Apple of Discord: Chapter 3

You emerge in the same alleyway you left when you escaped from Pontifex with Cat.

Tree quickly presses his massive form against the hotel wall.

You look up at the Victorian era stonework of the hotel. It’s really old-timey in a western sort of way.

The building across the alley on the other side has a lone security camera mounted on the alleyway wall. Tree motions you over, sending you a look of desperate concentration.

As you scuttle to his side, you mutter, “Sorry. It’s just so neat looking.”

Tree nods his head in agreement and pulls out a lockpick set. He hands it to you.

Your eyes widen in shock. 

“I didn’t feel right doing it the first time, but I did it because I had to. It’s a pretty simple tumbler. You may just be able to jam it,” Tree whispers loudly.

The door used to have an alpha/numeric keypad, but that doesn’t appear to be operational. Tree motions to the two tools he feels you’ll need. You take them in your hand.

You can feel the handle is a bit janky and wobbly. “What did you do to this, Tree?”

“I just checked to see if it was unlocked.” Tree says, shrugging. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength with this kind of stuff.”

The lock yields to you. “We’re in!” you whisper excitedly.

The door swings outward, and you both peer around the edge. Nothing, just a hallway painted safety gray. At the end of that hallway, there is another door. 

“There was a guard on the other side of the far door last time. We’ve got to be quiet,” Tree says as you both soft-foot it down the hallway. 

Tree cracks the door open and peers inside quickly then closes the door. “Okay, the guard must have moved his chair and a small table just on the other side of the door. Sits with his back to the same wall this door is on. There’s a coffee mug with steam coming out of it. You know what that means.” 

Yeah. It means the guard was recently there, you think.

“They might be tea drinkers,” you whisper back. “Everyone always assumes it’s a coffee mug.” 

Tree shrugs.

Then it hits you. You take your backpack off, and rummage through the pack until your hand finds a small cardboard box. “The guard is about to get very sleepy-time.”

Tree looks confused. 

You hand him one of the teabags. “Put this in their mug. Don’t touch your eyes or mouth until you wash your hands.” 

Tree cracks the door once more and quickly puts the teabag in the mug. When he closes the door, he’s still holding a tea bag. “You were right. They’re a tea drinker. I swapped the tea bags.” Tree smiles at you.

A few minutes later you hear the guard on the other side of the door singing Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. He’s not halfway through the song before you hear a slump and loud snoring.

Sleepy-time tea when it comes from the god of sleepy time is no joke. Tree hauls the guy inside the hallway and drags the sleeping man behind a laundry bin. 

“Hey, he’s about your size. A wardrobe change may be in order, don’t you think?” you offer.

Tree sighs and nods slowly.

It takes a few minutes for Tree to change clothes. He shoves his camp gear into his own pack, stands, and slides the brown ball cap with the gold letters “Security” down over his bald head.

"We have the same pack. You've got good taste."

Tree smiles and nods, "I know."

“Now we can pretend I’m your kid or something if anyone gives us any trouble.”

“Take your kid to work day with all this going on? That’s like 300 flavors of wrong.” Tree shakes his head.

You each grab a backpack. You search floor after floor of the old hotel. The place is an old-boys club for sure. As in your dream, the walls are lined with Victorian era paintings filled with people from a bygone era, dressed to the nines. They all look like they were having fun until you pass by. Their stares turn from mirthful and focused to downright accusatory.

You feel like a ghostbuster, minus all the necessary equipment. This is somehow both super boring and tense. Then you remember your dream. 

On the third floor you ask Tree, “Which way is the northwest wall of the hotel?”

Tree points to the far end of the hallway. “Down there and to the left, I think. It’s the wall facing the alley we came into the hotel from. The one facing the Littlefield building.”

As you both make your way down the hall, you notice the people in the paintings look pleased as you walk by. The further you go down the hall the more each person in every painting you walk by seems to be looking in the direction Tree pointed. 

The lights overhead flicker momentarily. You pass through a cold patch of mildewy air midway down the hall. It reminds you of grave-earth for some reason, cold and lifeless. You stop and look up for the air vent but don’t see one.

Okay, you think. No big deal. It’s a haunted hotel after all. You turn the corner at the end of the hall, expecting to see a magical door or creepy old mirror with a secret entrance hidden within, but all you see is an old architectural painting above a small oval marble table. The painting is flanked by two light sconces. There are no portraits in this short section of hallway.

Tree removes his hat and scratches his head. 

“Yeah, I’m a bit underwhelmed too,” you say.

“Hmm.” Tree grumbles.

“Yeah, I need more whelm. I need to be whelmed!” 

You walk up to the painting. It’s a picture of the Littlefield building next door, according to the placard. Something in your head tells you to keep looking. The answer has to be there.

“Why would the people in the paintings down the hall lead us to a picture of the Littlefield building? I don’t get it,” you say. “Grey, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not a peep.

“Grey?”

You wait four heartbeats.

“The stone of the hotel and all the weirdness inside may be interfering with the signal?” Tree offers.

“Maybe,” you say. “I didn’t realize the Littlefield building had such an epic rooftop garden. Look at that thing.” 

The painting shows the building at a sort of three-quarter view. Large climbing flowers of some sort, with trees and ornamental shrubs, carved into fantastic looking shapes, grow in the garden. 

“I wonder how much of that is still up there?” you wonder aloud.

“Let’s take a look. We can duck into this room here and look out the window.” Tree holds up a security key card he got from the sleeping guard that can be used for room access in case of emergencies.

“We’re on the third floor. How are we going to see the top of the…” you say, counting the floors on the painting, “... seventh floor from down here?”

Tree ducks into the room, politely announcing himself. “Security! I’m coming in.”

You know there’s no one in there. Tree knows there’s no one in there too. This guy has got to be the nicest guy on the planet. You can imagine him pre-apologizing to his enemies before having to destroy them.

You decide to stand guard in the hallway.

“How many floors did you say the Littlefield building has?” Tree calls out from inside the room.

The lights in the hallway buzz and flicker again.

“Seven, according to the painting.” 

“You sure?” Tree asks.

“I know how to count to seven if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Well, the Littlefield building I’m looking at has nine floors,” Tree calls out.

“That doesn’t make sense.” You pull the painting off the wall and walk into the room. 

There is a small balcony overlooking 6th street. Tree stands outside, leaning out to look at the old building next door. You join him on the balcony.

To your right stands the Littlefield building. Your eyes find the rows of windows marking the floors, and you start to count from the ground up.Tree was right.

Nine floors.