Part 2: Impromptu Actors

March 12, 18:22, rainy.
Our heroine, sheltering at the Night Owl Inn, endures a sleepless night, her mind entangled with rumors—woven from threads of misfortune, death, and crime.
Rumors. This place is teeming with them.
Blonney: Geez, this whole thing is so formulaic—like, of course, a side character would wind up here!
Blonney: But ...
Of course, this particular character had once worked in a hotel before. She knows the ins-and-outs of the work, and knows it's exactly the right place to find a good story.
She overhears the animated discussions of the guests at the restaurant. Catching fragments of their chatter, a strange set of words that light up her imagination, "brains," "decapitation," and "ghosts."
She makes a silent but certain decision.
Hotel Owner: You wanna work here?
Hotel Owner: It's just ... I figure someone like you could be a model. Or at least make good money at a casino or a club, I mean, on tips alone.
Hotel Owner: And if you're looking at getting into the entertainment biz, those are the kinds of places you'll meet the real big shots that are looking for pretty things like you.
Blonney: Yeah, maybe. But I need to get my invite back and finish a new script before that festival ends.
Hotel Owner: ...
Hotel Owner: Well, here's hoping you nail that script soon. Maybe one day you'll write the next Dick Tracy.
Hotel Owner: But until then, the dinner rush is coming, so how about you get in that kitchen and start cooking that slop?
Blonney: Hah, I've been meaning to tell you, the slop you're serving here is awful.
Blonney: At least you're aware of it. That tells me you're not a total psycho. Pleasure working with you, boss.
Blonney finds a shopping list and some coupons on the kitchen counter, along with a bright pink leaflet about a water outage.
The sink is oddly clean for the state of the place, and even the hardwood floor is spotless, save for a light-colored mark that catches her eye.
Blonney: What's this? A bleach stain?
Blonney opens the cupboard under the sink, and the smell of lemon-scented ammonia hits her in a burst.
At 10:10 p.m., Blonney hijacks the front desk radio to suit her own tastes.
Tuna salad, as best as she could make, lies in large bowls on the table, with jars of sauce and fixings heating up above the fireplace.
Above the jars on the fireplace mantle, there is a revolver hung up on display.
Blonney: Oh! That's a gorgeous gun.
Blonney: But uh, why do you get that up there? You expecting some kind of trouble?
Hotel Owner: Hah.
Hotel Owner: Now's not the time for chit-chat. Get to work, missy.
Blonney hears the clinking of cutlery on dishes as the first guests begin to fill the hotel lobby for dinner.
Blonney: Evening, ma'am! Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, or something stronger?
Pamela: Water will be fine, dear.
Blonney: Alright, ma'am! This bottle here is $32!
Pamela: What?!
Tom: You found yourself a real good cook here, boss. And such a beauty too!
The man is clearly drunk and practically shouts the words at her.
Tom: Miss, you are, how do you say it, a hottie? I'm sure you can tell I'm not from around here. I was just transferred here from Paris.
Blonney: Really, so how's your French?
Tom: Hah. Let's put it this way. I'm fluent in their kissing techniques.
Blonney: You might wanna do a better job of hiding that one track mind of yours.
Tom: Et tu, ma cherie?
Blonney: Wow! That accent is horrible. You sure that wasn't Paris, Texas?
Tom: Boss, I'm really digging this new girl.
She pays no mind to his jokes; she knows his type.
They might not be ideal guests, but they are useful for something. They can never keep their mouths shut. It's all too easy to get all the best and juiciest stories out of them.
Blonney: Huh? Why are you heading out so late, boss? And what's with that bucket of paint?
Hotel Owner: You musta seen the notice—the water's off tomorrow, so I'm heading out for supplies. There's a delivery at the door. Just put it in the cellar.
Blonney: Wow, a case of Bristol Cream Sherry. Does this place really have a wine cellar?
Tom: That's right. The old owner, Mr. Stahl, was a real wine fanatic. He even built a cellar right beneath where you're standing.
Tom: Your boss helped build it back in the day, and then he stayed on to work for Mr. Stahl.
