A “Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons” short story for Halloween 2003

By Tiger Jackson

December 10 1888.

I’ve just finished reading all the pages of this journal, all the things I wrote when I was still innocent and every day seemed to bring momentous, or at least noteworthy, events and impressions to record. I wrote in it daily before I eloped, but irregularly afterwards as my life was too full to spend time writing, and then not at all when my life became so circumspect that there was nothing I cared to record. But now the story is ending and I must explain how it came to be so.

My parents named me Louise after Queen Victoria’s daughter, Princess Louise Caroline Alberta, who married the Duke of Argyll in 1871, the year I was born. They must have had great hopes for me; perhaps they dreamt that I might marry a man of rank and wealth. Yet they did not approve of the man I fell in love with.

I grew up in a respectable, middle-class house in Burslem in the region called The Potteries. Buyers came from all over the world to the Potteries to inspect the factories and the wares they produced, fine chinas and high-quality stoneware. My father, a factory manager, sometimes entertained them, so by the time I was seventeen, I’d met many foreigners.

But none of them had been like my Richard. He was an American, tall, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, with red-brown hair and moustachios, and a full beard carefully trimmed in the height of fashion. He was much older than I, in his early 30’s, not much younger than Father, I suppose. But my Richard was so handsome and charming that any maiden would have swooned. I fell in love with him, and he with me.

How my heart sang when Richard asked me to go to London with him! But, oh, how Father raged at me! When I told him I loved Richard and would stay with him, with or without his and Mother’s blessing, Father called me a stupid, straying, ungrateful girl, and such hurtful names, I don’t try to recall them. Mother crumpled into a chair and wept as if she’d never stop. She asked the Lord God what she had done to deserve such an ungrateful and defiant daughter. They would not listen to me when I tried to tell them how happy I was, and how much I wanted to be Richard’s wife. I told Richard that I would elope with him, and if my parents would not give their consent to our marriage, then I would lie about my age, rather than wait the three years and more until I was twenty-one. I would show my parents how wrong they were to doubt my wisdom in my choice of a husband.

Father must have guessed what I planned to do. He locked me in my room at night and would not allow me to go out in the day unless the maid went with me. She tattled on me to Father every night, telling him where I had gone that day and who had spoken to me. Fortunately for me, the maid was also a silly, biddable creature. She believed me when I said I was meeting a friend at the train station. I wonder how long the little fool sat on that bench in the waiting room for me to return, while I found Richard and boarded the train to London with him?

I could not pack many of my belongings in my reticule, only some jewellery that Grandmamma left me. My Mother kept them in her wardrobe, and had often said she would give them to me when I was twenty-one or on my wedding day. But because I intended to marry Richard, she would not give them to me at all, I was certain. I could not go to my husband undowered, so I had to stoop to theft and steal what was rightfully mine out of Mother’s room. I could not take any clothes except those I was wearing that day. But Richard had ordered clothing for me from my dressmaker and others, and packed it in a new trunk, so I did not leave Burslem without a trousseau.

When we emerged from the rail station at St Pancras, Richard pointed to the Royal Victoria Hotel and announced we would be staying there. It took my breath away. Surely this was a palace and the royal family lived here!

It was made of beautiful red brick with Gothic towers and cathedral windows. The gothic-style Great Hall (so I called it) gleamed with marble — red, green, white, black, and more, shot through with contrasting colours. The columns and friezes were heavily gilded. Where the floors were not covered with Turkey carpets, they showed elaborate patterns in colourful Italian tiles. We walked along the curved path from the entrance hall to the base of the Grand Staircase, which divided into two, then spiralled upward story after story. The walls were covered in deep red paper with golden fleur-de-lis. The ceiling above had been painted a beautiful celestial blue and gilt, complete with stars so that I felt as if I was ascending to heaven. Indeed, with Richard by my side, I imagined that it was so.

Our rooms, number five, were glorious! The sitting room was papered in the most fantastic Jacobean stencils in soft reds and blues on a cream background, touched with gilding to bring out the details. From the huge bow window, we had a splendid view. The bedroom was a fantasy in red-and-gold-striped wallpaper and heavy gold velvet draperies over the cathedral windows. The fireplaces in the sitting room and in the bedroom were Gothic marvels of sculpted stone and marble. The furniture was formal, yet lavish and comfortable. Our rooms were also very expensive: a guinea plus five shillings per day! And all our meals were to be sent up, with waiters to attend us, and a maid would come in every morning to tidy up the suite and help me dress, like a grand lady of quality.

The porters carried our luggage up, and my Richard carried me over the threshold of the bedroom like a giddy bride! For such, I believed, I would soon be. Richard convinced me that there was no reason to postpone our wedding night, because God knew that, in our hearts and in His sight, we were man and wife, even if a clergyman had not yet officially sanctioned our union. And if I were not his wife, he could not stay with me, for it would be unlawful, and he would return me to my parents. He wanted me and I could not let him go. So I yielded to Richard and gave myself to him. In a night I became his wife in all but name.

We’d had only a few weeks of joy together, hardly enough time to call a honeymoon, when Richard had to travel for his business. I missed him with all my heart when he was away. We had still not decided on a date for our wedding or looked for a suitable house. It was all so complicated! Because Richard was an American, he told me, he had to dwell in England for a certain length of time and then obtain a special license to marry me. I thought that our rooms at the Royal Victoria served to give him a reasonably permanent address, but Richard assured me it was not sufficient in the eyes of the law, and I believed him. There was also the problem of my youth. My parents would not give their consent, and I was too young to give myself in marriage for three more years. We would have to find witnesses who would swear that I was twenty-one. Richard assured me that, for enough money, he would be able to find such false witnesses. I worried about the effect of perjury on the validity of our marriage, even though I had said I would lie about my age myself, but I loved and trusted Richard so much, and, like a good wife, left everything I could not hope to understand in his hands. And because he wanted to take me to America after our marriage, he had to get permission at the American Embassy, and try to arrange for a home for me in Detroit, and, oh, so many complications! My head whirled, and I didn’t understand it all anyhow. I trusted Richard to make all the arrangements. In the meantime, I did my best to behave as I believed a good wife should, waiting patiently, loving him dearly, submitting to him body and soul.

Richard told me never to leave the hotel when he was not there. London is such a large, confusing city, and respectable women do not usually walk out alone. An obedient wife, I promised I would not wander, that I would always be there waiting for him. The hotel has its own library for the entertainment of guests, and I passed much of my time reading in our rooms. There was little else I could do, really.

My clothes, the clothes Richard bought for me, are good, but not quite good enough to mingle with the ladies in the Ladies’ Lounge on the first floor. They lack the elegance of London fashions. In that lovely room, with its turquoise walls, heavy gold velvet drapes, lemon-and-cream striped satin davenports and chairs, and Turkey carpets, I felt drab. I have no jewels that could compare with — never mind out-shine! — the crystal gas lamps, as those of other lady guests do. My auburn hair lacks the gloss of the polished cherry wood; I wonder how other women manage the trick? Even though I did my best to sit ramrod straight and appear to be a lady when I was in public, I longed for conversation, but I was too timid to speak to anyone and constantly afraid that someone might speak to me. I know that compared to London Burslem is almost a village, and I feared my manners wouldn’t pass in London’s refined atmosphere. So I spent little time in the Ladies’ Lounge, rarely sat there to read or to take tea. To be seen so much in that public place, sooner or later the other guests would have realized that I am a long-term resident, one with no ring on her hand and no male escort. “A kept woman!” they would have thought, and scorned my presence.

For the same reasons, I did not often visit the hotel library, not in the daytime at least. But in the evenings, I often went down and borrowed some books to take back to my rooms. I favour popular authors like Dickens, Collins, and Bulwer-Lytton, and poets like Donne and Keats. The library attendant knows me well enough by now, and makes no comment on my habitual late visits or their frequency. He is always polite, but distant. All the hotel staff have become accustomed to me. I’m sure they are aware of my status, that I was Richard’s fiancée, but not yet his wife. Although they treat me coolly, they are not uncivil. And they have been discreet, at least when above stairs. If they say anything about me, they never say it where I might hear.

I wrote to my parents sometimes. I wrote about how happy I was with Richard, how I hoped that someday they would forgive me for eloping, accept that I did the right thing, take me back as their daughter, and welcome Richard as their son-in-law. I even addressed and sealed the envelopes. But I never sent them. A few months after I ran away, my father placed a notice in the London newspapers and declared that he was disowning me. I saw it while I was in the Ladies’ Lounge one afternoon, reading the newspapers to fill my time while Richard was away. I must have attracted attention when I gasped in horror and fled the lounge, stifling my sobs until I was back in my rooms but I did not look around me. Nor did I return to the lounge for several days, lest someone had looked at what I had been reading and exposed me to ridicule. I did not tell Richard about the notice because I was afraid he would think I regretted my decision and was not happy with him after all.

