without running into vacuum hoses and extension cords on the way down, but Kristen's been keeping track of who's going where and when, and Mrs. Teague's been keeping track of Kristen so she doesn't get overwhelmed by everything."

"Her birthday's coming up, you know."

"Kristen's?"

"Mrs. Teague's. I'm thinking we'd have the bakery put a cake together, rather than sending a card around for everyone to sign again."

"I'm sure she'd appreciate a birthday cake. You know I'll be there."

"For the cake?"

"For Mrs. Teague."

"You're a good man, George."

"Likewise, Sir."

I made my way to the foyer and, as George had suggested, there were hoses and cords and people operating them all over the place. I had to watch my step the whole way, but my eyes weren't only on the floors, they kept watch for a particular guest as well, my ears keen above the whirring vacuums, listening for the dreaded yoo-hoo.

Mrs. Teague was well in control, though it appeared nothing less than controlled chaos. The foyer, the banquet hall, the mezzanines, and the front desk were all under assault from an army of shampooers, suckers, and their helpers, helping to keep the web of cords and hoses from being tied into knots. I felt a few of my own knots loosening having seen no sign of the girl whose name I still didn't know. I walked to the registration desk to make my presence known to Mrs. Teague... and to say good morning.

"Is this normal?"

"Yes, Sir. Right on schedule."

"I can see why we take it down to a skeleton crew. This is really... over the top."

"Overkill is underrated."

"My father used to say that," I smiled.

"Yes. He did at that. She's been wandering around all night."

"Who?"

She nodded her head as she cast her eyes behind me. Turning to follow her gaze, my heart skipped. I knew exactly what and who she meant, but seeing her still threw me for a loop.

She hadn't seen me. I don't know where she'd come from, but I was sure she wasn't in the foyer a minute ago, though there was enough commotion I could have easily missed her if he she had been. She was every bit as radiant as the day before, even having spent the evening "wandering around." I turned away before she caught my eye.

"Who is she, anyway?" I asked.

"Part of the reunion--here early for whatever reason."

"To stir up trouble. Has anyone ordered room service, or need towels I can deliver?"

"Everyone's checking out this morning. Nothing to do but run linens."

"I'll do it."

"You know where to find Mrs. Peach. Good luck getting back through the foyer unnoticed."

I always found it particularly annoying that Mrs. Teague always knew what was going on. Sometimes I felt like she knew what was happening before it happened.

"Is she looking this way?"

"No. Off you go."

Mrs. Peach was usually at the kiosk in Laundry taking phone calls from the check out desk and notating which rooms were ready for turn over. Housekeeping would ordinarily be a bee hive thus time of day, and with 126 rooms checking out in one morning, and a skeleton crew turning over rooms for a full house that night, Mrs. Peach was likely helping out wherever she could.

The double doors slammed open as Sonja Vera burst through pushing her laundry cart through as battering ram. She wore headphones connected by a long wire to what I assumed was a tape player in her pocket. Such items were prohibited prior to Uncle Morty's ownership. He felt morale would be improved if the ladies were able to listen to music other than the elevator music which regularly filled the halls during check-out hours--and just housekeeping and maintenance--most positions required too much communication to allow them to "tune-out" while working in teams. Mrs. Teague still doesn't think they should be allowed--the guests and other staff have trouble getting someone's attention when they're too absorbed in their music. Beyond that, people are often oblivious to what's going on around them as well. Sonja Vera was giving an excellent example that aspect as she unloaded the cart without any clue I was there.

I thought to check the clipboard hanging on the wall next to me to see which room to send her to next. When I looked over at it, my periphery revealed that I'd been oblivious to my surroundings as well. She'd been standing right behind me.

"Stephen, I've been looking for you all night. I need to explain..."

"There's nothing to explain."

"No, you don't understand..."

"I understand enough to know not to till another man's garden."

"It's not like that at... that's a funny way to put it."

"You shouldn't be in here."

"I know. I shouldn't be here at all! I'm not here because I want to be here. I have to be here."

"What do you mean, you have to be here? You know what? No. I don't want to hear it. I have work to do, and you shouldn't be in here."

I checked the clipboard and headed for the linen shelves. Grabbing fresh sheets and towels, room 413 was my destination. The Adler had been retrofitted for electric wiring and hot and cold plumbing, but an elevator hadn't been in the budget, so we still used dumbwaiters to move large or heavy bundles upstairs. My bundle was neither large nor heavy, so I proceeded up the west wing stairs.

"You can't just keep avoiding me, Stephen."

