When the Overlook came for her, she wasn't scared. When the bloated, naked corpse of the 217 Woman came staggering uncertainly toward her, she didn't flinch. When Roger came bounding towards her on all fours, snarling like a wolf, she didn't sprint away. When the hedge dog seemed to corner her, swiping a well-groomed, leafy paw in her face, she didn't scream.
She wanted to live in the Overlook. Forever.
Just like the voice of the beautiful woman in the Colorado Lounge told her. She had wandered in there, bored, when she'd first spotted the lovely young lady. It had gone something like this:
Essie twirled a lock of her black hair around her finger, slumped over at one of the tables, flipping through a battered copy of Walt Whitman's poems. Hefty reading for a thirteen-year-old, most would say, but she liked poetry, and found modern books too trashy. She was reading "O Captain, my Captain" for the millionth time, mouthing the lines as she read. It was one of those habits that distracted other people, but she couldn't seem to break it.
"'O captain, my captain! rise up and hear the bells…'" she mouthed, her heart beating a bit faster like it always did when she read that line. Something about it always kind of haunted Essie, making chills race up and down her spine, and goose bumps to sprout on her arms and legs.
And then…she heard the bells. A sweeping, pealing sound and tinkling laughter. The clink of glasses, a gay yell, muffled chuckles, and over that…those beautiful bells. They made her heart pound harder than the poem ever had. Her first coherent thought was: I need to be with the bells. She heard other noises too: more happy laughter, a jazzy rendition of "You are my Sunshine," and voices speaking.
"Roger, darling, don't give up!" a woman's voice said. She was young, by the sound of it. "Harry's just playing hard to get. You know how those AC/DC types are."
A young man's voice – Roger – answered the woman. "Oh, Fiona…I dunno. He's a doll, and I'd go as far as sayin' I love him, but he's a flirt. He's not loyal or anything. Don't think it's worth it."
The voices of the people (Roger and Fiona?) stopped, but the jaunty music kept up, and the bells kept ringing intoxicatingly.
Essie found herself tucking her book into her armpit and padding softly across the shiny wooden floor. "He-hello?" she called into the vast emptiness of the ballroom/lounge. She could still faintly hear the beautiful bells – now even the swingy music had stopped. "Is anyone here?" There was so reply, and the pealing of the bells became even quieter. "Um…Roger? Fiona?" she tried.
"And who are you, cutie? Shouldn't you be in bed?" It was the voice of Fiona.
And suddenly…she was there. There were masked couples swirling around the ballroom, a mostly African-American jazz band blowing on their horns, and a lovely blonde woman right in front of her. "I…I…" Essie stammered. Her first thought was, I'm not dressed for a ball! She had always been like that: not easily surprised. "I'm so sorry!" she scrambled. "If I had known that I would be here, I swear I would have dressed up!"
"What do you mean, sweetie?" Fiona asked, puzzled. She was wearing a gorgeous white gown and had a cream-colored cat mask in one hand, a martini in the other. "You're all dolled up."
"Huh?" Essie asked. "But…I was in my pajamas…"
"Well, then, you must've changed, cutie," Fiona chuckled. "Take a look in that mirror." She pointed to the bar; there was a huge shimmering mirror behind it that Essie swore hadn't been there when she had been in the present day. In fact…she had noted that there wasn't a mirror. But suddenly there was? Stranger things have happened, she thought, and took a look.
Essie was stunned. She was wearing a deep purple dress that ended a few inches above her knees, tight and the top and loose at the bottom. She looked like a flapper! It was odd, because some of the couples on the floor looked less 1920s and more 1940s-era, or even 1960s. Her usually limp hair was twisted up on top of her head, with a few strands hanging down and artfully framing her face. In one hand, she held an intricate black and white mask on a thin stick. It looked a bit like a doe. "I look gorgeous," she whispered.
"Sure you do!" Fiona giggled. "Now, sweetie, why don't you tell me your name, since you seem to know mine."
"I'm Essie. Essie Dale. Well, my real name is Esmeralda, but no one calls me that," Essie said, fingering her now-styled hair nervously.
"Would you like to be called Esmeralda, sweetie?" Fiona asked. "You can…if you want. You're new here; you can create a whole life for yourself. Start all over, if you wish. Here, come with me." She took Essie by the arm and led her over to an unoccupied table, sitting down in one of the plush red chairs and motioning for Essie to do to the same. She folded her white glove-clad hands in front of her, screwing up her face and peering at the girl.
"You see, I'm like you, cutie. You're unsure and sweet, like I was before I came here. So I'll tell you a little somethin': I was just like you once upon a time. An awkward little girl who wanted something more in life. On the cusp of being pretty, but not quite. Well-read; a real geek. A bookworm, if you will. Papa took charge of our dear old Overlook –" she looked utterly fond here "–in, say…the early 1920s. I was a lonely little thing, and my books were all I had. Papa was pretty distant, always busying himself with the hotel records or working on the hedge animals or cleaning up the playground. Y'know, a man's work." She looked thoughtfully down at her folded hands. "Yeah. Papa was busy a lot. Well, one day I wandered on down to the Colorado Lounge, nosing around, reading some stuffy old classic, you know." She gave Essie a knowing look.
She colored, fiddling with her battered copy of Leaves of Grass.
"Anyhow, I got to hearing these voices, and this swingin' music, and this laughter. Clinking glasses, clapping, shouting. It sounded like a bangin' party, right? So I just sorta walked around for a while, circling the Colorado a few times, and suddenly…boom! I was here! I made loads of new friends – Roger and Harry and even this old kook named Jack. Jacky Torrance. He was a handsome guy. A real sweetie. I liked him fine, but he didn't complete his task."
"What task?" Essie asked, feeling a little nervous.
"Uh." Fiona looked like she was weighing her options. "Huh. Well, he had this wife and this kid. The kid was cute, but his wife was very…naggy. She was always trying to undermine the poor guy." She looked at Essie. "Do you know what undermine means? You must; you're a bookish kid, aren't you?"
Essie nodded obediently. Talking to Fiona was like getting attention an older student in school, an older student who really seemed interested in you. Or a cool adult. Or…a teacher you looked up to. But it was even more than that. She just…craved Fiona's approval. Some part of her dimly suggested that Fiona probably knew this and was using it to her advantage. But she didn't listen to that part.
"Well, the son was willful, you know? Always disobeying. And he and the mother kept conspiring against poor Jacky. He was a special man, but a stressed one. He was a drinker, you know? Constantly trying to stop, but he wanted that last drink so bad. Withdrawal, I think they're callin' it nowadays. Right?"
Essie nodded again.
"Good. So, there was that, and then his family. And he was a writer, too. Trying to work on a play that coulda been on Broadway." She sighed. "I read some of it. He was an amazing writer. I can't…" She screwed up her face. "I can't seem to recall it now, but it was real good stuff. He was a tortured soul. All artists are, really," Fiona mused. "Writers, actors, painters, even sculptors, I bet. Eh, well, Jacky is long gone now, anyhow. He was trying to teach his family a lesson. You know, discipline them. Give the five-year-old a good spanking, maybe. Papa wasn't shy about spankings," Fiona said somewhat proudly. "In our family, we knew he was in charge. He was the big boss. My little sister Tara was willful like that five-year-old. Whatshisface. Dylan? Darien? Maybe Darren? Dan…Daniel? Ah! There is it. Daniel. Or Danny, I guess. He was a real brat. Tara was like that."
"A brat?" Essie asked.
"Exactly. She didn't see Papa as the big boss. That was a mistake. She was always threatening to call the "child abuse police" or whatever," she scoffed. "You're s'posed to love your siblings, yeah? But I gotta say I never really did like Tara. Now my brother Jesse, I did love him. He knew Papa was the boss, and he wanted to be just like Papa. I wonder what even happened to ol' Jess…"
"Did you not see them again after you came here?" Essie asked, a little scared.
