Epilogue, Bumpersville the Ghost town
Billie's face hovered over the glassed counter of the Hotel's office staring at the stranger standing before her.
"Rooms full." Billie said as her hawklike nose and upturned eyes meanaced the stranger intruding upon her solitude. Billie wiggled in her special stool as if to hop off of it to leave. Her back was arched in a way so as to force her to walk stooped over and to always have to roll her eyes into her skull to make eye contact with anyone of normal height and stature. When she sat, her chest was almost perpendicular to the counter and she had to steady herself with her hands occasionally as the effort to look up at anyone was tiring, especially when no one ever dropped by for a room.
"But there aren't any cars in the parking lot and you've got keyes up on that hanger there for all your rooms," the stranger, an elderly and kind looking man, said.
"No rooms," Billie retorted and slid off her perch.
"I'm not sure what game you are playing, but I need a place to sack out and as I see you definatly have rooms, I'm going to pay for a room and get some rest," the stranger persisted.
Billie paused, the act usually worked to keep people moving own down the road, past the ghost houses on the hill and further down the old State15 route to Charleston. The road was seldom traveled now and the overnight border was even more infrequent, but this morning the act wasn't working.
Billie reluctantly climbed back up on the stool and swiveled it around to face the room key hangers that hung on the wall behind her and allowing her fingers to flow arcoss each dangling key until she got to room number twelve. For some resean that even Billie would be reticent to explain or concisouly know that room had always been her favorite room. She often hid there from Tate and the others when she wanted to be alone. It seemed to be the room to offer nonetheless and she grabbed it off the peg. Swivling back around to face the man on the buisness end of the counter she slid the key across the dusty glass surface and snatched the money he had laid down and quickly slid off the stool and dissapeared around the corner of the office wall that lead into the private apartment.
The outer apartment living room was small and cramped with furniture, most of which served no purpose other than it had always been there. No one ever sat upon the couch or the easy chair and maybe hadn't for years as far as Billie could remember. Something about the visitor caused Billie to pause. Others had stayed in the hotel in the years she had sat the counter and she'd never given them a second thought. On the walls at waist height hung pictures of people she'd never met but they had somehow been important enough to grab from the looted homes near the hill. She still snuck out late at night to hobble down the road to look through the homes or to go even further.
Some of the photographs had always been there, like the ones of her parents or at least the ones she had been told were her parents. The others she'd just liked for some reason and took them. Perhaps it was the smiling faces in each one that were inviting and in a few the people that were her parents were in them as well. There were also several with her father at the ruined chemical plant down in the valley. A large group photo Billie found in one of the houses showed a whole crowd of people in front of the Petro-Chem sign at the plant, all smiles and proud. None of the people that she saw, that were still around this place, ever smiled. The pictures where crowded upon the wall in haphazard style and they lined her eye view and they seemed to calm the room despite it always feeling cold in the parlor.
Her daily food brought by the Widow Hostetter and the constant prying of Sheriff Tate were her only visitations by those in the valley. But no one talked of what had happend to the village and why it was so desolate now, and it had been this way for as long as she had been alive and could remember. Everything on the hill had decayed and been allowed to decay for almost three decades by what she could figure. From the burned out car along side the road down to the ruins of the plant, something had been purposefully left as it was and she felt some connection with it all but had no memory of it. Just as she had no memory of her parents faces aside from the photographs she had.
It would be awhile before the widow brought her dinner and she decided she would invite the sole hotel guest to eat as there was always plenty of food left over. It might also be the right time to see about escaping from this place, from Sheriff Tate and the odd sense of forboding that she always got when he looked at her. The gentleman staying in room twelve just might offer that prospect.
Billie took another quick look around her parlor, at the smiles of the faces and the families from a bygone era and then hobbled through the kitchen and into her bedroom to escape into dream and sleep. Perhaps, just perhaps these might be the final days of her captivity. Perhaps.
the end
"Rooms full." Billie said as her hawklike nose and upturned eyes meanaced the stranger intruding upon her solitude. Billie wiggled in her special stool as if to hop off of it to leave. Her back was arched in a way so as to force her to walk stooped over and to always have to roll her eyes into her skull to make eye contact with anyone of normal height and stature. When she sat, her chest was almost perpendicular to the counter and she had to steady herself with her hands occasionally as the effort to look up at anyone was tiring, especially when no one ever dropped by for a room.
"But there aren't any cars in the parking lot and you've got keyes up on that hanger there for all your rooms," the stranger, an elderly and kind looking man, said.
"No rooms," Billie retorted and slid off her perch.
"I'm not sure what game you are playing, but I need a place to sack out and as I see you definatly have rooms, I'm going to pay for a room and get some rest," the stranger persisted.
Billie paused, the act usually worked to keep people moving own down the road, past the ghost houses on the hill and further down the old State15 route to Charleston. The road was seldom traveled now and the overnight border was even more infrequent, but this morning the act wasn't working.
Billie reluctantly climbed back up on the stool and swiveled it around to face the room key hangers that hung on the wall behind her and allowing her fingers to flow arcoss each dangling key until she got to room number twelve. For some resean that even Billie would be reticent to explain or concisouly know that room had always been her favorite room. She often hid there from Tate and the others when she wanted to be alone. It seemed to be the room to offer nonetheless and she grabbed it off the peg. Swivling back around to face the man on the buisness end of the counter she slid the key across the dusty glass surface and snatched the money he had laid down and quickly slid off the stool and dissapeared around the corner of the office wall that lead into the private apartment.
The outer apartment living room was small and cramped with furniture, most of which served no purpose other than it had always been there. No one ever sat upon the couch or the easy chair and maybe hadn't for years as far as Billie could remember. Something about the visitor caused Billie to pause. Others had stayed in the hotel in the years she had sat the counter and she'd never given them a second thought. On the walls at waist height hung pictures of people she'd never met but they had somehow been important enough to grab from the looted homes near the hill. She still snuck out late at night to hobble down the road to look through the homes or to go even further.
Some of the photographs had always been there, like the ones of her parents or at least the ones she had been told were her parents. The others she'd just liked for some reason and took them. Perhaps it was the smiling faces in each one that were inviting and in a few the people that were her parents were in them as well. There were also several with her father at the ruined chemical plant down in the valley. A large group photo Billie found in one of the houses showed a whole crowd of people in front of the Petro-Chem sign at the plant, all smiles and proud. None of the people that she saw, that were still around this place, ever smiled. The pictures where crowded upon the wall in haphazard style and they lined her eye view and they seemed to calm the room despite it always feeling cold in the parlor.
Her daily food brought by the Widow Hostetter and the constant prying of Sheriff Tate were her only visitations by those in the valley. But no one talked of what had happend to the village and why it was so desolate now, and it had been this way for as long as she had been alive and could remember. Everything on the hill had decayed and been allowed to decay for almost three decades by what she could figure. From the burned out car along side the road down to the ruins of the plant, something had been purposefully left as it was and she felt some connection with it all but had no memory of it. Just as she had no memory of her parents faces aside from the photographs she had.
It would be awhile before the widow brought her dinner and she decided she would invite the sole hotel guest to eat as there was always plenty of food left over. It might also be the right time to see about escaping from this place, from Sheriff Tate and the odd sense of forboding that she always got when he looked at her. The gentleman staying in room twelve just might offer that prospect.
Billie took another quick look around her parlor, at the smiles of the faces and the families from a bygone era and then hobbled through the kitchen and into her bedroom to escape into dream and sleep. Perhaps, just perhaps these might be the final days of her captivity. Perhaps.
the end
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