Richard wrote to me frequently when he was travelling. I looked forward to his letters almost as much as I looked forward to seeing him again. For any letter might tell me when he was coming back again, or when we would be able to marry.

Richard’s last letter said he would be with me again today. I ordered my maid about imperiously, and made her do and re-do my hair in the most formal style. I donned my best gown and used some of my precious lavender perfume that Richard said had come all the way from Paris. And I waited.

This afternoon, there was a knock at the door. It was a page delivering a letter and a small velvet bag. They were from Richard.

In his letter, he said he was returning to America, to a wife he never mentioned to me. His wealth, his fortune, actually belongs to his wife, he explained, who has sent him money for his support during his travels in England but now refuses to send anymore. He said that he would someday, perhaps, return, though he hoped I would forget him and make a good marriage with someone else. He said that he had paid for room 5 through the end of the week. He said that I should return home.

I was in shock after reading his letter for the first time. I tried to tell myself that I had misinterpreted it somehow. But as I read it again and write down the gist of it now, his message is so plain. I will never see or hear from Richard ever again.

Where can I go now?

I cannot return to Burslem. Unlike London, it is not so large that I could hide upon my return, and my elopement will have been gossiped about in all the pottery factories. My parents will not take me back; once my father makes a decision, he never changes his mind. The bag Richard sent contained a double handful of gold sovereigns, not enough to provide me with independent support in London. I have few skills and no one to recommend me to a respectable employer, nor can I explain why I have come alone to London in search of genteel employment.

I am ruined, a fallen woman. I have no prospects. No hope. No future. I threw it all away on a feckless adulterer who has blithely deserted me. Where, then, can I go but the streets? I shudder. I have read in the newspapers of a murderer who stalks the streets of London. Few people cared at first because the victims are all fallen women like me. The murderer has not been caught. Will he be waiting for me, a foolish girl, blinded by notions of romance, brought down to the gutter because she broke God’s laws? I cannot surrender to such a fate. I cannot! I will not!

“The next day, in the morning, the poor lady was discovered dead in room 5,” intoned the hotel-tour guide, dropping his voice. “Some say she died of a broken heart. Actually, she took poison, an overdose of laudanum, although since she never left the hotel, it’s uncertain how or where she got it from. They found the journal and letters she had written, but never sent, to her parents, so they were notified of her death. But her family didn’t claim her body. Richard, her lover, was never heard from again. Louise was buried in a pauper’s grave, unmarked and unmourned.” He paused for effect. “Sometimes, her ghost was seen in public places like the lounge, the lobby, and here in the library, usually in the evenings and at night. Why she chose to haunt these places more than the rooms she died in, no one knows.”

One of the older tourists raised a hand. “Was anyone ever put in room 5 after Louise died?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. Louise’s body was removed discreetly during the night, concealed in a cart covered with a cloth, and taken down the back stairs so the other guests wouldn’t be aware of her death. And so new guests wouldn’t be aware they were being assigned to a room containing a deathbed.”

A teenager gasped. “They left all the furniture and stuff after she died?”

“Her personal things were removed, of course. The linens were changed and the room was cleaned, but, yes, they left the furniture, including the mattresses on the bed. The Victorians were more practical and less squeamish about such things than we are. Besides, they wouldn’t have seen the point in dashing out to Harrod’s to replace a perfectly sound bed, just because its last occupant had died!”

There was a murmur of uncomfortable chuckling from the guide’s audience. “Can you show us Louise’s rooms?” someone asked.

“Unfortunately, no. Over the years, the room numbers have all been changed many times. The oldest floor plans showing where room 5 was were destroyed during the Second World War. But no one ever complained about Louise’s ghost appearing in their room. She seemed to prefer showing herself in the public areas.”

“Has she been seen recently?”

