David's Hallowe'en Tales o' Terror, Vol. 1.

For your consideration, a remote hotel in the American Northeast. Closed for three months of the year, save for a few hardy caretakers...and the terrors which await them there.

Todays' tale: The Wining, starring ukmonty. Read on...if you dare.

The early snows of winter were already settling thickly on the ground as our car drew up the drive and came to a stop outside the imposing portico of the hotel entrance.
“Well”, I said, as we opened the doors and got out. “The Oversized Hotel. Finest summer watering hole of the great and good on America’s East Coast. And ours! All ours – at least for the next few months until spring.”
As I spoke, Monty moved over and popped the boot to start getting our luggage out.
“Did you know, Monty”, I asked, “that the Oversized has quite a nasty reputation? They say it’s (my voice dropped to a whisper) haunted. I do hope nothing untoward happens whilst we’re here.”
Monty stuck his head over the other end of the car. “Speaking of untoward… whilst we were packing, you didn’t happen to notice a few – three or four, no more than six, tops, maybe eight - cases of rather fine red I had with the luggage? I just don’t happen to see them in the car?”
“Those? Why, yes. You didn’t mean to bring them, did you? I couldn’t see what use we’d have up here for the better part of twenty gallons of 1967 Chateau Mouton Rothschild.”
He didn’t seem to take this well. He went a funny greyish colour and I’d swear his eyes goggled in his head. “Didn’t…pack it? Any of it?”
“Why, no. I thought; ‘Why bother?’”
“Why bother??”
“Certainly.”
“And what about the packs of Marlboros on top of the wine?”
“Still there, as far as I know.”
“But..”
“Think of what we can do whilst we’re here! The clear, mountain air! Long, crisp walks, striding out over the mountains and then home to a hearty supper and an early bed. The months will simply fly by!”
“Listen to me very carefully”, he replied. “We’re going to get into the car and drive to the nearest town where we are going to – “
The muffled crump of a distant avalanche cut him off.
“Hmn”. I said. “Sounds like we’re here until March, now.”
He glared at me, silently.
“Still”, I continued. “I see you’ve brought your axe. How about you go and chop some wood for a fire tonight and I’ll see about getting those suitcases inside. There’ll probably be plenty of lumber in that old maze over there. Don’t get lost in the blizzard, though!”

***

To say that the next few weeks were difficult is an understatement. Monty retired to his room and refused to come out for days at a time, the only sound from him often being the hammering of keys on the old typewriter he’d found in the dining hall. I spent my time exploring the hotel, and making use of the facilities – the ballroom, the swimming pool, the games room, and the wide, empty parkland at the back. Sometimes I would see Monty standing at his window staring down at me as I gambolled through the snow, but he would quickly draw back into his room and pull shut the curtains when he saw me. It was as if some power, some force pulled him back into the room. I wondered what it was.
At mealtimes I would go up to his room and knock on the door to let him know I’d prepared something, but I would be sent away every time with a flea in my ear. Sometimes I could have sworn I could hear voices – not just his, but others – in the room with him. Whispering, sibilant voices which urged him to kill, kill, and kill again. Voices which called for innocent blood and urged him to give into the inner voice – to take up his axe and slay those who had wronged him. I finally realised what it must be that was keeping him indoors.
Damn him, I thought. He’s got a connection to World of Warcraft up here and he’s not even inviting me to play.
And so the weeks passed; I was aware that he was going down in the night to raid the larder, so I wasn’t worried about him starving, but some company would have been nice and I was forced to make my own entertainment. At times, I would hear him sneaking down the corridors at night, pausing outside my room and then moving away when I stirred. And more and more often, that voice from his room. Kill. Kill. Kill him. Kill him now.
I thought he must be close to levelling up.

****

Then, one day in early March, when the nights were growing shorter and the first hint of winter closing was in the air, I found his door open and his room deserted, so I took my chance to take a peek inside.
I was confused – there was no sign of his laptop, just the old typewriter, and so I looked at the reams of paper which covered the desk and floor around it. And my mouth fell open with shock and despair at what he had spent his months writing there.
“You like it? Hmn?” The voice was behind me. “Think it’s avant garde, do you?”
I turned to see an exercise in terror. He was drawn. Strain was written all over his face. His eyes would glaze and then focus upon me again. And in his hand, the axe.
“I’m not sure”, I replied. “It’s a bit repetitive, isn’t it? This ‘All work and no play makes Monty a dull boy’. I mean, how would you know? You have a job with a publicly-owned monopoly. You haven’t done a stroke of work since 1995.”
His knuckles whitened on the axe.
“Tell you what, Monty, old boy”, I said. “What you need is a drink.”
“A drink? A DRINK! You left the Rothschild behind, you oaf! I’ve sat in this damn room for three months without a drop listening to the undead ordering me to maim and kill you. I’ve fought and struggled against them all this time. I’ve tried to save your life and you know what?”
“What?”
“They were right!”
Needless to say, I legged it.

I ran downstairs and through the first door I came to, bursting into the ballroom where I turned and bolted the door behind me as it shivered to the first meaty thunk of the axe. It was only then I looked about and realised the room had no windows. I was trapped.
Slivers and then entire boards of wood flew from the panelling of the door until a hole appeared, and a face at the hole. “Heeeeere’s Monty!”
Moments later the lock flew off and the door shot open. I realised that he’d got me.
“Monty”, I said. “Okay, you’re going to hack me into bloody gobbets, but give me a last wish.”
“And that would be?”
“A quick snorter from behind the bar?”
“What?”
“A drink, man. Some booze.”
“Say that again. Very slowly.”
“A drink. Some liquor, booze. A touch of the good stuff. The old 100 proof thought provoker. A sharpener, a tipple, a shot. Some glug. A-“
“Are you telling me….that there is alcohol upon the premises?”
“Monty”, I said. “This is a five star hotel. It has one of the best cellars on the East Coast. Didn’t you know?”
“Does it look like I knew?"
“Good heavens. All this, because you hadn’t had a drink? Blimey.”
“No booze. For three months. It’s been Hell. I thought I was mad. The voices, telling me…awful things. They things they said, the things that they wanted me to do. The awful, awful things.” He started to shake, and the axe fell from his nerveless fingers.
“Well, all right now, eh?” I said. “I can recommend the Montrachet ’59, if there’s any left. I’ve been hitting it pretty hard.”
“None, eh? Not to worry. Any single malt?”
“Gone, I’m afraid. I got through that before new year.”
“Gin?”
“Christmas, I’m afraid”
“Vodka?”
“God, first week we were here. You weren’t exactly being good company, you know.”
“So what precisely is there that you haven’t drunk?”
“There’s plenty of the Ukranian Absinthe left. I left it for you because I know you like it. Monty? Monty! Put down that axe! I said- Arrrgh!"

The End.