Ghastly Comfort XX

Dearest Mother,

When you run a hotel like mine–one upon a cliff, overlooking a forever tumultuous sea, framed always by gray skies, bequeathed by unsigned letter, et cetera–you are lucky enough to serve a self-selecting clientele. Given our location and distance from most major thoroughfares, we do not get guests who simply happen upon us during a long journey by car, hoping to get a good night’s sleep before returning to the road the next morning. No, the hotel itself is, for those who come here, the final destination. (Though it certainly sounds ominous when I say it like that! Ha!)

Their reasons for visiting vary widely. Maybe they hope to walk the grounds with a lover. Maybe they want some quiet time to themselves. Maybe they want to meet up with an estranged friend or two. And then there are the many artists who stay here, if you can believe it. Why, it is not uncommon to see one of them setting up an easel at the cliff’s edge to paint the view.

And this impression, of the hotel as a pseudo-artist’s colony persists even after an artist departs, as many of them generously donate their work to the hotel. “I could not possibly have this hanging in my home,” they might say, showing faux humility at the beautiful work they created. Or, as the most recent put it: “I cannot stand to look at it anymore.” Although, I admit, I am doing just a bit of interpretation with this. The painter was very tired and actually said of his canvas: “I cannot stand to have it looking at me anymore.”

(For further evidence of his exhaustion, he went on what could only be described as a sleep-deprived rant about “eyes in the clouds” and how “once you see them, you cannot unsee them, and moreover, they cannot unsee you,” and whatnot. Artists, you know! They certainly have a way of seeing the world!)

All of this is to say, given we exclusively host those who actively seek out lodging within our walls, you would think guests would have the decency to read and follow the rules. But alas, this has proven to be naiveté on my part.

Recently, we have had an epidemic of defiance against our policy that bans smoking on the premises. Just last week, we entered a vacated room only to find the odor of stale cigarettes in the air. In another, the smell of smoke came not from tobacco but from burnt paper; sure enough, Hugo found one ashen scrap under the bed of what appeared to have been a letter. Concerning what, I have no idea. I could only read the final line: “Forgive me. Please. I do not act by my own volition anymore.” Yet another room we found filled with a strange, brown-tinted haze, that, when breathed made me cough and called to mind the smell of fallen pine needles settled on wet dirt. (It really left an impression on me, I must say. The past few nights I swear I have smelled it just before nodding off to sleep and dreaming about climbing tall trees to the very top so that I may converse with a strange-faced moon about its “master plan.” So vivid!)

At any rate, I should say, in each of these cases, we have managed to refresh the room with ease thanks to our Hunter True HEPA Digital Tower Air Purifier. With three fan speeds and a coconut carbon in the pre-filter to neutralize harmful volatile organic compounds, it can clear the air in any room up to 196 square post-haste!

Just tell me when you and father plan to visit and I will be sure to set one up in your suite so you can breathe easy the whole trip. You will come soon, mother? I know that the pony show circuit is just around the corner for father, but surely you could squeeze a long weekend in before then? Do let me know!

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock