Misty Mountain

Chapter 1: Syd’s Final AssignmentThe time had finally come. His last day at The Revealed. Syd stood over the washroom’s sink, trying to ignore the sick feeling churning in his gut. He turned the faucet on. Took a good breath. Everything was going to be stellar. Everything was going to be A-okay. In the coming weeks, he’d be heading down to golden California. That was the plan, right? Sure. He’d move into that hippy-revival trailer park he’d spotted last year. The one between Monterey and Santa Cruz that faced the highway. There, he’d finally write his novel. Why not. He’d be that guy in the printed shirts and eternal sunglasses. The stranger with the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on his door twenty-four hours a day. Syd turned the water off and looked up at his face in the mirror. Who the hell was he kidding here? Leaving The Revealed magazine meant cutting loose the one thing that had given his life some kind of a structure. The job had forced him to keep a schedule, as unconventional as it had been. He’d had an agenda. Expectations to fulfill. What probably awaited him out there in sunny Cali was a nervous breakdown. Another one… Feeling groggy from the restless night he’d spent awake, mulling over useless life scenarios, Syd stared at his reflection. Funny that he should have one. He looked paler than a damn vampire these days. “Hey, my man, how’s it going?” Nosily, Dean stepped out of a stall. Dean was a photographer for the Montreal Chronicle. Obnoxious, but somewhat talented. He joined Syd at the sink and began washing his big, hairy hands, whistling over the sound of the water. His stare met Syd’s gaze in the mirror. “Heard you were leaving The Revealed? Is that true? What are your plans?” Syd ripped a thread of paper out of the dispenser and dried his hands. “I don’t know yet. Stan says he has one last assignment for me. Then, honestly, I don’t know…” “Well, with all the s**t you’ve seen out there working for that paper, you should write a book, man. Be the next Stephen King or something.” This guy. “Yeah,” Syd said, stepping out. “I might.” “Good luck out there,” he heard Dean say behind him, before the door slowly shut. Now Dean he wouldn’t miss. In the hallway, Syd walked with his head down, avoiding friendly looks as he passed people. The Warehouse, an old shoe factory turned trendy commercial building, was always crowded on Monday mornings. He could feel the deadlines looming in the air. Would he think back on this place and regret leaving it? Maybe. Maybe not. “I thought you’d left already!” Anouk caught up with him at the ancient elevators. She was an editor for a serious First Nations’ activist paper. She actually had a reason to be proud of her work. “Glad I get to say goodbye. No going away party? Nothing?” He’d made Stan, his boss, swear not to organize anything or he’d sue him for abuse. A bright smile illuminated Anouk’s oval face. Her eyes were very dark and clever. Why hadn’t he made friends with anyone in this building in the last five years? Because he did better with strangers. “How does it feel leaving The Revealed?” That question again. The elevator jolted to a stop and its doors slowly began to slide open. “It was always supposed to be a temporary gig. It just lasted longer than I’d planned.” “Because you were so good at it. People loved your stories.” Anouk touched the amulet she wore around her neck. Some kind of a stone meant to protect her maybe. “They scared me to death, but I couldn’t help reading every word you ever wrote.” “Wow, thanks,” he said, stepping back into the empty elevator box. “That means a lot to me.” “Were any of them true?” He was glad the doors closed before he could answer her question. No, none of the stories he’d covered were ever true. He’d made a living out of collecting lies. Embellishing lies. Listening to liars tell lies about other liars. People were pretty sick. That was the horror in the world, not the paranormal crap he wrote about. The lengths to which human beings would go to make some quick cash had once astounded him. Now, it only disgusted him. He was getting out of this sordid business and none too soon. He was getting out before he lost what little faith he had left in humanity. Besides, The Revealed was outdated, disconnected from the new reality. It was 2007. People didn’t read newspapers anymore, no matter how trashy. They had the internet for that. It was shocking that the old man had lasted this long. Syd had to give it to him: Stanley Kutz was a persevering chief-editor. But it was time to walk away from this before they all became a joke. “Knock, knock.” Syd stood in Stanley’s doorway, leaning on the doorjamb. “You want a coffee or something?” Stanley was typing away on his computer, frowning severely at the screen. He was in his late sixties, balding, overweight, but handsome in a charming, old-school way. His mentor and father figure. “Sit down, kid. I’m a coffee away from heart failure.” Syd settled into the familiar beat-up office chair with the cracked leather seat and glanced around at the walls plastered with The Revealed’s best front pages. The ones Stanley was the most proud of. All Syd’s, of course. Three-year old child speaks a forgotten Mayan dialect and reveals secret alien site! He remembered that one. The kid’s mother had taught her kid this strange mix of Russian and Spanish. Poor little boy, staring at the camera like a deer caught in headlights. Syd had given him a piece of his banana and they’d played with the kid’s Tonka truck while Mom and Dad had argued over The Revealed’s generous payment. Woman gives birth to her own twin! Tumor. With teeth. He couldn’t really explain that one, actually. Teenage girl possessed by spirit of Death Row Roy. He’d gone south