The Ninth Nightmare

‘I’m trying to get through to my wife here, so if you don’t mind—’

‘You need to listen to me, Lincoln. I’m your friend.’

‘What friend?’

‘A concerned friend. A very concerned friend. So long as you do what I tell you, that is.’

Lincoln suddenly slapped the table. ‘Bennie? Is this you, man? Quit horsing around, OK? I’m trying to finish my goddamned dinner here.’

‘Eat your goddamned dinner then, Lincoln. Enjoy it. But do not return to your room.’

‘If this is your idea of a joke, man—’

‘No joke, Lincoln. Do not return to your room. Not if you know what’s good for you.’

‘That’s enough, Bennie. It’s been a long day, OK? I have two more meetings in the morning and then I’ll get back to you. It looks like we can get top billing for Millie D and maybe second spot for The Jive Machine.’

‘You need to listen to me, Lincoln. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Tonight, I need my privacy, you got that? I don’t want any witnesses. Not you, not anybody.’

Lincoln took a deep breath, and held it for a moment. Then he said, ‘If this is you, Bennie, this isn’t funny any more. If this isn’t Bennie, then all I can say is go screw yourself.’

There was a sudden blurt of white noise, and then a thick, persistent crackle, but that was all. Lincoln tried to see who had called him, but the only number that showed up was his own home number, in Ann Arbor. He tried calling Grace again, but he couldn’t get a ring tone. He edged his way out of the booth, stood up and started to walk toward the restaurant door.

One of the waiters intercepted him. ‘Sir? You finish up already, sir? The caldeirada — it was not to your like?’

‘The caldeirada’s terrific. I have to make a phone call, that’s all.’

‘You don’t go back to your room?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said, “Do you want me to keep it warm?”’

Lincoln stared at him. The waiter looked back at him, unblinking. Lincoln was sure that he had said, “You don’t go back to your room?” but maybe he had genuinely misheard him. The restaurant was noisy, after all, with talking and laughter and clattering cutlery and piped salsa music in the background.

‘No… you’re OK,’ he said slowly, and walked toward the restaurant entrance. The maitre d’ was standing behind his lectern by the doorway, with polished black hair and a little black moustache and a maroon tuxedo. As Lincoln approached he bowed his head and said, ‘Good evening, sir. I hope you enjoyed your meal.’

‘I’m only stepping out to use my cell. I’m coming back in a minute.’

‘You are not returning to your room?’

‘Why? What’s it to you?’

‘Excuse me, sir, I don’t follow you.’

‘Why should you care whether I’m returning to my room or not?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I still don’t understand.’ The maitre d’ looked totally baffled. ‘I made no mention of your room.’

Lincoln opened his mouth. He was about to tell the maitre d’ that he was either a deuce hole or an idiot, but he decided that it was pointless. Instead he gave him a dismissive flap of his hand and walked off.

He was still unable to get a cellphone signal out in the hotel lobby, so he went outside and stood on the front steps of the hotel. A strong gusty wind was blowing from the north-west, off the lake, and dead leaves were skipping across the hotel driveway with a clatter like dancing skeletons. He tried calling Grace again, but all he could hear was the same thick crackling that he had heard before. Maybe his phone was on the fritz. The best thing he could do was go back to his room and call her from there.

No joke, Lincoln. Do not return to your room. Not if you know what’s good for you.

He went back into the hotel lobby and took a left at the reception desk. There was a gilt-framed mirror at the end of the corridor and he could see himself walking toward it — a tall, lithe African-American in a black suit and a black silk shirt. His head was shaved which emphasized the Nubian looks that he had inherited from his mother — a thin face with high cheekbones and a straight narrow nose. In fact his features were so sharp that his friends at school had nicknamed him Icepick.

He reached Room 104. As he took out his key card, a hotel chambermaid in a frilly white apron came out of Room 106 next door with clean green towels over her arm. She stopped and stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

‘Good evening,’ he said, giving her a smile.

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, still staring at him. She walked off, turning her head around twice as she made her way along the corridor, as if she were afraid that he was going to come after her. Lincoln watched her until she reached the lobby and disappeared out of sight. He thought: what the hell was that all about? But then he shrugged and inserted his key card into the lock. She could have mistaken him for somebody famous. Grace maintained that he bore a strong resemblance to the murdered rapper Tupac Shakur, so maybe it was no surprise that the housekeeper had looked at him with such anxiety. He guessed that he would be anxious, too, if he met a man who had been shot dead in 1996.

He entered his room and switched on the light. Everything appeared to be normal. The chambermaid had closed the drapes and switched on the bedside lamps, as well as turning down the bed and leaving two chocolate mints in the pillows. Lincoln went across to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed nine for an outside line. While he waited, he rotated his head to ease his neck muscles. It had been a long, punishing day and he couldn’t wait to finish his dinner, take a shower and climb into bed.

Instead of an outside line, however, he heard that sharp blurt of white noise again, followed by the soft crackling of static.

Shit, he thought. Maybe there was something wrong with his home phone line. But he hadn’t even dialed his number yet, so how could that be? And how come he couldn’t get a line either on his cellphone or this regular landline? It didn’t make any technical sense.

He dialed zero for the hotel operator. This time, he got a response.

‘Operator, how can I help you?’

‘I’m trying to get an outside line from Room One-Oh-Four, but all I’m getting is this crackling sound.’

‘Hold on, Mr Walker. I’ll see what I can do.’

There was a moment’s pause, and then he heard the crackling noise again. He dialed the operator again and said, ‘I’m still getting it.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, you’re still getting what, exactly?’

‘The crackling sound, just like before.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t hear it. All I can hear is a regular dialing tone.’

‘There’s no dialing tone. There’s only this crackling sound.’

There was another pause, and then he heard the crackling again. He tried the operator’s number again, and it rang, but this time nobody answered.

‘This is fucking unbelievable,’ he said to his reflection in the mirror. He would have to go to the front desk and see if they could dial his home number for him. He was growing increasingly annoyed now. His dinner was getting cold, he couldn’t get through to Grace, and everybody in this five-star hotel was talking five-star bullshit. He was beginning to agree with his late lookalike Tupac, who had once said, ‘Reality is wrong. Only dreams are for real.’

He thought it would be a good idea to take a leak before he went to reception, so he made his way around the bed and headed for the bathroom door. His hand was already on the doorknob when there was a thunderous crash from inside the bathroom and the whole door shook as if somebody had thrown themselves against it. He jumped back, startled, and he almost lost his balance and fell over backward on to the bed.

There was another crash, and then another, and then a tumbling, squeaking noise like somebody falling into