 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Introduction
Monthly Poll
2001 Archive
2002 Archive
2003 Archive
2005 Archive
Sequel Poll
2001 Archive
2005 Archive
2009 Archive
Fan Fiction
Fan Art
Tidbits
Movie
In Print
Radio
T.V.
Miscellaneous
Events
Site Map
Guestbook
Forum
Fan Fiction: Short Stories
Chapter 2 - The Happy Inn Motel
The overcast night was calming to Harry Vincent as he toured the desolate countryside of Torrenceville, North Carolina. Harry had traveled abroad before, but had never seen anything like this. It was dusk however and Harry couldn't really see much from the back seat of the black sedan that had picked him up. What he had seen of the locale seemed slow, the environment relaxing, at least compared to New York. Even the driver was friendlier than any New Yorker that Harry had encountered lately. Torrenceville possessed a quiet eeriness that made Harry uneasy. He wasn't used to the somewhat primitive lifestyle of small-town folks. Harry himself was from a small municipality in Michigan called Colon. He had gotten used to life in the big city and didn't miss the sluggish, lackluster existence whatsoever. "We're almost there," Wallace the driver uttered from the driver's seat, stirring Harry from his thoughts. "Great, thanks Wallace." "You'll enjoy the place Sir. The people are so nice. Is this your first time to Torenceville?" Wallace spoke, trying to provoke conversation. "Yes actually. Just vacationing," Harry replied dryly. "Well, this used to be a mining town, then all the work dried up, so now everyone is pretty much into furniture. We average about two new factories a year here. It's good for the economy." "That's nice," Harry replied, obviously uninterested. Suddenly, the bulky black car came to a gloomy, barely visible side street. It quickly turned into the access and followed a long, dark road. Finally, the car came to a spacious parking lot, stalling in front of a brilliantly lit and surprisingly roomy motel. From out of the car came Harry Vincent, pulling his bags from the seat with great force. "I'll get those Sir," Wallace Crump said, exiting the driver's seat in a hurry. "Fine, have them sent to my room," Vincent uttered, handing the man some cash for his services. Harry wasted no time. As he entered the motel lobby, he realized just what kind of place it was. The joint was very ritzy for a mere motel, with its silk curtains, elegant chandeliers and polished hardwood floors. The lobby gave way to a narrow hall, which housed an elevator and led to a bar. As Harry approached the front desk, an older woman of about forty-five took him off guard. "Welcome to the Happy Inn, may I have your name?" the woman's petite voice sounded. "My name is Harry Vincent." "Ah yes the salesman from New York City. Wow, it's a pleasure. We rarely get your kind around here. We've got you in Room Fifteen. It's on the second floor at the end of the hall. Enjoy your stay." "Thank you," Harry pronounced, promptly heading toward the bar. As Harry entered the bar, he saw that it was quite a cramped space, but at present, the place wasn't very crowded. Lining the walls on the left and right were beautifully finished, albeit occupied, tables, large enough for only two, as well as a small but vacant billiard table in the middle of the room. And at the head of it all was the bar, with ten empty yet worn barstools, for thirsty patrons. Harry quickly sauntered toward the bar, and sat in the middle of the place. "What'll it be Sir?" the stocky bartender quickly responded. "Huh, I'll have a gin martini please," Harry requested, as he noticed an old man approaching from the left. Harry looked at the man, and was taken back by his appearance. The man looked about sixty years of age, with scraggly gray hair and a near toothless grin. His eyes were shifty and he seemed suspicious. As the man sat down next to Harry, the bartender brought Harry his drink. "Will that be all Sir," the man behind the bar uttered. "For now yes," Harry responded. "Can you tell me, do you know anything about a series of murders that occurred here recently?" "Murders? No I can't say I do… I don't know Sir," the bartender uttered confusedly, turning away. At Harry's words, the strange man spoke up. "Hey sonny. What's this I hear? What are you about? Why do you come to a place like this and scare everybody with your talk of murder? This is a bad place Sonny Jim… a bad place. You should never have come here prying into stuff you don't know about. You'll be sorry." "That's enough Billy-Jack. Don't mind him Sir, he just likes scaring folks," the bartender assured, looking at Harry Vincent. With that the old man known as Billy-Jack, got up and left the bar. Harry continued drinking his martini. The bartender quickly went to work making another drink, then suddenly presented it to Harry. "This is on the house friend. I'm sorry about that guy," the bartender said with a smile. "Who was that?" Harry asked, almost on the verge of laughter from the old man's weird outburst. "Just some local screwball. He lives here and he's always makin' trouble. You be sure to stay away from him and you'll be fine." "I'll try. Thanks for the free drink," Harry offered. With that, the bartender gave a nod and went about his business. Without warning a lanky, suave looking gentleman was suddenly sitting at the bar. Harry glanced over quickly, recognizing that on the stranger's left hand was a girasol ring, identical to the one on his own chubby finger. With an abrupt saunter, Harry advanced closer to him. He hesitated, staring the man up and down. The man looked at him too, as if already knowing who he was. "The sun is shining," Harry uttered, almost accidentally. The stranger responded, quickly realizing that in front of him was another agent of The Shadow. "But the ice is slippery. You must be Harry Vincent." "Yes, John Rowe I presume?" "That's correct. I was noticing you from the other side of the bar. You looked like you might be from out of town so I thought I'd check you out." "Good thing too, things are getting a little weird. Is this your first