"You stay Joanna, the way I dreamed you are,
Oh look Joanna, a star (buried sweetly in your yellow hair)
A shooting star…"
-Johnny Depp "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street"
She was a vision. She was a ghost who haunted him and now here she lay in his hotel. A perfect replica in every way, he could've sworn his Joanne lied in the bed before him. Brown eyes scanned over the waving locks of chestnut hair and smooth skin he once marked in bites and hickeys. He felt attracted to her. Their rage connected them like magnets. James could feel it radiating from her now like he did then. That raging, untapped potential sat inside her soul waiting for release. Standing in the corner of the room, he watched her chest rise and fall in every breath. His eyes fell over to the roses. He'd placed them there when she left for the bathroom. Joanne always loved surprises. James remembered leaving little gifts around their home, waiting for the say she'd stumble upon it and beam happily at him. The only times either of them felt anything real had been together. Their hearts beat in time, their minds flew the same wavelengths, and their souls bound together tightly. He never felt so close to anyone before Joanne.
Then she was taken from him.
James eventually walked out of the room. Pin-striped suit tailored to his broad stature, mustache and hair perfectly trimmed, and his clothes freshly washed and pressed, James never felt more alive than he did in that moment. He'd spotted her from the bar on the second floor, but of course, she didn't see him. Oh, how he wished she would. He'd been dead a very long time, yet now he felt revived. He felt renewed. Blood pulsed through his veins and liberated this new feeling of exhilaration. Hearing a door open down the hall, he saw Ms. Evers come out of a room with a basket of dirty sheets.
"Ms. Evers," he called.
The red-haired maid turned around and smiled at him. "Yes, sir?" she asked.
"The guest in room 46," he said, "Make sure she gets anything she wants free of charge. She is to want for nothing while she is staying here. Have Iris bring up breakfast in the morning. Um, eggs benedict and coffee. It was always her favorite."
"Yes, sir," Ms. Evers nodded.
They went their separate ways. She called herself 'Rachel' in this life. The brown woman promised she'd come back to him, but never said how. James was perfectly fine with this outcome.
She awoke the next morning to a knock on her door. Rachel groaned into the dimness of the room. She looked over at the clock and saw it read nine o'clock. Who would wake her up at such a terrible hour? The knocking became more persistent as she rolled out of bed, slipped on her satin robe, and shuffled towards the door. Her exhaustion weighed her down heavily. She thought about grabbing the lamp on her bed side table and beating the knocker with it.
"Yes?" she answered, irritation building in her stomach.
A heavy set, bespectacled woman with grey hair stood in front of her. She pushed a cart with a covered tray and metal coffee pot on top; two red roses in a thin vase. "Morning," the woman said morosely, "Brought you some breakfast."
"Thanks, but I didn't order any breakfast," she said.
"You didn't have to," she replied. "It's on the house."
She pushed the cart into the room and set it bedside. Lifting the tray cover, she revealed steaming eggs Benedict. Two poached eggs on top of two pieces of Canadian bacon on two halves of an English muffin, and then drizzled in hollandaise. She'd never been a huge fan of it, but it was tolerable.
"Eggs Benedict?" she asked. "How did you know?"
""The Master requested this for your breakfast," she admitted, pouring a cup of coffee.
"The Master?"
"Mhm, Master of the house." The woman then bustled past her, "You just eat your breakfast and drink your coffee. I'll come back in a little while to clean it up." She stopped at the door, "Name's Iris. Call the front desk if you need anything."
"Thank you," Rachel nodded.
She looked back to the cart as Iris left the room. The Master of the house? Well, she was sure the hotel has changed hands several times since March's death. She didn't even know who the new owner was. Naturally, March's wife would have gotten the hotel after his death, but she couldn't imagine anyone wanting this place. So many terrible things happened here, and she was sure Mrs. March knew about all of them. Sitting down to her breakfast, she dug in right away. Rachel began making a mental checklist of all the things she'd have to take after she visited Rodney. She'd need a list of missing persons and unsolved cases from 1920 to 1925. Hopefully, Rodney can narrow that down for her. A trip to the Building Department might do her some favors, since they have to have the original hotel plans. Rachel could feel the excitement boiling up in her stomach. She felt ready to start. Jeanine should be sending the contract for the first book any day now, so she could work until then.
Finishing her breakfast, she went for a quick shower. She turned on the showerhead, letting the hot water run as she peeled off last night's clothes. Nothing felt out of the ordinary when she grabbed a towel and placed it on the sink. In nothing but her robe, she brushed her teeth in the mirror. It wasn't until she bent down to spit the atmosphere shifted. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Shivers went up her back and came over her shoulders like hands caressing her. She held onto the sink, her knees buckling under her. She was suddenly afraid to turn around. The sound of droplets reached her ears, and a foul stench wrinkled her nose.