Tom: Since Mr. Stahl's gone, he's taken things over temporarily. hic
As the drunk man hiccups, Blonney turns away to hide her disgust, before returning with a Texas-wide smile.
Blonney: So, what happened to Mr. Stahl?
Tom: He went missing.
Tom: Yeah, it was the night of that big old forest fire just outside of town. Coincidence? I think not!
Tom: But the cops said there was no sign he got snatched up or killed. They reckon he just decided to get up and leave.
Tom: Me, I can't decide. One part of me thinks Mr. Stahl is still alive and kicking out there somewhere, the other that he's gotta be some kinda vengeful ghost.
Blonney: A ghost?
Tom: Considering all he went through, and all those poems, maybe he had a hideout ready and was just waiting for the right time—then, poof!
Blonney: I'll bite. What crap did he go through?
Tom: His wife got murdered.
Blonney watches as he pours the $32 mineral water into his glass.
Blonney: And what about the forest fire?
Tom: I think the police said it was about four miles from here.
Tom: Why, you planning on scoping out the place?
Tom: Ma cherie, you ...
The blonde girl interrupts him.
Blonney: I know what you're about to say. I look just like a typical victim in a slasher flick, right?
Tom: The blonde hair, that figure, those looks—you fit the part.
Blonney: Hah, yeah, crazies and criminals love to go after girls like me. Don't worry. They all end up regretting it.
She slaps the check on the table.
Blonney: That'll be $32.
Blonney: Room service.
Blonney pushes the food cart to the guest's door.
The darkness at the end of the stairs spreads out toward her, as if calling to her with an irresistible pull.
Blonney: Hello! Room service!
???: Woof, woof, woof!
The tightly shut door opens to the sound of barking, and a haggard woman stands there, keeping a dog at bay.
The walls of her room are covered with photos—all of her in stand-up clubs, clearly old photos of her younger days. Time seems to have robbed her of comedy and her senses.
Judie: Stahl! Get some more of that sherry, the good stuff, my "happy water," the kind you used to send, okay? Do me a solid, hun? Please, I know you got it stashed away.
Blonney: Uh, I think you've got the wrong person, ma'am.
Judie: Damn it! You've changed, Stahl! Ever since you took that old bottle from me, you've been nothing but a grump!
Blonney: Christ.
Judie: You promised me you'd let an old woman drink in peace. But now, all I've got is that awful rot-gut you keep sending me.
The dog starts barking again, louder and whinier than before.
Judie: Don't worry, Finney. We won't let little Jack see it, will we? Finney! We'll play with little Jack next time, okay?
Finney: Woof.
Finney whimpers, his sorrowful eyes staring at the stairs toward the end of the hallway.
Blonney: Great. An isolated hotel in the middle of a storm, a missing former owner, irrational guests, and a secretive new boss, and Finney here seems to have pointed out another strange guest. I've got all the ingredients I need right here.
She walks toward the stairs at the end of the hall. That magnetic pull returns. She makes her way up, the stairs creaking a warning under her boots.
Blonney: Hah, a new ingredient: a locked attic! Does this place have a Bluebeard too?
She lines up the key with the jagged keyhole, slides it in, and turns. A crisp "click" echoes. Then, the door swings open.
A mouse darts along the baseboard in a panic.
In the attic stands a four-post bed, its sheets in disarray. Blonney reaches out to straighten the bedding, but finds a curious, soft pile beneath.
She flips through the blanket and pillows, discovering a photo under the pillow, accompanied by a line of small text below.
Blonney: "Happy Birthday, son. Heinz Stahl and Jack Stahl, 1983."
The man in the photo is holding a boy. The boy is holding a life-sized doll that looks exactly like him.
Blonney: So, this must be Jack's room.
???: sniff
Blonney hears a strange sniffing sound coming from behind her.
Blonney: It's coming from the closet.
She tiptoes over to it, noticing a small hole in the door.
Jack: She directs the flashlight through the hole. Its beam glides over stacked clothes before landing on her target.
Jack: A boy's face, identical to that of the boy in the photo.
Blonney: ...!
Jack: The boy's eyes glimmer in the darkness, as wide and black as a baby deer caught in the headlights.