We should have known it would have been a disaster. Getting lost on our way to the Poconos should have been the first indication.
The second should have been the Pocono Manor itself. Tucked away among the Pocono Mountains, within a patch of blue spruce, red oaks and maples, the ski resort rose above Marsh and me like a towering inferno against the ashen night sky.
"This looks more like Hotel California," he said, referring to the Eagles’ song by the same name.
"Or the Tower of Terror," I quickly offered, wondering which of the two our ski excursion would become. I had to admit, "This place gives me the creeps. Maybe we should go to another ski lodge?"
"And do what? Waste more time driving? I don’t think so, bro!" Marsh was right. Poor directions given to us prior to the trip actually had us going away from the resort. Signs for New Jersey alerted us, and, twenty minutes later, we were back on track toward our final destination. Even so, it took us nearly five hours driving here, when it should have taken us only two.
Neither one of us were real happy about that. All we did the last hour was bitch.
"All this time, wasted," Marsh said. "We could have been on the slopes by now."
When the manor came into view, we both whistling and hollering, until we pulled up the drive and saw the hotel up close and personal. It did remind me of Tower of Tower. I shivered at the thought of staying here but Marsh reminded me we already had reservations. Going to another hotel - if any did have room — would only mean losing our deposit and time wasted from the slopes.
"Besides, the place may not be as bad as it look," he suggested, knowing I’d catch the "don’t judge a book by its cover" analogy. "C’mon," he added as he approached the front door. "Let’s go and check in."
The size of the lobby appeared large and sterile by the white padded, mirrored walls. The ceilings rose twenty feet above us. A crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the room, casting dazzling beads of light across a bearskin rug. Its head, with its mouth forced open from the hunt, bore teeth that snarled up at us as we walked past it.
"Are you sure about this," I asked. Marsh just smiled back as he approached the front desk and rung the bell to announce our arrival.
We both jumped back a step when the concierge stood up from below the counter. With a deep, raspy voice, he apologized. "So sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you on this fine evening. May I help you?"
"We have reservations," Marsh spoke up after a long, drawn out pause. "The name’s Bruckler."
The man ran a long, bony finger along the edge of the reservation book. "Oh, yes. Here we are. Marshall and Ronin Bruckler."
"You’ll have adjoining rooms; 231 and 233 are located on the second floor," he added, handing us the keys to our suites. "I hope you’ll enjoy your time with us, here at Pocono Manor."
"I’m sure we will," Marsh said, asking, "But before we go, could you tell us what are some of the amenities you have here, besides the slopes."
"We do have a pool, located on the lower landing," he replied. "Can’t say there’s much of anything else this time of year, unless you count the other guests, of course."
"Yes, of course," I repeated, smiling a worried grin.
"Dinner will be served from five to eight p.m. this evening, if you care to join us tonight or any other night for that matter. Dinner will be served during the same hours over the weekend," the concierge continued. "There isn’t a dress code, but we do recommend you dress as you would at any upscale restaurant.
"Additionally, at night, when you retire for the evening, we suggest you lock your doors and windows," he added, and, before slithering back below the counter, said, "Things have been known to happen at night."
I swallowed hard, feeling a pang of anxiety swell in my breast. I had a desire to flee, but was kept grounded by my brother’s tight grasp on my arm and the desperate plea in his eyes.
We came here for some rest and relaxation. We both had graduated several weeks earlier and had begun jobs that were tedious, non-challenging and uneventful. This ski trip was an early Christmas gift from our folks to celebrate our transformation from being mere children to professional, responsible adults.
Friends of our parents had recommended the place. No brochure or word of mouth would have prepared us for what we were about to experience.
The Pocono Manor had been once a premiere luxury resort. With over 300 guestrooms, the hotel had a Tudor design that had seen better days. Few guests, from what we saw, were actually staying the weekend like we were. The hallways were uncannily quiet for a holiday weekend. We could hear our own footsteps beating upon the wooden floorboards. And there was a stale, dingy smell that reminded me of old Cuban cigars.
