Doc Martin's Fabulous Mountain Hotel: Where Heaven and Hell Come to Party!

By M.B. Smith

Young Chase Brody is a struggling intern at the Empire Express, New York City’s premier newspaper. When he is unexpectedly offered a chance to assist the mysterious and exotic Zaza Allatu, one of the world’s most celebrated and dangerous investigative reporters, he jumps at it. He is then whisked away from the city with literally the clothes on his back and told to wait for her at the Witches Room, a bed and breakfast with a dark past located in the Catskill Mountains. There, he catches the eye of the proprietor, a beautiful young woman named Rain Conroy, who has secrets of her own. The next day, an aide to Zaza appears and invites them to join Zaza at the Fabulous Doc Martin Hotel, long considered to be nothing more than a tall tale. Before long the two arrive at the hotel, and quickly find themselves in the middle of a war between the forces of good and evil!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387828883

Book preview

Prologue

Plans in hand, Doctor Alistair Martin, the world’s first paranormal psychologist, was conferring with his lead builder, John Burberry, in front of the large plot of land that would soon become, Doc Martin’s Fabulous Mountain Hotel; or, more colloquially, the Martin Hotel.

Doing it your way is going to cost a ridiculous amount of money, said Burberry. Are sure you want to do this? Even a guy with your deep pockets must have a limit. It’s still not too late to back out.

Well, they’re my pockets! replied Martin testily. The only one who needs to worry about them is me!

Don’t get sore doc! I’m a professional! I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t advise my clients on the best way to proceed. And I’m going to continue advising you as long as I’m your guy!

Burberry was an honest man, and Martin regretted being so harsh with him. He rolled up the plans and stuck them under one arm, and used the other to pat Burberry on the back. Sorry John! he said, as they walked back to Burberry’s truck. To be honest, this project is making me nervous too! After all, I’ve got nearly every dime I own invested in it.

So please, said John, remind me again why we can’t just level this lot, like we would for any other building?

While it doesn’t exactly describe what I’m trying to do, Martin replied, "the Chinese have a practice called feng shui. Supposedly it taps into natural energy forces to harmonize individuals with their surrounding environment.

In my case, I’m trying to harmonize building design with the Earth’s natural rhythms. If my theories are correct, my design and this piece of the world are going to do just that, in a way that’s never been done before.

To what end, exactly? asked Burberry with a frown.

Martin smiled. In theory, this hotel, designed meticulously to my specs, and erected on this land with as few alterations to the natural geography as possible, will create an environment that will tap into forces we can’t even begin to understand; forces that will create in our guests a sense of comfort, peace of mind, and physical wellbeing today’s medical science can’t even aspire to.

In theory! said Burberry doubtfully, as they reached the truck.

Martin laughed. In theory!

From the beginning the project was plagued with problems, not just because of Doc Martin’s precise and challenging requirements, but because of its remote location deep in the Catskills. In fact, it was so remote there were no roads of any kind, so he had to build them himself at great expense. Furthermore, the costs of transporting building materials and procuring workers willing to undertake the hardships resulting from the project’s isolation also were astronomical. To make matters worse, access to public utilities such as gas and water was impossible. Gas would have to be trucked in, a well had to be drilled, and a large leach field installed, adding even more cost to an already astoundingly expensive project. Keeping the hotel’s larders well-supplied and bars stocked would be yet another challenge.

Still, largely due to Burberry’s competence, skill, and tenacity, the project eventually reached the point where Martin could begin planning a grand opening. It was held on August 20th, 1860, and it was a wild success. Every room was booked despite the extreme cost, and the hotel seemed to be a hit. However, after the initial weekend, attendance dropped off rapidly. It seemed even the promise of unrivaled luxury and charm wasn’t enough to entice customers to endure the effort and inconvenience required to reach it.

To make matters worse, instead of creating a sense of wellbeing among its patrons, the hotel was having the opposite effect: People soon reported seeing strange things; being trapped in rooms because the doorknob was impossible to grasp; and feeling a great sense of unease. And then babies started appearing, apparently issuing from a bizarre orifice discovered in an isolated part of the hotel. These were quietly distributed in nearby communities wherever they could find a home for them.

Doc Martin and his eponymous hotel limped along for two years, until his fortune ran out and he was forced to close it. When he failed to find a partner willing to invest the capital needed for it to compete with more mainstream resorts, he put it on the market. Years went by, and eventually even vandals, looters, and the just plain curious lost interest in it.

Martin was about to walk away from the albatross that had consumed his treasure, his credibility, and a good part of his life, when he was approached by a group of investors who wanted to turn the place into a kind of personal resort for their extended family. Jumping at the opportunity to recover some small portion of his investment, he accepted their offer.

