Dansk Bay Hotel Read online

  Dansk Bay Hotel

  Matthew Cornachione

  with

  Adam Cornachione

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, locations, or incidents are purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Matthew Cornachione

  Cover Design by Jake Clark

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-0-9898110-2-6

  Acknowledgments

  This work has been a wonderful collaboration. Story concept and ideas were developed with extensive help from Adam Cornachione, Kristen Cornachione, and Allie Cornachione. Thank you to my creative family. A special thanks goes out to my wonderful wife Kristen, who not only helped with the work, but encouraged me along the way.

  This piece has also benefitted immensely from reader reviews. Another thank you to Harriet Cornachione, Brian Joy, and Hollie Richards.

  Lastly, I owe a big thanks to Jake Clark for a fantastic cover design.

  Chapter 1

  The conductor's voice rang out over the loudspeakers. “Dansk Bay. Last stop.”

  Last stop? It’s supposed to be “end of the line!” Seriously, don’t these conductors watch any movies?

  Well, maybe not out here in rural Alaska. If Dansk Bay’s Hotel turned out to be a good buy we'd have to work on the intro. Much better for the tourists.

  Brakes shrieked as the massive train slowed. I swayed side to side until we finally came to a stop. Hopping up, I grabbed my overnight bag from the rack. No one else was in the passenger car—looked like this wasn’t a hot spot. Now it was my job to make it one.

  I stepped onto the platform, my travel bag slung over my shoulder. The station was small, but nice. Newly poured concrete, polished wood benches, and a metal canopy greeted me. They even had a set of heaters for the winter. No office building, just an automated ticket kiosk, but a new one. Not bad.

  Behind me the conductor leaned out of the engine window, watching me depart. I politely nodded his way. He politely spit onto the ground and continued chewing his tobacco.

  Once I stepped off the platform, he pulled his head inside. The engine throttled up and the train lumbered back toward Anchorage, off to pick up folks from a host of other small towns.

  Dust stirred, disturbed by the passage of the bulky train. I watched as floating particles glittered in the midday sun. A beautiful introduction to Dansk Bay.

  Unfortunately, the beauty ended there.

  Behind the thin veil of dust stood a...a market maybe? It was little more than the shell of an ancient mobile home. I mean ancient. Loose siding, sagging roof, front door missing. Well, not technically missing, just sitting off its hinges next to a gaping opening. If it wasn't for a tattered banner advertising “Cheap Smokes,” I wouldn't have identified the structure as a store.

  Part of checking out a prospective hotel is getting to know the town, no matter how shabby. Normally I check out the first stop I can find, but this one dictated a change to protocol. I’d walk out infected with a bout of the plague, but only if the roof didn’t collapse on me first. Besides, it looked abandoned.

  As I continued past, the market proved me wrong on that last count. A teenager in a torn shirt stepped into the empty doorway. Untidy waist-length hair obscured her face. Only her eyes peeked through, staring into mine. She made no effort to signal me, so I waved. Instead of waving back, the girl ducked out of sight.

  Um, okay. Moving on.

  Off to the right, I spotted a narrow, but paved, road. Looked like the only way to town. Time to see if the rest of Dansk Bay favored the train station or the derelict market.

  The asphalt wound through some scrub then sloped downhill. The brush cleared, giving me my first view of the town. Immediately, I spotted the Dansk Bay Hotel, and, just as immediately, I picked my winner.

  Score one for the market.

  Where to start? I wasn’t sure Dansk Bay could even be classified as a town. It had but a single intersection where my little road ran into an equally tiny cross street. To the side huddled a small smattering of buildings, including several more mobile homes. On the bay was a pathetic marina with a mere three weathered docks and a couple rusty boats.

  As bad as the town was, the hotel was worse. It sat to the left of town, a drab concrete tower, all blocky angles and no imagination. An absolute monstrosity.

  My job wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe Regina had finally lost her touch.

  Regina, my boss, was the reason I was here. She had a knack for seeking out hidden gems, finding those properties that none of the others in the travel industry could. I'd lost count of how many junk heaps she'd converted into profitable hotels. The Dansk Bay Hotel was supposed to become the latest in that long list.

  This one came with an added bonus. Alaskan Adventures had announced a new cruise line passing directly through Dansk Bay. A freshly renovated hotel would serve as a welcome stop for the tourists. The ships would ensure that we had a steady supply of visitors, at least in the summer.

  Of course, that only worked if the tourists had a reason to come to town. Right now, I wasn’t seeing much.

  Dansk Bay’s sole redeeming quality was the ocean. Sunlight reflected off its rolling surface. Mountainous islands covered in evergreens rose from the waters. A few specks moved lazily across the bay, probably the fishing boats that provided this town's only revenue. If you cropped out the town in the foreground, you had a classic Alaskan picture.

  That would play great on the brochures. I could see why they were sending a cruise liner up here. Problem was, I had to find a way to convince them to stop overnight.

  Looking closer, I saw that the hotel was situated atop a short but steep cliff over the bay. Waves lapped against the rocks below, sending up sprays of mist. Perhaps there was some hope yet. The view from the oceanside rooms would be fantastic.

