The morning after the incident with Mario and Marion, I got off work and went home, where sleep was a non-existent activity in my life. I sat there contemplating about how I should go about the basement, what dangers I would be in, what I might find, etc. At the end of a long personal debate, I decided I was going to hold off on the basement. I didn’t want to end up like every first character who dies in a horror movie because they got too brave and decided to go search for the killer.
That was the plan anyways, but that changed when I walked into work the following night. I tried to busy myself with work, reading memo’s left by the day manager that day, going over the reservations books, handling random computer tasks. But as I was doing the computer tasks, something of course happened. The screen once again flashed to the bloody room 325, with the Kennedy’s standing in the corner, smiling. Only this time it was different. This time, I was in the center of the floor, covered in blood myself. I was laying down, almost in the fetal position, and it did not look in the least bit voluntary. I tried to take a picture of the computer screen with my phone, but the result was just a blur of red.
As I looked into the picture trying to find something useful from it, the burn on my wrist started to sting. I looked at it, and it had a dull glow to it that I could faintly see through the white bandage wrap I had secured around it.. I shook it off. Then I got the idea to print the screen from the computer. I did the proper keystrokes, and turned around as the printer kicked into gear. When I turned around, I was face to face with Mario Kennedy. He put his hands on my biceps and his face went from that ghoulish grin to a distorted, misconstrued, mouth-open-wide scream that threatened to rupture my eardrums. Before I knew it, it was done, and I was standing face to face with the bartender, who was shaking me by the tops of my shoulders.
“Hey! Stop!”
I came to.
“Wha–what?” I’m not sure what I was asking.
“You stood here for like 30 seconds staring into space then just started screaming at the top of your lungs. You wouldn’t snap out of it. Are you okay? You want me to call an ambulance or something?
“No, no. I’m sorry. I just freaked out for a second. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“You sure?” He asked, uneasily.
“Yeah, seriously, yeah, I’m all good. Sorry about that. Thanks for getting me back to the real world” I let out a half hearted chuckle.
The bartender wandered back over to the bar, looking behind him to make sure I was okay. I could see the bar patrons whispering amongst themselves about what had just transpired. I was more than a little embarrassed. I went in the back room and took my shirt off in front of the mirror we had in there.I inspected my arms and shoulders. As I said, I had been grabbed by Mario on my biceps, and by the bartender on my shoulders. My shoulders showed no sign of contact, but my biceps had finger shaped bruises. Better than burns, I figured. It wasn’t until later that I’d learn why I got one instead of the other.
I grabbed a flashlight from a supply closet and navigated the maze-like hallways on the first floor until I reached the basement door. The door led to a long, 3 tier staircase, which in turn led to a vast unfinished basement. I turned the light on and took my first steps down. Once I reached the first landing, I heard the lock click on its own on the door above me. Fuck. This was starting to look like a bad idea. But, I trudged on. I made it to the second landing, and the lights flickered a few times before going completely out. Fuck again. This really was a stupid idea. I turned on the flashlight I was now congratulating myself on bringing and continued down. The last few stairs creaked and echoed throughout the basement.
The air down there was thick and damp; it felt like a weight was pressing down on me, as if gravity worked overtime down here.For a moment, I felt as if the silence I’d come to expect when delving into this mystery had turned itself on, but then realized it hadn’t. The basement was just simply that quiet. The only thing I could hear was a furnace on the far back left side of the wide open space.
Lining the walls were storage units, some empty, some with random cleaning apparatus, some with winter snow removal machines and shovels, some with old comforters and bed sheets. The one I’d seen in the video recording in room 323 was in the far back right corner. I knew because the angle of the video showed the newspapers in the storage unit to the immediate left of the corner of the large area. I slowly began my trek to where…hopefully…information or answers of some kind would be. Because this hotel had proven time and again to have things uncertain occur at any whim, I took great care with each step. I imagine that the batteries in the flashlight hadn’t been changed in years, because honestly, no one ever needed to use it. That being the case, only a small path was illuminated in front of me.
Each small step I took echoed between the concrete walls. Every small scrape my feet made sounded like it was amplified, until suddenly, there was no more sound at all. It was happening again. The silence. My desire to know what was in that basement wrestled with my better judgement until the thirst for knowledge won out. I kept moving forward. Then suddenly to my left, in an empty storage locker with the door wide open, was a woman laying face down on the ground. It wasn’t Marion, as this woman had brown hair (Marion was blonde). I decided I was just going to ignore it and keep going.
I got about two steps past the locker when I turned around. The woman was now behind me, out of the storage closet, in a stance like she was ready to leap. Only, it wasn’t a random woman. It was a decaying, decrepit form of my mother. Skin hung off her face like a peeled banana, blood was caked around her crusted lips. Her eyes were a glassy, foggy white. She sniffed at the air.
“What the fuck?” I absent-mindedly said out loud.
