Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26425680-20160812035939

Here's a chapter for the Collaborative Writing Project. I'm mostly looking for feedback from others involved with this project (in regards to the best ways to tie my chapter into overall story), but of course, I welcome criticism from anybody.

____________________

The Moonlight Inn wasn’t just old, it was also in a sad state of disrepair. Stella, the night clerk, liked to comment that the name was appropriate, seeing as some of the guests could actually see moonlight through the cracks and holes in the ceiling. Still, it was a historic motel, and being situated in the most haunted town in America, it tended to get visitors who weren’t as interested in a good night’s sleep as they were in a good scare. It was those thrill seekers who kept the shabby motel in business, but most of them left disappointed. The ghosts who inhabited the cracks and holes of the old rooms rarely showed themselves to those who called out for them. And why would they want to? Most of them hadn’t been sociable in life, and there was no reason for them to be sociable in death. The Moonlight Inn, out-of-the-way and full of secrets, had once been the go-to place for shady people wanting to keep a low profile. Yes, the dead liked their peace, that can be said for certain. Yet every once in a while, an especially intriguing guest could entice them from their crevices…

WUB WUB WUB – The car with two flat tires made a garbled sound as it limped into the motel’s parking lot. Stella briefly looked up from her book as the car slowed to a stop. The exasperated driver killed the engine and looked at the motel in front of him. He glanced at his watch, then back at the motel. Sighing, he finally reached into his backseat, grabbed a trunk, and walked into the front office.

“Got some trouble with your car?” Stella asked without looking up from her book.

“A bit,” the man replied. “Somebody ran me into the curb about half a mile back.” He noticed the peeling wallpaper around him as he spoke. “Is this the only motel in the area?”

“The Wagon Inn is about three miles up the road. It might be more to your liking,” Stella ventured in a dry tone.

The man looked out the window at his two flat tires. “Naw, I’d better just stay here for tonight. Make the best of every situation. Right?” His dour expression suddenly gave way to a smile. “Complaining about my circumstances won’t fix them, but an upbeat attitude will make them go down easier. I just remind myself of that when things look down.”

Stella reached down and pulled out a set of sheets. “Twenty dollars, upfront,” she said.

The man placed a twenty dollar bill on the counter, then, with a wave of his wrist, he produced a flower, seemingly out of thin air. “This is for you, m’dear.”

Stella did not look impressed. “Checkout is eleven AM.”

“It’s magic! Don’t you get it?”

“Yeah, I saw what you did,” Stella droned unenthusiastically. “You pulled it from your sleeve.”

“You know, magic is a good way to get to know people. I use it to help break the ice with my clients when…”

Stella slapped a key on the counter. “Room eight,” she said before returning to her book.

The man, undaunted, tipped his hat at Stella and collected the key and his sheets. He soon found that room eight was every bit as shabby as the lobby. The mattress had stains on it from god-knows-what, and possible blood spatters marked the carpet. Looking around, the man all of the sudden didn’t feel as tired as he had moments earlier. “Maybe I should just practice my tricks,” he thought to himself.

Slight-of-hand tricks were a source of great pride for the salesman, and he found that the move towards a potential sale was often greased a feat of the impossible. The key, of course, was to always practice. Dexterous hands needed a workout, just like any other part of the body that one desired to keep in top form. He retrieved a deck of cards from his trunk and deftly shuffled them with one hand. Sitting down at the rickety table, he spread them out atop its surface. “Pick a card,” he said to nobody.

Responding to his own request, he closed his eyes and randomly grabbed a card from the pile. He held it up momentarily, then shoved it back into the pile. He one-hand shuffled the deck, then tapped its top. “And this,” he lifted the top card up, “Is your card!”

He chuckled heartily at his trick, until a soft, womanly voice sounded out directly behind him. “That was amaaaaazing!”

The man jumped up, knocking the table over as he did so. He turned around, looking behind him but seeing nothing.

“Can you do that again?” the soft voice asked in wonderment.

“Where are you?” the man asked shakily.

“Here I am.” Wispy tendrils of smoke appeared before the man. They hung in the air for a moment before they coalesced, and a phantom form began to take shape.

The man thought to run out the door, yet his curiosity demanded that he stay, and he watched in awe as the disembodied voice was reunited with its owner. After a few moments the form was complete, and a slightly translucent woman of about thirty years of age floated before him. “I’m Martha,” she said in a voice that could best be described as a loud whisper.

“I’m...” The man wet his pants as he tried to spit out his name. “I’m Carl.”

Martha had a pretty face and short brown hair. Her dress might’ve been red, though it was difficult to tell in the poorly lit room. She repeated her question, “Can you do that again?”

With her almost puppy-like expression, Martha looked harmless enough to Carl. Not taking his eyes off of her, Carl kneeled to the ground and collected his cards. He set the table upright and started the trick again, but his shaking arm made it difficult to shuffle. Martha stared at him in quiet anticipation. On his third try, he finally shuffled the cards successfully and spread them out on the table. “Please, pick one,” he stammered.

Martha pondered for a moment, then slowly pointed her specterish finger towards one of the cards. Without looking at it, Carl picked it up and showed its face to Martha. Taking a deep breath, he reshuffled the cards and tapped the top of the deck. “Recognize this?” he said as he removed the top card and showed it to Martha.

“Oh that’s fantastic!” Martha cooed.

Carl smiled at Martha’s enthusiastic response. “I find that magic tricks are a good way to introduce yourself,” he said with somewhat increasing ease.

“Oh! I see.” Martha pondered for a moment. “I have a trick I can do for you!”