  In any case, I had to do my job. Nice destination or not, my plan didn’t change. One: scope out the property and ensure that no nasty surprises awaited. Two: meet with the owner, in this case a man named Nigel Nekker, and negotiate terms of sale. Regina would have final say, of course, but I was the man who got it all started. Someone needed a firsthand look.

  Still, as I gazed over the hotel’s weather-stained concrete, I couldn't help but worry what mess awaited inside.

  Chapter 2

  A few minutes later, I stood at the central crossroad, the thriving center of Dansk Bay. To my left was a post office, and to the right a log cabin trading post. Not a mini-market, an honest-to-goodness trading post. That was actually cool.

  Across the road, Main Street, was the sheriff's office and a restaurant. Okay, a diner would be more accurate. “LUCY'S” hung in faded letters over the entrance. The building was yet another mobile home, albeit in better repair than the gas station shack.

  Standing here, I realized how out of place I was in Dansk Bay. My look, khaki slacks and a blue button up shirt, no tie, was already relaxed by my normal standards. Here though, it was several tiers above anything I might encounter. At least, I'd packed a pair of jeans and a polo in my overnight bag. That would fit in better. Too bad I hadn't brought a sturdy pair of cowboy boots. My Oxfords would have to survive the next two days. That was okay. I preferred to be overdressed than under. People respected nice clothes.

  After one last scan of the side roads, I decided to try my luck at Lucy's. I crossed Main, instinctively checking for traffic, though there didn't seem to be any cars around. The intersection didn't even have a stop sign. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, the only way into town was by train or boat. Everyone must walk around here.

  As I approached the door, I checked the place over.
It wasn't like the small-town diners I was used to. There was no neon “Open” sign, no menu, no flyers for local events. Just a set of dingy windows. But, there was movement inside.

  I opened the door and stepped in. The familiar scent of burgers and fries wafted to my nostrils. My stomach rumbled in response; I hadn't eaten since I’d gotten off the plane in Anchorage.

  The interior decor was nicer than I'd expected. A few small, but clean, tables lined the walls. Scenes of trees, mountains, and oceans adorned the wall. The diner’s back half was blocked off, presumably for the kitchen. A little face-lift and this would be a nice place for tourists.

  A small podium with a modern cash register stood by the door. There was no sign indicating whether to seat myself, so I waited for the waitress. She was at the far end of the diner serving a steaming plate to the only other patron, a burly man with a rocking beard.

  After dropping off the meal, the waitress turned and walked my way. I could tell for sure she wasn't the original Lucy. The girl was young, maybe 19, lean, cute. Reminded me of Lena, before the incident.

  Ugh, why was that coming back to mind now? I pushed the errant thought away and gave the waitress my most charming smile.

  As soon as she spotted me her eyes widened. She put her head down and turned off to the side, disappearing through a set of saloon doors.

  Huh. That was the second girl to take off running. What was with these people? Hard to say, but it looked like we’d have to get a team in here for hospitality training. A very skilled team. I’d never seen servers abandon customers. How hard is it to show someone to a seat and ask, “Would you like anything to drink?”

  I eyed the man, the only other diner present. He didn't look up from his plate, but I figured he wasn't going anywhere soon. The waitress had scurried off, but I could corner him.

  I sauntered over toward his table, sizing him up as I approached. His thick beard reached to his chest. I’d call it a hipster look back in San Francisco but on this guy it looked genuine. With his torn flannel jacket and faded army-green cap, I’d be more likely to label him homeless than hipster. He was old too, skin weathered and wrinkled. A man who’d lived a full life.

  “She always like that?” I asked casually, standing across the table from him.

  He took a big bite of his burger without acknowledging me.

  “Excuse me, sir? Sir?”

  Nothing. My irritation got the better of me. “SIR!” I said and slapped the table, making the salt and pepper jump.

  That got his attention. He gazed up, and I realized I'd grossly misjudged his age. His skin was worn, but his eyes shone with vibrancy. At most, this man was in his mid-forties, although those forty odd years had clearly been rough ones.

  “Seems a man ought to be able to enjoy his lunch in peace.” His tone was unusually calm.

  “Um, I just have a few questions about...”

  “Everybody's got questions. Only thing I know for sure is I ain't got no answers.”

  He looked back down to his plate. Most people in these small towns love to tell you all about how great their little slice of heaven is. This guy wasn't even going to tell me his name.

  I wanted to slap the table again, but stopped myself. Shaking my head, I backed away. He was a lost cause, and I knew it.

  So back to plan A: the waitress. I sat at the table across from the saloon doors. After a few minutes, my patience was rewarded. The doors swung open, and she reemerged. She hustled past me, carrying a steaming carafe down to refill the man's coffee. The two conferred for a few moments. The man gestured my way, and the waitress looked over, averting her gaze once she saw I was watching. She snatched up the carafe and strode back to the saloon doors, eyes fixed toward the floor.

  And so, she nearly ran straight into me when I slipped up from my chair and stood in the aisle.