Over the course of time, the Doc Martin Mountain Hotel faded into obscurity, and then into the realm of myths and legends. Some people say that witches live there now, or demons, or other supernatural creatures too terrible to describe. Even those few who still believed it was a real place couldn’t agree on where it had been built. And despite expeditions conducted in later years using advanced technology, it was never located. That is, until recently, when two very different people found themselves dragged into its still-potent orbit…

Chapter I

Second year intern Chase Brody stood in the elevator and watched nervously as the light announcing the current floor slowly climbed up the panel: 13, 14, 15... Without explanation, he'd been summoned to the office of Allen Ricks, the legendary publisher of the equally legendary Empire Express, one of the oldest and most respected papers in the world. Why, he wondered, would Mr. Ricks, whom he’d never met, want to see a lowly intern assigned to one of the EE's least significant departments, the sporadically-published plant section?

His apprehension continued to grow with each ding announcing the passing of another floor. Just when he thought he'd be perfectly happy riding the elevator all the way to the moon, it slowed, then shuddered to a stop on the 25th floor. His journey complete, the doors slid open and he found himself staring across the hall at the entrance to what he’d been told was Mr. Ricks’ office.

He stepped out of the elevator and walked up to the door. He hesitated briefly, then pulled it open and stepped inside. He found himself in an opulent lobby facing a large, brass-trimmed antique desk. Behind the desk sat a middle-aged, well-dressed, and well-groomed, but stern-looking woman.

As he looked around the room, he observed the dark, finely detailed and exotic wood paneling covering the walls, as well as the exquisite crystal chandelier hanging over the desk; the equally impressive wall sconces; the thick, red carpet covering the floor; the expensive, tastefully displayed artwork; and the plush leather furniture. He almost forgot why he was there, when the woman smiled stiffly and asked in a deeply accented voice, Can I help you, young man?

He sheepishly let go of the door he was still holding, which swung shut behind him with a strange sense of finality.

Uh... yes, he stuttered. I mean, I was told Mr. Ricks wanted to see me.

And you are...?

Chase--Chase Brody.

Oh yes, Mr. Brody. I'm afraid Mr. Ricks had to step out, but Mr. Anasinemid will see you in a moment.

I'm sorry, who? he asked, having never heard that name.

The woman gestured to a plush, overstuffed chair against the wall. Please sit down, he'll call for you shortly.

She picked up the phone and said something in a language he didn't recognize. Seconds later a thin, ancient-looking old man with thick, silver hair and swarthy skin the texture of worn-out leather appeared from the office directly behind the desk.

Ah, there you are Mr. Brody! he said, in a strong, sonorous voice accented like the woman’s, that belied his aged appearance. He pointed back into the office. Please, would you join me in here?

Chase complied and followed Anasinemid into the office. He saw that it was every bit as elegant as the lobby, but with a more personal touch. Anasinemid pulled the door shut behind him and pointed to pair of leather chairs with a small glass table between them. As Chase sat down, Anasinemid walked over to a well-stocked bar. Can I get you something? he asked, as he poured himself a drink from a roughhewn, handmade bottle bound with straw.

Ah, sure... I'll have a beer.

"A beer!" replied Anasinemid incredulously. He poured Chase a drink from the same bottle he'd used to fill his own glass, then picked up the glasses and walked over to the empty chair.

He handed one of the glasses to Chase and, as he settled in across from him, said, This is a personal favorite of mine! Anasinemid swirled the dark liquid gently, then closed his eyes, held the glass to his nose and inhaled slowly and deliberately, as though preparing to experience the rarest, most precious libation in the world.

Chase awkwardly tried to imitate him, and nearly gagged when he took his first sip. What is this? he asked, trying not to sound disgusted.

Anasinemid smiled thinly. It's called chicha. I admit it's an acquired taste! It's native to the Andes region of South America. At one time it was consumed as part of a religious ritual.

You mean like... human sacrifice? asked Chase.

Very good! You're familiar with it then?

Not with this, he replied, lifting his glass, but I did take a couple of classes on South American cultures.

Ah, said Anasinemid, as though disappointed. In any case, it's very difficult to make, and these days even harder to find. In fact, this could be the last bottle on earth.

I see, said Chase, wondering when Anasinemid would get around to the point of his summons. While the old man sat quietly, as though contemplating the perfection of his beverage, he said, Uh, Mr...?

Anasinemid; but please, call me Sin.

Yes, Mr... uh... Sin. Do you know why Mr. Ricks wanted to see me?

His reverie broken, Anasinemid placed his glass on the table and focused on Chase. I do indeed! he answered. Are you familiar with Zazadora Allatu?

"You mean Zaza? Of course! She's one of the most famous reporters in the world!"

She's currently on assignment upstate, replied Anasinemid. Unfortunately, one of her assistants took ill. She's in need of a short-term replacement--perhaps until Monday. Would you like the job?

Ma... me? stuttered Chase, not believing his ears.

Of course you, why not you! asked an irritated Anasinemid. Do you want the job or don't you?

