Forever Vacancy: An Anthology

By Mya Lairis

Colors in Darkness, the premiere online site for dark fiction authors of color presents its first anthology!

Amid the upheaval of the 1960s, the Kretcher Motel opened in a poor, desolate part of Atlanta. It still serves its original purpose: to lure those souls who are lost, who are troubled, who are evil...to itself. Check in to view these thirteen dark tales of horror, betrayal, fear, and wickedness, all featuring characters of color. You may never want to leave.

The Thing in Room 204 – C.W. Blackwell
Karma Suture – Tawanna Sullivan
The Last Day of Jerome Brown – Jordan King-Lacroix
Roost – Kenya Moss-Dyme
Salvation – Ross Baxter
The Honeymoon Suite: Jacob’s Reunion – Sumiko Saulson
A Long Way From the Ritz – Eden Royce
Mister Mackintosh – David Turnbull
Flesh Trap – Querus Abuttu
A Devil of a Deal – David O’Hanlon
Hollygraham – Sy Shanti
The Adjusters – Dahlia DeWinters
Need – Zin E. Rocklyn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mya Lairis
• Release date: Feb 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370981151

Mya Lairis

Colors in Darkness is a group of writers whose focus is on diversity in horror, dark fantasy and paranormal literature, art and film.

Book preview

Forever Vacancy

a Colors in Darkness Anthology

Compiled by Eden Royce, Kenya Moss-Dyme and Mya Lairis

Dedication

To all who love horror, dark fiction, and paranormal tales and those who seek diversity in those stories.

Publisher's Note: Forever Vacancy includes stories by authors of American, British, and Trinidadian heritage. The native spellings of the author's country of origin have been kept intact.

Forever Vacancy—A Colors in Darkness anthology

Copyright © 2017 by Mya Lairis for Colors in Darkness

Cover design by R.L. Treadway

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living, or dead, is purely coincidental.

Forever Vacancy—A Colors in Darkness anthology

Colors in Darkness, the premiere online site for dark fiction authors of color presents its first anthology.

The 1960s were a time of great upheaval in the South. Amongst the backdrop of civil rights marches, shootings, and lynchings, the Kretcher Motel opened in a poor, desolate part of Atlanta.

Today, the motel still exists—even though it has seen better days—and it still serves its original purpose: to lure those souls who are lost, who are troubled, who are evil…to itself.

All of this happens under the watchful onyx eyes of Sybline Kretcher, the six-and-a-half foot tall innkeeper of this nefarious motel. Some say the devil himself created the dank motel that crouches on the outskirts of Atlanta. If he did, Sybline isn’t talking.

Perhaps she can’t.

Check in to view these thirteen dark tales of horror, betrayal, fear, and wickedness, all featuring characters of color.

You may never want to leave.

Table of Contents

#Introduction

The Thing in Room 204

Karma Suture

The Last Day of Jerome Brown

Roost

Salvation

The Honeymoon Suite: Jacob’s Reunion

A Long Way from the Ritz

A Devil of a Deal

Hollygraham

Fleshtrap

Mister Mackintosh

The Adjustors

Need

Contributing Authors

Colors in Darkness

Introduction

There was no great mystery behind Sybline’s decision to reside in Atlanta. The city suited her with the perfect blend of international exuberance and southern charm. Like an overripe peach, beautiful in its flirtation with decay, Atlanta offered just the sort of damned individuals that made her suffering bearable. Entertaining at times, even.

There were other cities connected to the underworld that she could have selected, but when she received the gift of the Kretcher Motel, it was 1968 and there was no other place she wanted to be. Martin Luther King Jr., champion of civil rights, had been assassinated, and not long after, Robert F. Kennedy met a similarly unfortunate demise. They were casualties of a race war, festering like cancer throughout America, even with the distractions of a white starship captain kissing a black woman for the first time on television and the hellified, funky jam of Sly and the Family Stone called Dance to the Music.

Blacks were still being carried away in the night, although with less fanfare, and women were still struggling to be considered as individuals more less equal. The citizens of Atlanta were capable of bearing the most controversial and deplorable issues, or at least cloak their feelings about them. A bright gem, encased by the land of the brutal righteous, she considered Atlanta to be.

It was the perfect city for an usher to Hell.