  At the last instant, she jerked to a halt, coffee sloshing onto the linoleum. Her eyes peered up at me, fearful. What did she think I was going to do?

  “Excuse me, ma'am,” I said courteously as I could muster. “Kyle Ressler, with Touravista. I was hoping I might see a menu.”

  “Um, you shouldn't be here.” She glanced around, as if nervous that someone might be watching. The man didn’t seem perturbed.

  “Well, it is a restaurant, isn't it? I'd like to eat.”

  “I don't mean the restaurant. I mean the town.”

  “Oh, is there some reason why?”

  She hesitated. Again, she glanced over her shoulder, this time at the bearded man. Then she leaned in close and whispered.

  “Help us.”

  “With what?” I whispered back.

  “With, well, with him.”

  “That guy?” I pointed toward the other patron.

  She batted my arm down, but not before the bearded man saw it. He stood up and walked our way.

  “No, I mean the...the withered one. He won't let anyone...”

  “Now there. Let's not be scarin' this fellow.” The bearded man interrupted.

  The waitress hung her head and backed away. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “Sorry 'bout that. Folks here are superstitious. Keeps life fun, but nothin' you need trouble yourself with.”

  Superstitious was an understatement; that poor girl was downright paranoid. She reminded me more of Lena than ever. Except Lena couldn’t even share her fears anymore.

  “Oh, it's no trouble. I love to hear all about local folklore. Perhaps you could fill me in.”

  “Ha! Son, what did I tell you earlier? I ain't got no answers. All I can say is you'd do well to keep your stay short. Now, come on. You'd best get moving.”

  He put his hand on my back, firmly ushering me toward the door. I let myself be guided away; no sense tangling with this guy.

  “Another time then,” I said.

  “No, I don't think so.”

  I reached the door and stepped outside. I hoped he'd follow, and then I could double back to question the waitress. Instead he let the door swing closed behind me and stayed inside, hidden behind the grimy panes.

  “Wait. Where can I get some food?”

  Chapter 3

  A bell rung as I walked into the trading post. I didn't see anyone, which at least meant I wasn't going to get kicked out right away. The store was small, and arranged like a gas station mini-mart. To the left, were shelves of various equipment, household goods, and all that; to the right, food. I went right.

  In the back of the store, a door opened. The shopkeeper emerged from behind the gardening section. To my surprise, she was a true Alaskan native. She even wore a hide jacket, though blue jeans and boots made it clear she was steeped in American culture. She was old, white hair atop a weathered face, but she moved with grace.

  “Welcome. How may I help you?”

  “What?”

  Oops. Had Lucy's thrown me so much that a friendly greeting surprised me? I recovered quickly and continued more intelligently.

  “I meant to say, I'm looking for something for lunch.”

  “You've come to the right place.” The shopkeeper smiled. “I can set you up with a delicious meal. Do you cook? Have a microwave?”

  “Actually, I'm hoping for something more immediate.”

  “Of course. Right this way.”

  She navigated the aisles with practiced ease and brought me to a small fridge filled with wrapped sandwiches. Her fingers hovered above them, moving back and forth before she snatched one out and handed it to me. Roast beef, my favorite. Nice.

  “Made these myself this morning. It's better than anything you'll get at Lucy's.” She cracked a wide smile.

  I chuckled. I liked this woman.

  “Do you happen to have any fresh fruit?”

  “Of course.” She gestured to a basket to her left.

  I grabbed an apple and followed her to the front.

  As she rung me up at the register, I fell back into my familiar rhythm of information gathering. “So you're an Alaska Native, right? You must hav
e been here awhile.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What are you after?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Folks don't come to Dansk Bay by accident, especially not your type. No need to be clever with me.”

  “Okay, fair enough. I'm here looking into the hotel.”

  “Ah, of course.” Her face tightened. “I'll save you some trouble. Forget about your business and get out of town.”

  Nicer than the bearded man, but still the same in the end. “I appreciate the advice, um... What's your name anyway?”

  “Thea.”

  “Thea, my name is Kyle. I didn't expect your name to be so...American.”

  Thea laughed. “My real name is a mouthful. Too long for the simple folks around here.”

  I laughed with her. Too true. “Well, Thea, I'll admit I haven't had a great impression Dansk Bay so far, but I owe it to my boss to check out this hotel. I'll be moving on soon, so no one need worry. Why is everyone so eager to have me gone?”

  A brief frown passed across Thea's face, but she smoothed it quickly. “Just not a place you want to get stuck in. Outsiders cause more harm than good, usually to themselves.”

  I sensed that Thea knew much more, but even she wasn't eager to talk. I didn't want to push too hard, but I needed more. There was something going on here, something I didn't yet understand.

  “But what about the hotel? Was it popular during its heyday?”

  “It's not a hotel,” said Thea. “It's the home of an evil spirit. Stay in town if you must, but don't go near that place. Not if you know what's good for you.”

  Looked like Thea carried some superstition herself. Normally, I would have brushed a comment like that aside, but after the waitress’s plea for help, I had to know more.

  “Does this have something to do with the withered one?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  I smiled. “I keep my ears open. So who is this guy? What’s his problem?”