Carefully, Rachel turned and wished she hadn't. A heavyset woman stood in the shower, dripping wet as if she'd walked in the rain in her clothes. She stared at Rachel with cold black eyes filled with anger; her skin tinged a sickly green from the water. Rachel didn't know how to react. Her entire body froze, her heart thumping against her ribs in every breath. The woman lunged for her throat and she could only scream. Freezing fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing until Rachel could feel her windpipe closing. She struggled for air in every gasp she could manage before there were none. She kicked at the stranger, but her kicks did nothing against the woman's stiff body. Pushed back into the mirror, plastic cups, wrapped soaps and the crystal dish fell to the floor. Her legs knocked on the cabinet under the sink, and her head hit the mirror behind her. The woman only watched, her lips stretching into a devious grin and seeming pleased. The world was growing darker and darker. Rachel couldn't push the woman off her even if she tried. There was nothing to grab on to. She tried prying the woman's hands off her, but to no avail.
Suddenly, the woman disappeared. Rachel coughed and gasped for air, rubbing her sore throat as she stared around. She looked around, expecting her to reappear out of nowhere. It was as if she'd never even been there. The only thing left behind were puddles of water and the running shower. Had what she thought happened truly happened? Rachel wouldn't think of it right now. She stood up and turned off the shower. Scurrying back into the main room, she spun around and locked the door. Maybe she didn't need a shower after all.
After dressing and leaving the room, she walked down the hallway towards the elevator. Surely she'd imagined the whole thing. No. She'd be stupid if she believed that. The red marks on her neck were too real; the smell in her nose was too hard to forget. Rachel had no idea who that woman was or why she tried killing her, but her legs still shook even as she walked. Sack purse slung across her shoulders, she pressed the down button on the elevator. She couldn't stop herself from looking around. She pictured the wet woman walking up behind her and choking her again. She trembled from the images flowing in her mind. She couldn't get it out of her head. She reconsidered visiting Rodney as the brass elevator doors opened.
"Ah, good morning."
He stood in the middle of the elevator. Wearing a black derby hat and holding a walking stick, everything about him was immaculate. From his tailored pin stripe suit to his shiny black shoes, the man dressed to impress. He was certainly handsome for someone so oddly dressed. Intriguing brown eyes stared back at her, lips curling into a grin. He reminded her of a young Clark Gable funnily enough. Rachel gave a shy grin, nodding her head as she stepped in, "Morning."
She felt him still looking at her when the doors closed. The air felt tense again. Rachel really should have stayed in her room or at least worn a scarf around her neck. She worried what might happen when she stepped into the bathroom again. She remembered being a little girl refusing to go into her closet because of monsters. This monster might've not even been real, just like the one back then. She tried blaming it on her jetlag. She blamed it on her exhaustion. She even blamed it on the eggs. Rachel wouldn't believe it'd been real. No way could it have been real. She tried focusing her mind on the other things, such as the man's lingering cologne. It wasn't overpowering or obnoxious. In fact, it was quite alluring. The scent made her blush even.
"You must be the author," he said.
"I'm sorry?"
"The author that checked in yesterday," he said. "I saw you in the lobby when you came in, and Liz told me about you."
"She did? Why?"
"Curiosity," he shrugged. "Scores of authors have stayed here in my time. They're always such eccentric people."
"I suppose," she said. "A lot famous writers had very interesting lives. They were interesting people."
"They were," he agreed. "I always found writing to be a true form of expression. When you're reading written work, you're reading the author's soul. You're reading the things within them that they could never say out loud. It's as if the pen gives them courage to speak out against the bonds of society."
Her eyes looked into his. He said so much more with them than he did with his words. She ignored his eyes. "I agree," she said as the elevator reached the bottom, "I was never outspoken as a kid. I was always afraid of what people would say or think. When I write-the things I write about-I have no shame in them. I feel connected to something. I feel connected to who I'm writing about and what I'm writing about." She shook her head and laughed, looking away from him, "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Because talking to people who don't know you is better than talking to those who do," he smirked. The elevator doors opened, and the empty lobby was before them.
"I suppose," she said.
He paused, looking over her face as they stepped out of the elevator. His eyes fell on the faint marks around her neck. "And how did you come by these?" She shuddered at the light touch on her throat.
"Rash," she said, giving one a light scratch, "It's awful. Allergies, but it's nothing to worry over. It goes away."