"Sure I can."

"I don't love him."

"Neither do I."

"It's an arranged marriage. I have to do it."

"I know how arranged marriages work, but there are still some things you don't have to do."

"Like what?"

"Like... like pedal boats!"

"You didn't like the pedal boats?"

"I loved the pedal boats! I'd love to go love them again! But knowing what I know now, that's really not an option, is it?"

"Why not?"

"Because you're engaged. You're practically a married woman. We just met yesterday, and besides that, I don't even know your name!"

"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"Well, how would you say it?"

I knocked on 413 to be sure no one was in there before opening the unlocked door, the freshly cleaned carpet still wet under my feet.

"I'd say I'm about to start serving a life sentence in a marital prison and I'd like to enjoy my last few days of freedom."

"Okay, that's definitely another way to say it." I stripped the linens from the queen bed and tossed them to the door. "But you have to understand, I am the acting General Manager of this hotel. How would it look if I were having an affair with the fiancée of one of our own guests?!"

"I guess it would look something like this."

She threw herself at me, wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me like she was going to prison. Being the gentleman, and respecting the sacred traditions of marriage and betrothal, I kissed her as if I'd just gotten out of prison. I fell backward onto the bare mattress, toppling her along with me. My hands went on a Lewis and Clark expedition--exploring every hill and valley, mapping out points of interest, and areas demanding further exploration.

She pulled her knees onto the bed, straddling me, then rose up to repeat the unbuttoning and unbuckling that almost stirred up trouble the day before. I unbuttoned my shirt mindlessly as I watched her every move. She looked toward the door.

"I'm sorry! I thought the room was vacant! I'm so sorry!"

Sonja Vera's voice. She backed out quickly and closed the door. We looked at each other and chuckled again.

"This is exactly why we need automatic locks on these doors."

She crawled backward and stood facing me. She began pulling the waistcoat off her shoulders.

"Leave it on. I like it."

She pulled it back up over her shoulders, never breaking eye contact. She paused for a few seconds. A playful smile grew on her face, briefly biting her lower lip before the smile faded into a more serious expression. She reached into her coat exposing sublime breasts. Her fingers rode up from beneath, over top, and up to her neck and mouth as her forearms pushed together before letting them fall as her fingers reached up and ran through her hair, her eyes only glancing down for a moment before recapturing mine.

She was in full control as I was trying to remember how to breath. I watched her hands caress their way back down, down... down. She leaned forward slightly as her fingertips caught the edge of the pleated skirt which did not impede their descent. With a wiggle she was free.

"Stay right there. Don't move." I rolled off the bed and scurried to the door, locking it, sliding the bolt, and double-checking the lock again. I thought, for just a moment, Sonya saw us, we should stop this. Fortunately, it was only a fleeting thought. We were already seen, and if I was going to get fired, it wasn't going to be for nothing.

I stripped down to my socks, pausing only briefly to make sure she was watching. I crawled back onto the bed and got comfortable. "Okay... where were we?"

Many times I thanked the Heavens for what little experience I had in love-making because that girl had an insatiable appetite--as if she'd been starving--and every touch was more nourishing, more satisfying, than the last. The way she looked at me, as if I were... delicious.

Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741573

"Did you get your doors all counted, Mr. Goldman?"

"I was a little distracted, actually. Something came up."

"I see. Mr. Mericle has declined your offer to replace one of his bussers tomorrow. They all need the experience. He said to thank you, though, and that he'd be sure to enlist your help if it's needed, if you'll be on site, that is."

A part of me wanted to take the next two days off just to avoid the girl until the Kessler party was over and done with and she'd be long gone, but I have to admit, there was definitely a particular part of me that wanted to see her again at that very moment. In my mind, I began calculating how many reunions would bring us face-to-face before her infidelity excluded her from any further. There was no question where her moral boundary line was drawn, so that meant the extent of her infidelity, as where I was concerned, would be limited to my moral boundary line--and that was most certainly in question.

"I'll be here."

"Suit yourself. If you'll be counting again, perhaps you could bring a set of hand towels to Mrs. Wilkensen in 208?"

"I'd be happy to."

I turned to head to Laundry, but didn't get even a first step in before Mrs. Teague continued. "You know, there was a time when I would run off when something... came up, but I didn't run off every time. Sometimes it's better to just let the thing go back down."

I nodded in understanding and headed to 208. At 206, I remembered to go back down and get the towels. The mental misstep was all I needed to push myself off the fence. Once the doors were counted, I'd be heading home for the night.

Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741570