time here?" Harry questioned with a smile. "Is it that obvious? I'm a city man myself. Small towns are very weird to me." "Yeah me too," Harry informed, "I'm from New York City." "Say Harry, what room are you staying in?" "Room fifteen," Harry uttered as three rather large, suspicious looking men walked into the bar. "It looks like we may have company. The old man must have alerted some flunkies. Maybe we should continue these pleasantries in your room," John Rowe suggested as the three large men approached from the entrance. "Good idea," Harry agreed. With that, Harry laid down some cash for his drink, and then the two men hurried out of the bar. The next day slugged by as Harry rested in his motel room, going over the local paper. Looking for something suspicious, he glanced over the obituaries. Nothing unusual. An old man died of cancer, a young woman killed in a hit and run, nothing of some unexplained murders. That evening, John Rowe knocked on Harry's door, three taps and a rap, alerting him that it was time for dinner. Grabbing his long coat and exiting the room, the men exchanged slight nods and walked to the elevator and stepped aboard. The lift descended to the first floor of the place in less time than it would have taken to pummel down the rickety stairs. After finishing a light meal of soup and toasted bread in the motel's quaint tavern, they chatted little, their thoughts elsewhere. As they exited the bar, an annoying commotion echoed in their ears. Both men turned their heads to spot six men rushing through the front door into the lobby from the bitter cold. One of the six men walked to the reception desk where Billy-Jack gruffly greeted them, his eyes shifty, darting back and forth. Limping out from behind the desk, he grasped onto the man's luggage, leading him and the rest of them to the nearby elevator. Harry and John Rowe watched attentively, careful to keep their suspicious eyes elsewhere. These men were definitely not average, garden-variety tenants. All decked out in long, dark overcoats and fedoras, each man's face seemed distinctly colorless. The leader of the group was the tallest with an eerie feel about him that caught Harry off guard as the men faintly locked eyes. Harry turned first as if just glancing around the conjoining rooms. The leader of the six men looked weird. His face was shriveled with age, maybe fifty or so. The rest of the men looked considerably younger but their outward appearances baffled Harry and John Rowe. Bleak eyes, defeated postures, weak as if these newly arrived patrons lacked nourishment. It was almost as if these men were not human. Harry and John Rowe casually tried to head back toward the bar, but overheard Billy-Jack speak as the newly arrived crowd began to board the elevator. "Did you boys bring me a message from the master? I love those little notes she brings me. They are so nice," he sounded almost eager, his voice raising a notch above his routine growl. As suddenly as Billy-Jack stepped aboard, the elevator's old-fashioned gate closed, followed by the massive elevator door. Harry motioned, without a word spoken, to John Rowe to follow the suspicious group. Quickly returning to the elevator, they waited patiently for the lift's return. Instead of taking the stairs, they feared they would beat the group to their rooms, the suite down the hall from them. Spying on these shady newcomers, Harry almost prayed that they finally had a lead. Could these men have anything to do with the local unsolved murders? Only time would tell. Having returned to Harry's room on the second floor, John Rowe devised a way to eavesdrop on the room next-door. Room Sixteen at the end of the hall housed the peculiar men comfortably, rumored to be the most comfortable and expensive suite at the Happy Inn. Harry rushed to the door and opened it only slightly, in hopes that he and John Rowe might hear something from the next room. The walls to the motel were paper-thin. It was easy to hear conversations from other rooms, even if they were slightly muffled. As Harry and John Rowe listened, they heard the familiar voice of Billy-Jack. "So boys, what's the news?" the strange old man questioned. "Well B.J.," another voice sounded. "We've got a meeting scheduled. Called by Delilah herself. It's important. Apparently our activities are not as secret as we would have liked." "You mean somebody spilled the beans? Say, come to think of it, I remember some newcomer to the motel. He arrived just before you guys and he was askin' all sorts of questions. He mentioned somethin' about murder. He might be a cop. We'll have to keep our wits about us. When's the meetin'?" "Well it's tomorrow night, at the cabin. Delilah wanted to speak to you personally." "Tomorrow then. You boys have a good night. We'll leave here about noon tomorrow. I'm off to my room now." "Night B.J.," the rest of the men called as Billy-Jack opened the door. As quickly as he had opened it, Harry shut the door. He stood pressed up to the door as he heard footsteps. Apparently Billy-Jack was leaving. When it appeared that the coast was clear, Harry moved about the room, to the desk, where John Rowe sat with pen and paper in hand. "Did you get all that John?" Harry quizzed. "I think so. Something about a cabin and a woman named Delilah. They mentioned secret activities. Do you think these guys are involved in these murders?" "It seems that way John. We'll have to follow them tomorrow when they leave. Did you get the time?" "They're supposed to leave at noon I think," John Rowe informed. "Okay, tomorrow at noon then," Harry stated confidently as the two men grabbed their coats and headed out the door. "It's late, but let's see if the bar's still open shall we?" "Sound like a good idea," John Rowe acknowledged, as the two men entered the elevator. |
© copyright 2003 - Present
The Shadow: Master of Darkness
The Shadow is copyrighted by Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc. Disclaimer
The Shadow: Master of Darkness
The Shadow is copyrighted by Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc. Disclaimer