Sybline was not her real name. She couldn’t quite recall what her original name had been, but she had always known that steel was in her spine and encircling her neck, denying her the ability to yield. Perhaps it was when ancient Egyptian sandals came parading into her village, so many centuries before. Maybe she should not have spat upon the ground and offended them. When the soldier captain struck her across the face and had her bound, she could have at least faked humility. Most of all, she could have bowed when an angel appeared like sparkling dust upon the wind. He had sought to save her, appearing only to her while her mother and father screamed in agony.

The angel reached out to her, bade her to accept his and his God’s vow of protection. But Sybline had not. Surely, if the ethereal spirit’s god had created her, then he had forgotten to add humility to her ingredients and he would had to have known that she would not accept. Her pride didn’t need saviors and it certainly didn’t want subjugation, so pledging herself to anyone was too complicated of a task for her to bear. She recalled telling the angel so and how sad he had looked as he decreed her cursed.

If the angel thought she would cry as the huts, people, and livestock of her village were forsaken to the Egyptian army’s wrath, he was surely wrong. She didn’t cry then, nor as her skin turned only three shades darker than what it was, crisp enough to crack open and cook the underlying crimson meat beneath it.

Some centuries later, she learned about the Egyptians’ architectural feats, but her first life hadn’t lasted long enough for her to see even the silhouette of a pyramid, much less sand.

Upon death, a devil—the Anti, or the Darkness, as he called himself—welcomed her with his horrors, but only as an experiment. He was a jealous creature whose every torturous contemplation was tinged with sadness. He claimed he shared much in common with Sybline regarding the flexibility lacking in the knees and shoulders, but even he was put off by her failures to cry out for salvation. Slathering pits of noxious fumes, gargantuan cosmic horrors with far too many teeth and limbs, perversions of blood, skin, and bones…none of it held much sway with Sybline. If she was to be tortured, then pride would never let her not seek the enjoyment of yielding, because although she didn’t possess the gift of humility, she was very apt at locks. She did not know what they were so many centuries before, but placing her emotions in a safe and tidy place in her mind and keeping them prisoner was a talent of hers. And it was one that bordered on the supernatural.

The devil was clever, resurrecting her in a period of strife, the 1700s. There she was kidnapped from the continent of her original birth and placed upon a slaver’s ship. Denied death, she had to endure the 1800s. As a result of nothing more than the color of her skin, she was hung, shot, raped, drowned, and once whipped to no more than a skeleton wearing flesh rags. The 1900s held only slightly easier deaths for her, but no less pain. Freedom, a long desired quality for the Africans in America, had a sour smell to it, something akin to wine turning to vinegar. Instead of bringing unification, black folk found ways to turn upon each other or distrust one another and still remain enslaved.

That year of 1968, she had overdosed shortly after seeing the Hendrix Experience at the Municipal Auditorium. No mythic vampire was she to shun the sunlight, but she did have to wait until dark to make her escape from the coroner’s office. She had no need of feasting upon the living to maintain her strength…just time, as always, to learn and to heal.

The night that she returned home, she might not have had hope, or even realized that she needed to seek it if not for the reappearance of an old acquaintance. He appeared to her without wings or horns and certainly lacking the flickering tongues of hellfire. Wearing a dark gray business suit and tie, he had dark circles underneath his eyes, which still shimmered of jealousy. In the midst of her shitty apartment, he attempted to tell the story of his fall.

Sybline caught a few words about the moods of various deities and splintering paths. He even introduced her to a green tree sprite that she swore her tribe had paid homage to so long ago. The cocoa skinned apparition danced upon the devil’s left shoulder as he lamented about the curious nature of humanity.

She hadn’t had the patience for long speeches or details, staring into the amber pool of bourbon where ice cubes danced in her glass. She even cut off the tree sprite when he attempted to explain why he couldn’t have helped her when the Egyptians came. But she did pay close attention to an item that appeared in the hand of the devil once all of the talking ceased.

It was a set of keys, gold, remarkable and grand of design. The ends were carved into intricate designs, a skull here, a rose there, bird, serpent, dagger… They were each thin and set upon a rounded hoop. Without even knowing what the keys opened or locked, Sybline had taken possession of them. It was a trap. Maybe one constructed by more deities than those who came that day!

