A haunted hotel in a ghost town, what could be more...cliché?
How about a hotel that doesn't have a ghost, but wants to score one?
After all, ghosts put hotels ON THE MAP, especially when this hotel was once a hospital for miners.
And we all know...
Strong hands landed on George's shoulders. "Is there a problem?
"Doctor, I'm so glad you're here. Mr. Marsh is a bit upset. He won't go back upstairs."
Stubby fingers dug into George's temple, making him wince.
"I keep trying to tell her, but she won't listen. My name's March. You've got the wrong guy—I'm someone else, not." He pushed the doctor away, or whoever it was standing there in a starched white coat. He looked like the bartender from the night before. "Not who she thinks."
"I wouldn't want to be you either, knowing what you've done." The doctor grabbed George by the arm, hauled him toward the elevator. "But we're not the law here, we're a hospital, and we believe in treating people like people, even when they've acted like animals."
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He gave George a hard shake. "You've caused enough trouble. If you don't stop, we're going to have to restrain you. Go back to your room, now. You need to listen to the nurse."
He shoved George forward, and the nurse caught him by the shoulders. "Thank you, doctor."
"No! No! NO!" George yelled. The lobby was blurring, a riot of colors dancing in the dusty sunlight that streamed through glass windows. "This is a hotel! A hotel! It's not a hospital!"
It's also not a jail. George Marsh ran for the doors, chasing freedom.
This time the doctor-bartender tackled him, slamming his fist into George's stomach. George staggered, went down. Retching, he gave up the coffee and doughnut, the bile stink making his eyes sting.
The nurse brought him a glass of water, something creamy floating on the surface. Gripping his chin, she forced him to drink. One sip, another. She waited, a patient smile belying the tension in her eyes, the set of her shoulders.
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George started babbling. "March! My name is George March! And if you say I have to stay here until the sheriff comes to arrest me for killing that damn miner, and that I started that riot, why then, I'll...I—"
George paused, confused by his own admission. "I didn't. Couldn't have known that. I didn't DO that!" Weakly, "I am not Marsh!"
Again that image of the broken family tree, this time a dim memory of a great-great uncle five times removed; it wasn't George March, it wasn't this George; never mind the similar name or resemblance.
"What are you trying to do to me?" Plaintive, begging.
"Calm down Mr. Marsh, just calm down."
"I didn't kill anyone!"
The nurse nodded, pressed the glass to his lips for another sip. "Drink this. It will make you feel better."
He dashed the glass to the floor, shattering it. He pushed himself upright, grinding broken bits into the linoleum, ignoring the stinging pain in his bare feet, his busted toe.
"I am NOT Marsh!" he howled. Then he ran, leaving a bloody trail as he raced up the first landing, then the second. On the third, he paused, heard the elevator gear up from below.
George whined, a low growl, animal-like.
He was trapped. And not just in 1920-something. He was trapped in someone else's skin, a murderer. He was going to be hanged. He looked around wildly. Where could he go? There was no fire escape, no way out except down the stairs he had just come up, and surely he'd run into the doctor, or the sheriff if he tried to flee the front doors now.
"There you are!" The doctor was back, hustling towards him, white coat billowing like sails on the wind. George stared. It was the bartender, he was sure of it. Holy god, what was wrong with this place?
"Get away from me or you'll be sorry." He was seeing red and orange and flares of yellow, flushes of rippling heat over rings of black.
A gentle chime signaled the elevator. The doors eased open, the nurse stepped out. Together, she and the doctor slowly advanced on George. He backed up, one step at a time, his bleeding heel leaving a wet track.
He felt the door at his back. Room 32.
"Step inside the room, Mr. Marsh," the doctor commanded.
As if on cue, the nurse said, "Push on the latch. Hospital doors are never locked."
He didn't have a weapon, no gun or knife. He couldn't outrun them, he'd never make it down the stairs. Defeated, exhausted, George did as he was told. Stumbling to the bed, he sat. He figured he'd wait for the police, tell them how justice had already been served. This George did not deserve to die. They would listen, they had to.
His chant, "I am not Marsh. I am not Marsh. I am not Marsh..." was interrupted when the nurse laid a cloth on the back of his neck. It wasn't soaked with water, or steeped in cooling alcohol. It was something else, he was certain, sharp and bright with a bitter undertone. Then she leaned close, brought full lips to his ear. Whispered.
Time skipped and swerved and this time George March rode that slippery slope.
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