The man smirked at her, "Almost."
"'Almost' what?"
"I almost believed you," he said, "And I might pretend I did. Have a good day, Ms. Corbin." He tipped his hat and began walking the stairs.
"Wait, I never got your na-"
"-Hey, you got a light by any chance?"
Rachel turned to a woman next to her. Tall and lanky, the blonde wore a cheetah print jacket over a revealing velvet purple top, mini skirt and fishnets under boots. She reeked of cigarettes and didn't mind the smudged make-up on her face. Rachel assumed a rough night, but said nothing about it.
"Ah sorry," she said. "Not on me right now."
She looked back to the stairs and the mysterious man disappeared. She sort of enjoyed talking to him, or so she'd hoped. Rachel rarely came across well read men anymore. They never seemed interested in her work. Then again, many people didn't like it to begin with.
"Just like a man, huh?" The blonde said. "They make you think you're something special and then just take off."
"Didn't even get his name," she said. Her day was growing weirder and weirder. "Do you know how to get to the police station from here?"
"Yeah," she said, "Two blocks down that way and make a right. Big building; can't miss it."
"Thanks," Rachel said, "Um...?"
"Sally," she put out a hand and they shook hands, "Up on the fifth floor. Come and see me sometime. I can get you whatever's your poison."
"No thanks," she said. "I'm good."
Sally shrugged, "Well suit yourself."
She walked off towards the elevator and pressed the button. "You might want to do something about those marks. Erotic asphyxiation sounds hot at first, but the aftermath is a bitch to cover up."
"Thanks."
Rachel continued her walk out of the hotel as she made for the street. The typical L.A. heat hit her right away, but a slight breeze relieved her of it. She'd visited L.A. a few times before, mostly for research purposes. If people really dug around, they would find ghostly havens all over. Though, of course, she still preferred New Orleans. Then again, who didn't enjoy the comforts of home? She walked down the block as Sally said, taking in all the sights and sounds as she moved. The wet woman floated back to the forefront of her mind again, but now in a more curious aspect. If she'd been a real apparition, then how could she touch Rachel? How could Rachel touch her? She'd always been under the impression ghosts were transparent and therefore non-physical. She could call Aunt Delia. Cordelia was always good with the paranormal.
Rachel reached the police station in no time. All thoughts of the morning from her head, she stepped in and walked to the reception desk. She asked the officer there where the file room might be, signed their visitor's log and made her way to the first floor. Rachel observed the detectives and beat cops walking through the halls as if it were any other day. She spotted a board in the distant with pictures on it. She stopped.
She couldn't make out the photos very well from her distance, but they caught her attention nevertheless. Two detectives worked around the whiteboard where the photos were taped for the world to see. She loved it. Rachel made out bloody bodies posed together, woman in a man's lap, and a pole running through them both. The pole acted as a pin sticking them to the headboard. She saw the crimson blood contrasting with their skin; their sockets empty holes that trickled until the blood dried. She should be shocked. She should want to look away. However, she couldn't. She admired how the bodies were placed as if in coitus, and their heads turned from each other as if in total ecstasy. Rachel always thought of doing something similar. In her younger days when she was careless and free, she'd write characters that did sinister things such as this. Their crimes were never meaningless. They always meant something. This here was art. Their bodies painted a picture and spoke in volumes. What she wouldn't give for closer look.
The darkness in her called for such expression. High school gave her so much inspiration; it filled her with that darkness. She'd think of murdering her bullies, but not Columbine style. No, she'd make it intimate and personal. The popular girls would be found on the football field in their uniforms; the jock who threw spitballs at her would have paper stuffed down his throat until he choked. The math teacher who constantly humiliated would be nailed to her whiteboard, math equations carved into her skin. They'd all make excellent works of art. Then she'd remind herself it wasn't possible. She couldn't let herself lose control ever again.
"Hey Rae," a voice pulled her from the excellence. Rodney stood in his button down and khakis, freckles across the bridge of his nose. He brought Rachel in for a hug, "It's so good to see you. It's been ages."
"Yeah, it has. I haven't seen you since college," she said. The awkwardness was already settling in for her. She looked back to the photographs, "What's up with those?"
"Oh, those are from a crime scene they got a few days ago," he said. "It's pretty gruesome. I get sick just looking at them. I heard the dude that did it fed the male victim Viagra or something like that so they had to like surgically separate them both."
"Oh wow," she said.
"Ah, so you and Jeanine are still thick as thieves, huh?" He asked. "She was the one who called me about letting you into the file room."
"We are," she said. "She got a job at an agency and demanded she be my agent. She basically speaks on my behalf to business people."