I knew my mom was at home and fine, I was texting with her shortly before that. This had to be an illusion of some kind. Foolishly, I decided to find out. I stood my ground, waiting for her to make her move. She swiped forward at me, and her grotesquely long fingernails ripped through my Polo shirt. Alright, Not an illusion. Good to know. I turned around and sprinted, and when I looked behind me, my “mother” started to run, but hit some sort of invisible brick wall. I saw as her face contorted like she’d been hit in the face with a frying pan and she fell to the cold floor. She immediately bounced back up and tried advancing on me, but whatever was in her way held her back. She moved around in what seemed to be an invisible box containing her. I was more than confused. I kept walking, only now picking up the pace. As I passed another empty storage locker, I was hit with a blast of heat that sent me flying to the left. I hit the wall, just barely holding on to the flashlight. The force with which I flew into the wall put me in a daze. My vision was temporarily blurry, but I could clearly make out Mario and Marion floating toward me with their grins.
They stopped a few feet short of me, and in the blink of an eye their expressions turned blank.
“It will be easier for us all if you just let us do what we need to do.”
I didn’t know how to respond.
“We almost had you in the room yesterday but you got out. Do you know how angry that made my Marion?”
I looked to Marion who’s face instantly turned to pure rage.
“We will get you eventually. Make it easier on all of us and come to room 325 so we do what must be done. Enough of these cat and mouse games.”
I was stunned that I was finally being communicated to instead of arbitrary circumstances just filling my existence.
“What needs to be done? Why me?” I choked out.
Mario and Marion both laughed hysterically.
“Because you’re the one, silly.” Marion screeched.
“…The fuck do you mean I’m the one? What one? One for what?” Words rolled off my tongue rapid fire.
Suddenly, Mario and Marion vanished. And the minimal sound the basement produced came back to life. I had no clue what was going on. They were gone, my zombie mom was gone, sound was normal, and I didn’t have the slightest clue why. I checked my phone, and saw that time was moving as it should be. No more momentary lapses in time and space. So that was good at least. I looked at the tear in my shirt, and it was indeed still present. I was still sweating from the waves of hot air that accompanied the Kennedy’s. This had all actually just happened.
I got to my feet and dusted myself off. I was finally going to make it to the corner of the basement. I wasted no time and rushed to the first storage container to the left of the corner. In it was a stack of newspapers, just like the television in room 323 had showed. Next to the stack of papers was a note that read “THESE STAY HERE PLEASE”
From what I could tell, the newspapers were from 1926, 1930, and 1996. Let me break down the information I found in them. This won’t be verbatim as I didn’t exactly have the capability of copying all the information down at the time:
1926
Enoch Phelps, Investment Banker, Arrested For Connection To Kidnapping
What I gathered from this was that Enoch Phelps was an original member of the Kennedy Conglomerate. He along with Wilson Kennedy, George Wilhelm, and Marco Esperanza, founded the Congregation of His Infernal Divinity. Basically it was a name they could be psychopaths under. A “reason” to kidnap children and sacrifice them to whatever the fuck it was they believed in. So, in 1926, someone tipped off the authorities about the location of some missing kids. They were directed to a place owned by a female friend of Enoch Phelps. She gave up Enoch, and he was arrested for connection to the kidnapping. Further articles explained that he was tried and convicted, and received 15 years for his crimes, although he would die in prison due to respiratory failure.
1930
Arthur Whitmore Missing/Arthur Whitmore Pronounced Dead After Months Of No Leads
That’s two separate articles by the way. Here’s where the big revelation came. Sort of. Arthur Whitmore disappeared in the fall of 1930, during the planning phase of the as-yet-unnamed Whitmore Hotel. There was foul play suspected, as he had his whole life on the west coast. He was a happy man, looking forward to his further involvement in this large project. After spending months and countless resources trying to locate him, he was pronounced dead after nothing but the last suit jacket he ever wore was found in the Rocky Mountains. His colleagues decided to name the hotel they were building after him in his honor. What stuck out to me was the following: Arthur Whitmore leaves behind his expecting wife Elaine Whitmore (nee Botic).
Hold the goddamn phone. Elaine Botic? That was my mother’s name. I pondered on this for a moment until I remembered that she got her name from her great-grandmother. Arthur Whitmore was my great-great-grandfather. After his death, Elaine went on to marry another man after having my great-grandmother, and the marriage didn’t last, and she reverted back to her maiden name. None of the women on my mother’s side of the family had ever married (very taboo for some of the times), so I was born a Botic.
I now knew what my connection to this hotel was, and perhaps why I was being targeted. I just didn’t know what was to be accomplished by my going to room 323.
1996
Gruesome Scene At Whitmore Hotel; 1 Child, 2 Suspects Found Dead In Room In Apparent Ritual Murder/Suicide
This explained the story (in not as much detail as I’d read online) of the story of Mario and Marion Kennedy. I honestly didn’t get much help from this article, but it was good to know what was fact and what was just internet hearsay. What was helpful was what I found underneath the newspapers: a box full of yellow legal paper pads, with seemingly incoherent scribblings in red ink. I flipped through trying to make sense of anything and just couldn’t until I realized the first three pages were some sort of codes. Unfortunately, I never found out what those codes meant. I’ll say that right now. After the third page, however, it was a detailed list of all the goings on at the Congregation of His Infernal Divinity. Pages upon pages of information about murders, their rituals, their victims, their locations, their influence on businesses way back when. All the information stopped at 1996.
Check back tomorrow, I will be including everything I learned about the Congregation of His Infernal Divinity and how it pertains to the Whitmore Hotel, my family and me. Just a forewarning, this is where shit gets really, really weird.
Thank you for sticking with me as I relive this story through words,
Nick