The allure of the keys went so far beyond their beauty that Sybline almost felt a tear at the corner of her eyes as the cool metal met her palm. To be open and vulnerable had always been her fear, but the slim pieces of metal offered the symbolism of having a protective barrier. One that could be closed and yet have the chance of opening. She felt as if she had never known that the possibility of such ever existed until she held those keys.

It was all just a panacea, some myth that her mind wrapped itself about to belie the horror of what she was getting involved in, and the mantle of the responsibility that she would have to bear for the ages. If she would have known then, that the keys belonged to the decrepit hotel in which she would be trapped, Sybline doubted that it would have made any difference in her decision. Humans, spirits, beasts, creatures who thought they knew about pride and purpose and darkness came into her lobby every day exhibiting traits of that pride and some their lack of.

And Sybline gave them rooms with her keys. From the very first day, she had been witness to horrors and heartbreaking tragedies within the walls of the Kretcher, and while her chin still only knew how to be held high, Sybline was learning, becoming quite the scholar of broken wills. The motel underwent revisions, making all rooms accessible only through the lobby entrance and past her desk. Elevators were put in. Many asked why continue to call it a motel? Surely, it was a hotel now. Sybline refused to comment or change the name on the sign. Renovations couldn't change what The Kretcher was at its core…it would be whatever she wanted it to be. Standing before patrons, she could lie, pretend as if she related and cared about their lives or their personal demons… all the while coveting the precious treasure that was her key ring. The gateway to her own soul could remain closed for all eternity, but each of her keys was a reminder that if that barrier ever opened…it could be closed again.

The Thing in Room 204

C.W. Blackwell

With each step, the old man’s boots rang against the steel staircase, filling the alley with a thin metallic echo. In his hand was a braided tether that went slack and taut as he led a cloaked figure carefully, step by step to the door on the second floor.

Almost there, he whispered to the cloaked thing, and clicked his teeth as if calling to some pack animal. The figure wavered, nervously judging its height above the alley, but took the steps with the old man’s encouragement.

When they reached the landing, there was the sound of a glass bottle shattering below, and a couple began arguing in the shadows. The old man ignored the commotion and jimmied the key in the keyhole, but the lock was stubborn.

There was a slap of bare skin and a woman hissed, and then stepped out into the alley’s murky lamplight. She wore a tattered red top and a silver skirt that pinned her thighs together so tightly she appeared to teeter where she stood.

Hey, mister, said the woman. She straightened her top as she called to the old man, but her breasts still lay crooked as if they fought each other for position.

The old man took out the key, spat on it, and stuck it back in.

Hey, mister, called the woman again, louder and with her hands cupped over her mouth. Need any company tonight?

No, said the old man. He pulled out the key and blew into the keyhole. I have all the company I can handle, thank you.

Elevator broken in the Kretcher again? The woman lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward an amber bulb that jutted from the side of the building like a hot blister.

The old man didn’t answer. The key twisted in the lock at last and he pulled the door open and guided the cloaked thing into the dark hallway beyond.  

Inside, there was a smell of mildew and burning rubber. The old man saw smoke wafting from a spot in the diamond-pattern carpet and he kneeled down to look. There was a cigarette smoldering in the nylon fibers, uncrushed and half-smoked as if someone had simply spit it out where it lay. The old man ground it into the floor with his boot heel until the embers died, and then continued down the hall as he read the numbers on the lacquered doors.

204, he said when they reached the door at the end. He lifted the plastic keychain with the matching number and fit the second key on the ring into the knob. This time, the door opened easily, and he led the cloaked thing inside and closed the door behind him.

The old man flicked the light on and held his finger to his nose. The room smelled of rot, as if a refrigerator had been unplugged and left open with a week’s worth of food. The cloaked thing didn’t seem to mind the smell; it leaned against the decrepit wallpaper and hummed to itself with its tether now dangling around the hem of its long shroud.

The man went to the window and forced it upward into the frame, but the air outside was still and balmy and wouldn’t stir the dead odor. He went to the bathroom, pulled the chain of a ceiling light, and swept the shower curtain aside, but found nothing. There was a dirty glass on the sink, and when he twisted the faucet, the pipes groaned and a ruddy liquid sputtered into the basin before turning clear. He filled the glass and gave it to the cloaked thing, who raised it to the darkness of its hood and slurped as if it hadn’t taken water in days.