"Oh, no. Haven't seen 'em in a while. Last time I remember, Tara was maybe twelve, and Jesse was uh…nine, I think. I was the eldest at fourteen."
"You don't look fourteen," Essie commented. In fact, Fiona looked somewhere between twenty and twenty-five.
"Oh, no. You can choose to age up a little if you want. That's what I did. Anyhow, back to the story. So, old Jacky failed with his task. I miss him a little sometimes. He was good for a laugh. Anyway, though, I'm sharin' all this with you because I see a little of me in you," Fiona said kindly. "I think you'll find that we're pretty dang similar."
"Really?" Essie asked hopefully.
"Well, sure, cutie. I think you'll fit in here fine. That is, if you want to stay. If you do, you can keep looking the way you do now, with that pretty purple dress and your lovely dark hair. You can even keep old Walt around," Fiona said, gesturing to the book of poetry. "If you want, you can age up or even down, though I don't know why you would wanna do that. I suggest stopping at about twenty. You know, still young and fresh and pretty, but old enough to mingle with the elder crowd. It's a good age. Or you can stay thirteen for a while. You know, scope things out. Whatdaya say?" Fiona looked genuinely hopeful.
Essie thought of a life like this. Those beautiful, intoxicating bells, and getting to spend tons of time with Fiona, maybe even make some new friends. She would get to look beautiful forever. Be realistic, Essie, she suddenly thought at herself. Remember when Dad told you the history of this place? How the previous caretaker almost murdered his own family, and how the one before that actually did murder his family? The gang shooting? The suicides? This is an evil place. It wants to draw you in, chew you up, and spit you out. It took twenty years to rebuild this hotel. The old evil is still around. They'll probably make you murder Mom and Dad or something. Sighing, she shook her head. "No, I think. I mean…I want to. I really want to. But I can't. Unless there's some way to prove to me that you're not trying to…corrupt me, I can't." She looked at Fiona and felt an overwhelming urge to please the woman. "I need you to know that I really do want to, though."
Fiona shook her head sadly. "Oh, sweetie. I had hoped you were different. I really, really hoped you were different." She looked crushed but resigned. "I mean, I guess really I shouldn't have expected any different. I tried this a few times with other little girls like you. Girls that reminded me of myself. Anna, Sophia, Lucy…well, no matter. I guess I can't change your emotions. You should probably go now, Esmeralda. Watch out for yourself these next few days. My friend Roger will be seeing you."
With that, she began to shimmer, flickering like an old image.
"Wait! D-don't go!" Essie stammered. "What do you mean? Fiona –!"
And suddenly it was all over. She was sitting at a table, her book of Whitman open in front of her, clad in pajama pants and a large T-shirt, her hair limp and flat. A black and white mask that could have been a doe sat on the table, staring at her mockingly with its empty eyeholes, almost serving as a reminder of something she could have had.
But pretty soon, that disappeared, too.
XXX
The next few days passed uneventfully. Wind howled, and snow crashed against the windows aggressively, keeping the family inside. Essie dove into her lessons (she was homeschooled) and read book after book. When that bored her, she wrote down her experience in the Colorado in her diary, which just proved to make her sad. She tried to write a fictional story, but that just reminded her of the previous caretaker and his mad play.
Eventually, she just took to wandering around the hotel with Dad's passkey, peeking into rooms and looking for interesting things. She hadn't really found anything so far, except for a porno magazine hidden under one of the mattresses, but she didn't ever want to think about that again.
Today, she stood in front of room 217, the passkey poised over the door. There was a weird energy coming from this room. Lazy tension, if that made any sense. She took a deep breath, pushed the passkey into the lock, and opened the door.
Okay, so I usually put author's notes at the beginning, but they were more suited at the end today. So, I just finished The Shining yesterday. I wasn't overly impressed by it, but the part where Jack is in the ballroom dancing with that beautiful woman (Fiona) and Roger was doing dog tricks really intrigued me. There was that undercurrent of desperation and darkness, but I thought that the actual masquerade ball part sounded enchanting. I wondered how another young girl would react to this and this monster came about. Please review!