of the border for this story. Texas. Pregnant girl. She hadn’t told her parents. Her father was a prison guard. Death Row Roy had been one of the inmates her father had put to death in his line of work. The girl was so distraught and scared. Faking demon possession was better than facing her stark and terrifying reality. He’d helped her. Driven her to the clinic at night. No one knew what he’d done for her. All these stories. These tragic people. In the last five years, all he’d ever documented were mental illness, poverty, and desperation. “Look, Stan, I, uh, about the motel, that—” “Syd.” Stanley stopped typing and looked straight at him from over the rim of his glasses. “I need you to do this one last thing for me. It’s only three days. It’s a beautiful little place.” “It’s a f*****g dump, Stan. Have you seen the pictures?” “It’s neglected, maybe. But the scenery. I mean, think of it as a little vacation before you start your new whatever on Cannery Row. All right, Steinbeck?” “There’s no story, Stanley. I looked at the file. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for out there. Rumors of Manitou sightings? I thought we weren’t going to cover Native American legends anymore.” “Forget that. It’s not about that. It’s the actual motel itself.” Yes, the Misty Mountain motel. Near Mont Tremblant’s mega tourist attraction. A little strip of a motel built in 1963. Seventeen rooms. Cable TV. Air conditioning. Five kilometers from Devil’s Lake. Cheap, but cozy. Family place. No funny business. Great location if it was too late and you were too tired to drive to whatever else you were going. “There’s been stuff happening at that place for forty years, kid. I spoke with the owner twice last week. He’s getting out of there—” “Yeah, I heard he’s getting out of there because he got a pretty generous offer from developers who want to turn the place into a country club resort.” “See, you already did your research.” Stanley cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. He looked up at him. “But the things he said happened there, I tell you, Syd, they gave me shivers. And you know I don’t get shivers easily.” “No, I didn’t know that. Because I don’t think of you shivering. In fact, it’s on my long list of things I don’t think about.” “Smart ass. Now listen, walls appear and disappear in this place. People complain that they’ve been switched rooms. Or that the help stole their things. This woman, Colette Something, says she and her husband were put in some kind of a trance outside of that motel in 1963. And all of them say they see a figure. Some tall, skinny shadow man.” Syd scoffed. “Jesus. Now that’s original. That is something I’ve never heard. A motel some place in the mountains. A slender man haunting the rooms. Next thing you’ll tell me is that this motel was built on sacred indigenous ground.” “It wasn’t. I asked him.” “Of course you did. Any little girls running around in their flowing white gowns at night? Mirrors bleeding?” “Only the skinny man and the walls changing places.” “Wait. Before you said disappearing. Now you’re saying changing places? Which one is it?” “I guess that’s why you’re the investigative reporter.” Stan leaned back in his chair, watching him. “You know you’re going to miss it, kid. After everything you’ve seen. All the places you’ve been. I wish you’d stay.” “I don’t want to be chasing chimeras for the rest of my life.” “Chimeras.” “Illusions.” “I know what the word means.” Stan looked at the door behind him. “Look, uh, there’s one more thing.” “Jacob’s car died again and we have to take mine?” Jacob, his trusty and annoying cameraman. “No, Jacob’s not going with you. He couldn’t get away. You know, with the new baby and all.” “So I’m going out there alone? Finally some good news.” “Not exactly.” Syd frowned. Didn’t like the look on Stanley’s face. “What?” “Syd, we need to get into this new era. It’s the new millennium.” “It’s been the new millennium for seven years, Stan.” “And we’re going to finally take that step. But we need help. I need help getting into the game. These kids these days. They follow blogs. They watch videos. They want it all online and almost in real time.” “It’s not going to last. This internet thing. People will go back to traditional papers. You just have to wait it out. Stick—” “We had this conversation before. I’m looking to the future. Your last assignment is going to be The Revealed’s first collaboration with Rudi Laurier and we all have a good feeling about it.” “Who the f**k is Rudi Laurier?” He raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a cigarette brand. A cheap French cologne?” “He’s on that YouTube. He has thousands of, what do they call them, subscribers. The kid investigates paranormal stories and uploads his videos on the internet. He has ads and everything. Makes real money, I hear.” “You’re f*****g kidding me, right? Stan, I can’t get into that. That’s not my thing. And you know I don’t work well with others. Jacob and me barely get along and—” “Hey, you owe me this. I really hate to say it, but you owe me this. When I met you, you were a washed-out writer—” “I still am a washed-out writer. And now you’re going to really make sure no one ever takes me seriously again.” “Please, enough with the self-pity. You should hear him. The kid loves your work. He’s read everything you ever wrote. He’s only going to follow you around and film some stuff and put it on his channel.” “This is a babysitting gig.” “He’s not a baby, Syd. He’s in late twenties. He’s your ticket, maybe. Do you know what I mean? He could expose your work to this new generation and maybe, just maybe, that gets you that book deal you were out to get before you crashed and burned.” “No.” “Sydmond.” Syd raised a finger. “Don’t call me that.”