Oh, I want it! exclaimed Chase. When do I start?

Today! replied Anasinemid sharply, before standing up, walking over to the table, and pouring himself another drink.

What’s the assignment she's working on? asked Chase.

Without bothering to retake his seat, Anasinemid waved his glass and said, She's investigating the matter of two communities located somewhere in the Catskills. Over the centuries, one community has produced an uncommon and statistically unlikely number of remarkable men and women--Medal of Honor winners, renowned politicians, inventors, innovators, everyday heroes, that kind of thing. The kind of people who literally change the world.

And the other?

Anasinemid grinned sardonically. In colloquial terms, it is the opposite side of the same coin.

I don't understand...

Some might say that by using their extraordinary gifts in such a manner, the first community is denying mankind its right to develop as it was supposed to. The second community is devoted to ensuring that it does.

I'm sorry sir, that makes no sense.

Perhaps not to you, my earnest young man, said Anasinemid with a smirk. But I can assure you, to those two communities it is literally a matter of life and death.

Anasinemid threw down his drink and turned to pour another. When he turned back and saw Chase was still in his chair, he said, Why are you still here? Go see the woman at the desk and get the details from her!

Chase shot to feet. Yes sir! Right away sir! When he reached the door, he paused. Does Bill know about this?

Bill?

Bill Avery, my editor.

Yes, yes! replied Anasinemid with a dismissive wave of his hand. Of course he does!

Thank you, sir!

Anasinemid smiled strangely, held up his glass, but didn't reply.

When Chase stepped back into the lobby, the woman was waiting for him. She handed him an envelope and told him all he needed to know was inside. She added that a car and driver were waiting for him out front and that he could catch up on the details en route. She also insisted that he go directly to the car without returning to his office, since the driver was waiting in a no-parking zone heavily enforced by the police.

As instructed, Chase made his way to the front of the building, where he quickly spotted a squat, troll-like man holding a sign bearing his name. He got in the car, and as they pulled out from the curb, realized he’d left his cell phone in his desk. When he insisted on going back to retrieve it, the driver, an unkempt, malodorous man with bulging eyes, a patchy, uneven beard, and thin, greasy black hair, grunted unintelligibly through black and missing teeth, making no effort to comply. It occurred to Chase he probably didn't speak English.     

Remembering the envelope the woman had given to him, he put aside his irritation and tore it open. There wasn't much in it except for some cash, what appeared to be a key to a hotel room, and a single piece of paper with some text on it. He double-checked the envelope to ensure there was nothing else in it, then reached for his wallet to deposit the cash.

When his hand slid into an empty pocket, he mentally slapped himself. It was sitting next to his cell phone in his desk, which was where he normally kept it when he was working.

Chagrinned, he realized he literally had just the clothes on his back. It was a vulnerable and unnerving feeling, one he'd never experienced before. He also never realized how important those two simple props were to his membership in the human race!

Rather than dwell on his material nakedness, he picked up the paper he'd pulled from the envelope and began to read it. It was a copy of a newspaper article published some 100 years earlier on something called Doc Martin’s Fabulous Mountain Hotel, a perhaps mythical mid-19th century hotel located in the Catskills. According to the article, what little was known of the Martin Hotel, as it was more commonly called, was either anecdotal, from second hand sources, or in the form of various stories and legends passed down over the years.

It seemed the hotel was the dream of an early paranormal psychologist/architect named Alistair Martin. Doc Martin, as he preferred to be called, was convinced that proper architectural designs, when combined with certain natural features, could create a positive psychic resonance, bestowing on its inhabitants exceptional physical and mental attributes. Conversely, he believed that haunted houses, suicides, mass murders and the like were quite possibly the product of designs that inadvertently resulted in a negative resonance.

After decades of research and small-scale experimentation, he designed what would become Doc Martin’s Fabulous Mountain Hotel. Following an extensive search, he settled on an isolated location in the Catskill Mountains, which he believed presented the geographical features necessary for his design to work.

The site of the proposed hotel was difficult to reach and presented many challenges. It took the better part of two years and most of Doc Martin's family fortune to build. Not long after he opened the hotel, he was forced to close it due to a lack of funds and poor patronage. When he failed to secure additional backing, he allegedly sold it to members of two related, but long-forgotten families with a deep history of animosity and even violence toward each other.

The article continued, noting that the feuding families who bought the hotel supposedly intended for it to be neutral ground, where they could discuss their differences peacefully and in comfort.

What eventually became of the hotel was a mystery, as was its actual location, but it was believed to have been built near the edge of a steep escarpment overlooking the Hudson River. According to the exceedingly few people who claimed to have seen it, it was barricaded by formidable natural and manmade barriers that made it impossible to reach. Most significantly, it was surrounded by the detritus of long-dormant and overgrown bluestone quarries, the remains of which were unstable and prone to landslides. The article made no mention of its current condition, or the last time the hotel had been seen.