You’re coping admirably, he told the thing. I’m sorry for all the commotion on the stairwell. Only a day’s drive to Baton Rouge, my friend. Straight shot down I-59. The thing hummed and slurped at the water and a rope of drool tumbled to the floor. We’ve made it this far. I only wish… He covered his mouth and heaved dryly into his hand. I only wish this wretched smell wasn’t so penetrating.

He paced the room for a moment. He shuffled the pillows on the bed and flicked a sheet of wallpaper that peeled above the dresser as if the entire world had come and gone. On the nightstand was a telephone base with a missing handset. He jiggled the cradle switch with his finger and shook his head.

I’m going to see about this smell, he said, and then went to the bathroom and refreshed the thing’s glass with sink water. Stay quiet, my friend. You know the drill.

The old man opened the door and peered down the hall. Seeing no one, he locked the door and headed back to the outside stairwell. A siren blared from somewhere distant and a transformer buzzed angrily at the wet night air. He expected more dialogue from the woman in the alley, but found it was vacant except for a mob of flies making errant calculus above an overstuffed dumpster. He walked to the corner of the main street where weeds grew from the cracks in the cement and he saw a few dark figures circling the pumps of a gas station on the other side of the street like cats stalking invisible prey. The door to the motel lobby was cracked open and he pushed through into the aching yellow glow.

The woman behind the counter was stuffing a large manila envelope into a slot in a wooden mail sorter, mumbling to herself. Her earrings chimed with each indelicate shove.

Excuse me, ma’am, said the old man. He tapped his finger on the mahogany counter, but she didn’t respond. Ma’am, he said again. Sorry to bother you.

The woman continued muttering to herself as she patted the envelope and then turned around casually as if she hadn’t heard him calling to her. She was taller than he remembered when he checked in, and her hair was wrapped in a leopard-print shawl.

What’s wrong, honey, she said, her voice like a thousand sips of cognac. Trouble with the room key?

No, we’re in. Trouble is, there’s a very bad smell.

She lifted an eyebrow, and an earring chimed on the side of her face.

A smell? Well then. Can you describe it to me? She spoke slowly, and her dark lips curled as if she were more interested in the details than solving the problem.

It’s… The old man grimaced and rapped his knuckles on the counter nervously. If you can imagine the smell of something dead, it’s like that. It smells like death.

Did you check the bathtub, she said with a wry smile. Maybe someone laid down and died in there. Can’t say it hasn’t happened before. We had a bad batch of heroin come through the neighborhood a few weeks ago.

The old man scowled and took a step back. No, nothing like that. I checked the bathroom thoroughly.

She chuckled and scratched her throat with her long black nails.

"Well, if there were a body—and I’m not saying there is—but if there were, then that would be something I could help with. It’s a tough town, you know. Can’t say I’m not used to it by now. She winked and pursed her lips thoughtfully. But shy of that, well, we’re gonna have to chalk that up to our one-star rating in the Frommer’s Travel Guide."

The old man shifted his weight and the tile made a smacking sound as he lifted his boot. He glanced at a dry fountain in the middle of the lobby that was stained with black mildew.

Yes, well—I understand it’s not the Four Seasons, but…

The four what? She laughed and shook her head. Mister, we got three seasons here in this part of Atlanta—sex, drugs, and money. Now if you ain’t got no dead body then I don’t care what your damn problem is. She turned back around to the mail sorter and began shoving another package into a cubby hole. The Four Seasons, she mumbled to herself.

The old man turned and left the lobby then stood for a moment under the dull glow of a streetlamp, staring across the road at the gas station. He put a cigarette in his mouth and turned a silver lighter over in his hand, then put it back in his pocket and slid the cigarette back into the pack unlit.

When he returned to the room, he found the cloaked thing squatting by the dresser with one of the drawers open. The old man emptied a plastic bag full of tree-shaped air fresheners onto the bed and called to him.

How’ve you been getting along, friend? I’m afraid the woman downstairs wasn’t much help, so I picked these up at the gas station to hang around the room. Only for a night, after all.

The thing was making a cooing sound