"Sounds like Jeanine to me," he said. "Hey, I just wanted to say something before we go and do this."
"What?"
"I heard about Ashton," he whispered. "My mom told me about his accident. It's awful. I'm so sorry."
Rachel remembered Ashton. The young musician she'd dated for a picture of normalcy, he was perfect. He was generous, kind, careful, and everybody liked him. It made her sick. It gave him such anxiety he constantly questioned everything: Did people actually like him or were they pretending? Did people tell him stuff simply to please him? Did people think he made a big deal about things? His worries constantly ruined their evenings. Every dinner date was a therapy session. She hated his constant whining and complaining. It became too much. He'd been her second relapse. Gratefully, months passed since then and people were slowly forgetting the incident.
"Thanks," she mumbled. "I-I think I'm finally moving on from it, you know? He was a great guy."
"Yeah, he was a cool dude," he nodded. "You know, if I can say this, I think he was a bit too-"
"You're still dating Hannah?" she interrupted. "I saw it on Facebook a while back."
Rodney hesitated. "Oh no," he said shaking his head. "We broke up a few weeks ago. It wasn't really working out. She said I didn't have enough balls to move up in the station and I told her she was an overbearing bitch. So, you can guess where that argument went."
She nodded, "I did think she was pretty abrasive when I met her at Ted's wedding. She also looked like a bird."
"I know right?!" Rodney grinned, laughing. "She had like this bird beak that was super pointed at the end so sometimes it looked like she didn't have a nose when she faced me." She followed him down the hallway towards the file room, "She was kind of a stick in the mud about stuff. Remember that time we wanted to trespass into the football field? She kept on saying it was illegal and we'd get caught and put in jail?"
Rachel nodded, "Yeah, I do."
He stopped in front of the door, looking down at her. "You know," he began, "She was kinda jealous of you."
"What for?"
"Well, she said she thought there was something between us. We did used to be kind of close," he mentioned.
"I suppose we were," she said. "We did spend a lot of time together, but that was because we had a lot of the same classes and our dorms were near each other."
He pursed his lips and nodded, bowing his head slightly, "Yeah, that's-that's what I said."
She opened the door and found a set of stairs going down to another door at the bottom landing. Rachel led him down, trying her best in avoiding the conversation. The last thing she wanted today was Rodney hinting at them dating. It was already enough with the wet woman and the man from the elevator. He opened the bottom door for her and they walked inside. The file room wasn't as big as she thought, stacks of boxes atop on another and a lot of them filling the shelves behind the gated door. She imagined how difficult it must be to find anything in this room. Rodney swiped his keycard through the gate's lock.
"I found the cases from 1920 to 1925 like you asked," he said, picking up a box for her. "I sorted out the solved stuff and left missing persons and unsolved cases in here."
"Thanks Rodney," she said. She picked up the box, "This book's gonna be easier to write now that I got these."
"How would you know if you even got the right guy? A lot of that information is a little vague," he said, "With them being unsolved and all that."
"I'll know," she assured him. "Thanks a lot," she said, "This means a lot to me."
"I know," he said. "You always were the passionate one out of us two," he added, "Whenever you got an idea, you just had to jot it down before it slipped your mind. You'd spend a majority of your time writing your stories instead of writing papers."
"I enjoy writing my stuff more than what some professor told me to write," she said. "My stories were more interesting to me."
"I'm glad one of them is finally getting published though." When she looked at him questionably, he said, "Oh Jeanine told me. She said you're working on a new one already, which is why you needed this," he patted the box. "I'd be happy to help any way I can for you."
"I'll keep that in mind," she told him. She picked the box off the desk and made her way to the door.
He helped her out of the file room, "If you ever need help sorting through all those papers, I can help. I must've read all those papers a million times."
"I probably would've done the same if I was left with such interesting material," she said. Rachel even considered the idea for a moment. She could spend her days reading about recent killings rather than old ones. The unsolved ones were the best.
They walked back down the busy hallway towards the lobby. "I think it's funny you wrote a book about serial killers that never got caught," he said.
"Why?"
"Your dad is a cop," he answered. "I thought you'd be more interested in solving crimes or whatever than writing about them. Hannah always said she thought it was a little weird how you knew so much about all these serial killers and gruesome crimes. I'm surprised you didn't know about that couple in the photos. It's all over the place."
"I've been busy travelling," she said. "I'll pick up a newspaper."
"Want to get coffee with me?" Rodney asked as she made her leave. "We can sit and reminisce about old times?"
"I'll get my own, thanks," she replied. "You probably have a lot to do. See you around, Rodney."
"Bye Rae…"