Carl thought for a moment. “I’m almost afraid to ask what it is.”

“Look!” she said excitedly. Martha leaned her head backwards, and Carl saw for the first time that her throat had been slit wide open. She deftly moved her hand toward her neck, and then promptly pushed it into the wide-open slit. He fingers disappeared for a moment as she pushed them upward. When he saw then again, they were protruding out from the back of her mouth. Martha wiggled them and smiled. Carl almost fainted at the sight.

Martha pulled her fingers from the backside of her mouth. “Do you have more tricks you can show me?”

Reassessing his situation, Carl looked towards the door again, but decided to stay. Martha, though a bit ghoulish, was still being friendly. He poked through his trunk and retrieved a few items. For the next half hour, Carl entertained Martha with tricks – a red ball pulled from her ear – flowers from thin air! Martha clapped as the magic unfolded.

Carl showed her most of his repertoire, and even though a magician shouldn’t be expected to repeat his tricks, he obliged Martha every time she asked to see something a second time. His pants started to dry and he felt more and more comfortable with the unusual situation in which he’d found himself.

As he completed his final few tricks, he noticed Martha glance to an empty corner of the room repeatedly. She finally spoke to whatever was in the corner. “Oh, come out, Hank. Let him see you.” A gruff, disembodied voice sounded out. “Yeah okay.”

Another specter began forming in front of Carl, and soon, the fully formed ghost of a man was present in front of him. Wearing brown pants and a sleeveless t-shirt, the new ghost also sported a shotgun wound in the middle of his stomach.

His voice, much louder than Martha’s, was directed towards Carl. “Well, I showed myself, so now why don’t you do one of them tricks for me, and make it good.”

“Uh, yes!” Carl didn’t like this demanding new ghost nearly as much as he liked Martha. He got the feeling that Hank was the kind of ghost who didn’t like it when people said no to him. He fumbled through his trunk and found his last trick. It was a bit of a gory one, but it was one of his favorite illusions. With exaggerated fanfare, Carl pulled a chopping knife and a wooden, hand-sized box from the trunk. “Here! Carefully examine this blade and make sure it’s real.” He started to hand the knife to Martha, then realized his mistake.

Martha, unable to hold the knife, looked closely at it. “Ohhh, it looks sharp.” She looked impressed. Hank did not.

“I assure you, it’s very sharp!” Carl replied. “Now, please watch carefully. I stick my finger in this box…” Carl placed the box on the table and pushed his index finger through a small circular opening in its side. The opening was just big enough for his finger to fit through, and the box was small enough so that the tip of the finger protruded from another opening on the other side.

“Now, the knife quickly comes down…”Along the top and sides of the box, there was a slit that allowed the knife to move easily downward. Carl slammed the knife down in a quick, guillotine-like motion. He noticeably winced as the knife cut into his finger, and then, “Voilà!” Carl shouted as he pulled his hand up from the table. The two ghosts gasped as they saw that Carl’s hand had one less finger. Martha looked back and forth between Carl’s hand and the box on the table that still had part of a finger sticking out of it.

Carl smiled as the ghosts stared in awe at his trick. “And now, I think I’d like my finger back.” Carl pushed the stub of his lost finger back into the box. With his other hand, he covered the entire contraption with a cloth. Moments later, he pulled his hand from under the cloth to show them that it was whole again. He put the box back into his suitcase.

Martha cooed over the trick, and even Hank gave a begrudging smile.

“Can you do that again?” Martha asked with schoolgirl anticipation.

Carl’s smile dropped. “Uhhhh, I don’t think so.” He looked down into his trunk at the fake finger he’d just cut in half. A little bit of glue had held it to his hand, and with some agile finger movements, he had given a very convincing show that it was his own finger. It was a special order prop that he’d bought in bulk, but that was his last one, and it was only good for a single performance.

Carl picked up his deck of cards. “How about another card trick?”

“Hey, the lady said she wanted to see that finger thing again,” Hank said with a raised voice.

Carl began sweating as he looked desperately through his trunk, hoping to find an unexpected prop finger, or at least another trick he hadn’t shown them yet.

“C’mon,” Hank said impatiently, “the lady’s getting bored. I wanna see that finger come off again, or else.”

Carl looked toward the door, calculating how fast he’d have to move if he were to successfully run away. As he weighed his options, he let out a sad moan and wet his pants again. Then, he reluctantly put the fingerbox back on the tabletop. He shakily stuck his finger, his real finger, inside of it. Martha, giddy with anticipation, seemed to have no idea that something was different.

Carl grabbed the knife, closed his eyes, and spoke. “And now, the knife quickly comes down,” he said meekly. He looked up into Hank’s angry and impatient eyes. Gathering his courage, he slammed the knife down into the box. His screams were heard throughout the motel as blood started spurting from the openings of the box. When his pain finally became greater than his fear of Hank, Carl dropped the knife to the floor and ran to the door, passing effortlessly through both ghosts along the way. With a fluid motion, he flung the door open and ran out into the night, screaming all the while.

Martha was crestfallen upon witnessing Carl’s disappearing act. “He’s gone,” she said sadly.

“Yeah, but he left his finger behind,” Hank said, pointing to the bloody box. “Why would he do something like that?”

“Maybe you should’ve been nicer to him, Hank. I think you scared him.” Martha stared at the finger and sighed.

“Aww I was just messing around with him. B’sides, I couldn’t hurt him even if I wanted. You know that. I was just jokin’ with ‘em.”

Martha shook her head remorsefully, then the two ghosts faded slowly away. In the lobby, Stella didn’t even look up as Carl ran screaming out of the parking lot and down the road. 