"Maybe we should bunk together," I said aloud as we ascended up the stairs to the second landing. Our rooms were on the far end of a narrow and not-well-lit corridor. The walls were covered in a brown, mahogany wood. Few and far between lamps were bolted to the walls, lighting the way to our rooms.
"Don’t be silly. That desk clerk was just trying to scare us. What could ever happen in an old place like this?"
I looked at him disapprovingly. "Have you ever watched the Addams Family or even Psycho? What about Hotel California? Doesn’t it say something like ‘you could always check in, but you could never leave’?"
"You’re letting your imagination get the best of you," Marsh chided. "Besides, like I said, Sport, what could happen in an old place like this?"
"Plenty!"
Marsh shook his head as he fiddled with the keys. "Here," he said handing over mine. "Let’s just settle in for the evening. Catch some TV; shower. In an hour or so we’ll go down and grab a bite to eat and then, we can check out that pool."
I agreed, reluctantly.
In the room, I gazed around. It was elegantly furnished with rich, velvety curtains and matching bedspreads. The floor mirrored the hallways with hardwood floors and an area rug that had specks of red to match with the curtains and spread. "This is fit for a king," I said to myself, and sprung onto the bed for what I hoped would become a quick nap before dinner. I knew Marsh would be preoccupied, ‘til then, with channel surfing.
I awoke hours later to tapping outside the window. From what I could hear, the wind had kicked up its heels, whirling a fresh batch of Christmas snow across the Pennsylvania countryside. I could imagine Marsh getting excited in the adjoining suite, knowing we would have fresh powder to ski on the following morning.
I wished I could have shared his enthusiasm but something about this place kept nagging me. Something just didn’t seem right. And as if on cue, the windowpane shot up, allowing snow to flow into my room and a howling wind that sent a frigid chill up my spine.
"Is everything all right in there?" a shout came from the adjoining room. "Ronin? Come on. Answer me! Is everything all right in there?"
"Yes," I called back and went to the window to shut it before opening the door that connected our rooms.
"What on earth happened in here? It looks like a blizzard!"
"It might as well have," I replied. "The window shot open and allowed the snow to come in. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know we’ll have some new snow to ski on tomorrow. Look!"
The comment, as expected, brought a smile to Marsh’s lips, but it didn’t last as long as I had expected. "What’s the matter," I asked.
"I’ve been tapping on the door for the past hour. What kept you," he said.
"I...I didn’t hear you; I must have sleeping harder than I thought. But, now that I think of it, I did hear tapping as I came to. I thought it was on the window...tree branches..."
"There aren’t any trees on that side of the hotel," Marsh said, going to the window and peering out. "At least, not for 30 feet or more. " Turning back toward me, Marsh narrowed his eyes, demanding to know, "what kind of game are you trying to pull, Ronin? Are you doing this just to scare me? So, we could go to another lodge?"
"I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing..."
"Let’s see...from what I recall, you didn’t want to come. You certainly didn’t like the looks of this place when we arrived..."
"And the concierge did say unexpected things were known to happen," I concluded.
Marsh just shook his head in defeat. "I don’t know about you, Ronin. Sometimes, I wonder if we’re even related. Only you would come up with some wild story like this, or even suggest this place is haunted just because the way this place looks, and what the front desk clerk said."
"How else would you explain it," I asked, reminding him about hearing him knock. "Yet, I heard tapping on the window. Are you going to say that it was a figment of my imagination?"
"Never mind," he demanded. "I’d rather settle on getting something to eat. Game, bro?"
Of course, I was. My stomach ached for something fulfilling. Sitting here the entire night and not eating would not suffice my cravings.
It was nearly 7:30 that evening. The dining room was empty except for the dozen or so tables. Only a handful actually had people sitting around them, eating. But what caught my attention more than the lack of eaters were the white jackets they each wore.
"Does it seem odd that we’re the only ones not wearing white?" I asked.
Marsh disregarded my inquiry and, instead, said, "We’d better take a seat and order. The kitchen closes in a half hour."
"Did you hear what I just said?"
He looked at me, his eyes glazed over and a blank look on his face. "What?!"
"Everyone else is wearing white!"
"So?"
"Don’t you think that’s rather odd?"
"Why should I?" He asked. "This might be the employees’ dinner hour.
"I...I’m not so sure about that...Their clothes doesn’t say chef to me."
"You’re nuts, man."
"You think I’m making this all up?"
"You could," he responded, more quickly than I anticipated. "You didn’t want to stay here when we first arrived. Then the whole thing upstairs," he said, reminding me of our conversation. "You’re probably going to tell me next that those people are actually healthcare employees..."
"Well..."
“C’mon," Marsh continued. "Let’s order before the kitchen closes.
"You’ll feel better," he insisted.
Marsh ordered the chicken platter. I, on the other hand, ordered the Snapper Soup with a side order of pasta.
We engaged in small talk until our meals arrived moments later. Marsh remarked how quickly we were served.
"They may have had some dishes already prepared beforehand," I suggested, but regretted saying it the moment Marsh removed the lid from his chicken. The bird, with its feathers still intact, stood up and squawked at us before flying a short distance away and strutting into the next room.
I couldn’t refrain from laughing at the horrified look on my brother’s face. He returned the favor when my soup had more of a bit to it than I had bargained for.
Looking down at the large bowl in front of me, a small snapper paddled around in circles, smiling back at me and waiving.
"No wonder our meals arrived so quickly," I said. "They weren’t even cooked!"
I’m sure there’s a logical reason for this."
"Like what?" I demanded. "They serve everything ‘fresh’?"
Marsh chuckled as I continued. "I don’t think this is very funny. I was really looking forward to that bowel of soup.
"What do we do now?" I sighed. "Ask for something else?"
And risk winding up with another live chicken and snapper," Marsh asked. "Naw. I don’t think so! I’ve lost my appetite, anyway. It flew the coup along with that chicken." Marsh rose, throwing the napkin onto the table. "I don’t know about you, Champ, but I wouldn’t mind taking a look around this place. Game?"
I nodded, and we soon found ourselves in the basement, entering the pool area. Marsh suggested we take a dip.
"We don’t have our trunks."
"That never stopped us before, has it? And besides, Ronin, who’s going to know if we jumped in with just our skivvies on. If you haven’t noticed, bro, no one’s around."
He was the first to undress and leap toward the pool. From his pose, I knew he planned to belly flop into the pool. He had the perfect form, but, upon impact, he slid across the ice-covered pool and sunk to the bottom of it when the ice shattered below his six-foot frame.
He reminded me of a beached whale when I finally fished him from the icy depths and pumped the water from his frigid lungs. The water blew from his mouth, bubbling as it ran down his cheek.
Marsh coughed and, looking up at me through blood-shot eyes, asked, "Have I died and gone to heaven?"
I had to laugh. Thoughts of telling him he had actually gone to hell floated around my head, but, instead, I told him we were still at the manor. "You fell through the ice, and I had to fish you out like a flounder!"
"Who on earth would think of putting ice over a swimming pool?" He demanded as he sat up and tried to collect himself. He looked toward the pool and grimaced. "Who would ever think this as being possible."
I just shrugged. "I suppose they wanted an alternative use for it, being winter and all."
He nodded in acknowledgement. "Indoor skating rink."
Marsh shook his head again, exclaiming his dismay. "What kind of hotel wouldn’t post something regarding the pool becoming an ice rink?"
"I can’t answer that, but to assume that, one, the other guests already knew before coming here. Or, management never imagined anyone being interested in swimming this time of year," I said. "Nonetheless, let’s go. Let’s go back to the rooms and change. You need to get into some warm clothes."
The remainder of the evening was uneventful, much to my relief. I sat with Marsh in his room for awhile and we spoke about the events that occurred up to now.
"It has been a very eventful weekend," he admitted. "And I’m sorry I doubted you earlier about this place. Maybe you were right."
"Hey, don’t even worry about it," I replied. "It’s not important as long as you’re all right. And besides, we still have tomorrow to look forward to."
"That’s right." His voice rose with anticipation. "What’s it doing outside? Is it still snowing?"
"Afraid so."
"Excellent!"
Morning couldn’t have come soon enough for Marsh. Even though I knew it was out of sheer excitement, I wondered if his tossing and turning in bed was actually memories of being fished out of the pool earlier that evening. Images of him on the tiled floor, flipping and flopping like a fish haunted my every waking moment. Sleep didn’t come soon enough. Even when it had, it wasn’t a peaceful, restful slumber. Waking up the next morning to Marsh’s endless banging, I felt like I never slept.
"All set to go?"
"Just give me a minute."
"You should be wide eyed and bushy tail after that nap you took before dinner last night!"
He was right. I should have been more awake, but I wasn’t. And I didn’t have the heart to tell him he kept me up half the night with his endless tossing and turning. I swore it went on most of the night. The sound of him in bed came through the wall that separated us. I felt I was in the same room, sleeping next to him.
In time, I did perk up. A cup of black coffee and breakfast helped. Soon after, we were off to the slopes, and, much to our surprise, we were the first to arrive.
"This is odd. With it being a holiday weekend, I thought more people would be out here," I said.
It didn’t seem to bother Marsh. "It just means we have the slopes all to ourselves," he said. "And no waiting for the chair lifts!"
It wasn’t until we reached the summit and began skiing that we got our first glimpse why we were the only skiers. Half way down the slope, Marsh’s boots began to crumple. Piece by piece, the boot fell apart as if eaten by a school of snow-colored piranha.
"What the he..." He exclaimed as he watched his feet emerge from the boots, still covered by socks.
He was actually walking down the mountainside by the time we reached the bottom. "Did you see that? My boots! They’re gone!"
"What did you expect? Henry had them since we were kids; they were bound to fall apart," I said, thinking that our roles were now reversed. He had become the worrywart and I had become the upbeat, not-a-care-in-the world brother. "Yet, I can see your dilemma! Who would ever imagine boots falling apart like this?"
"Very funny, smart ass," he chastised as he stared down at his bootless feet. "No one’s ever going to believe this. I don’t, and I’m looking at my own boot-less feet!"
"C’mon," I continued. "Let’s get some rented ones and go back up. The day’s still young, and we have plenty of skiing to do yet!"
"Oh! This is so much better," Marsh remarked, slipping his feet into a dry pair of socks and ski boots. But even with the new socks and rented shoes, it didn’t stop Marsh from venting about our brother’s boots. "He’s going to hear about this when we get back!"
"After the weekend we just had, he’ll find it hilarious," I admitted. "To say the least."
Little did we know what we would soon encounter during our sophomore run. Midway down the slope, a wave of snow began to fester, bubbling up from the snow-covered earth. Soon, it rose above us, and much to our horror, raced uphill like an avalanche.
"Oh, my God!" Marsh exclaimed. "What the hell is that?"
But before either one of us could react, we collided with the mass. Instead of falling backwards, with the blunt of the snow, we continued skiing through it, much to my surprise. I felt the coldness of the wet snow caressing my cheek but it was the sound of cutting that drew my attention downward to our feet. It was then, and only then, that I saw tiny, creatures the color of snow. They were no larger than sardines, and reminded me me as such. Their bodies were lined with small, shiny scales that shimmered in the snow. But their mouths were lines with razor sharp teeth that sliced through both sets skis and our boots. Only thing that was left were our clothing, socks and feet! Droplets of blood permeated through, speckling the socks and surrounding snow.
Marsh took one look at me and threw up his poles and, within minutes, we departed as fast as we could from Pocono Manor. We never went back to our rooms, leaving behind our bags and other belongings. Marsh refused to return, saying, "they’ll just have to mail it back to us. Let’s just get out of here!"
As we drove through the front gate, I looked through the rear window, watching the manor as it disappeared behind a row of iron gates. A worker was by the front gate, nailing a sign that read: Pocono Manor closed for renovations. Skiing prohibited. Coming soon, Poco Loco Chalet, Weekend Resort for the Mentally Ill.
Part Three in the Mu Series - Sarah Thompson reluctantly abandons her desperate search for her soul mate on Maui and returns to her Montana hometown. Her brother has had a terrible accident...
'Coruscated Confabulations' is a collection of stories and experiences, most of which took place in prior decades. They are taken from or based upon real events, with a certain admixture of fictional embellishments.