“No, she hasn’t. The hotel declined after World War One and closed in the 1930s. It was briefly reopened in the late 20th century, then closed again when World War Three broke out. Since restoration began two years ago, there have been reports of strange women hanging about,” the tour group tittered at the insinuation in the guide’s tone, “but none in antique clothing. We think Louise may have moved on, perhaps out of sheer boredom or maybe displeasure at how dusty and decrepit the place became.”

“Told you we shouldn’t have bothered booking a room for the grand reopening!” a man muttered under his breath to his companion.

“Oh, be quiet, Peter,” admonished the other. “You wanted to be here and you know it!”

“Now I can’t show you Louise’s room,” the guide continued, ignoring them, “but I can show you one of the restored suites. The restorers and decorators went with a modern neo-Victorian theme . . . .”

Oh, I can’t abide those rude, noisy clusters of ill-bred people! They never care that I’m sitting here trying to read in peace. How I long for the quiet times, when the hotel never admitted such people.

Life in the hotel has changed so much since Richard left me. It began the day I received his letter and final gift.

I must have cried myself to sleep and slept through the rest of the day. It was dark when I awoke and I felt very strange. I didn’t feel ill, exactly, but light-headed and confused. Something seemed to be calling me. No, that’s not right — it was attracting me, enticing me. I got out of bed and looked around but the only odd thing I could see was a silver cord fastened at my waist. I don’t know why, but I tied the cord’s loose end to the bedpost before I walked up to the bedroom door, a gilded door with geometric patterns carved into it. Without thinking, I opened it and walked through into another dark room, softly lit and full of shadows. It should have been the sitting room, but it was not — it was a room strange to me. Behind me, the door swung to but did not close completely; it rested against the tautened silver cord. There was a door in the distant wall, a red door carved with roses. It opened at a touch, and lead to yet another room. Again, the door tried to shut and was prevented. I marvelled that the cord did not snap nor did it tauten so much as to impede me; I did not even feel it. In the soft light of this room, too, I could see a brilliantly coloured and decorated door in the same wall as the one through which I passed. I opened it and found beyond that, there was yet more dimness, another room, another door, and another, and another, beyond count. It was like walking in a hedge maze, turning about, doubling back, going forward. But something drew me onward, I know not what it was.

In each room, I stopped to examine my surroundings. Oddly, many rooms had mirrors but mirrors such as I have only heard of in fairy tales. They reflected the room until I looked in them; then they did not show my face or the room I was in, but room 5 and also scenes from my life and of what I left behind when I went to London. Looking in one mirror, my heart panged as I watched myself and Richard boarding the train in Burslem, beginning our runaway marriage. In another room, another mirror, I was shocked and saddened to see the image of my mother sitting in my old bedroom, hugging a doll I had long outgrown, and crying.

In the last room I reached, the door before me was the strangest of all. There was no door like it anywhere in the hotel, I was certain. It was of a plain wood, but wider and taller than any other I’d seen, and it seemed to glow. There must have been a very bright light behind it, for I could virtually see it through the door. Nothing I knew of could make such a bright light. Nothing of this earth!

I was very, very frightened of this door and tried to back away from it. I was certain it would lead me into Hell. But something kept drawing me forward, the thing that had attracted me from the start of my journey through the maze, and I found myself reaching for the doorknob. I screamed and screamed, then turned and ran back through the doors, following the silver cord that had held the doors open behind me, out of my rooms, and down to the library. I must have looked like a madwoman, with my hair down and my clothes in disarray, my face white with terror. Fortunately, the library was empty but for the attendant who diplomatically pretended not to see me. I began to feel foolish, realizing that I had only had a nightmare, but like a child I had thought it was real and run away. I straightened my appearance as best I could and slowly made my way back upstairs, back to room 5, and to bed.

My life changed dramatically. The management must have known that Richard abandoned me but, to my surprise, I was not cast out on the street. Nor was I asked for money or labour to pay for my continued residence. Still, a price was exacted of me. The servants no longer answered when I called, but that was the smallest indignity I was made to suffer. From time to time, I was forced to share my rooms. When couples stayed there, I was undoubtedly expected to serve as a maid to the wife, if she had not brought her own. But when men stayed there . . . I will not speak of the sort of services that were expected of me. Suffice it to say, that I refused to bow my head and become a servant or worse, no matter how dire my poverty. I could never give myself to any man but Richard. I would rather have died. None ever made demands upon me, but I stayed away from my rooms whenever men were there, preferring to stroll the lobby, or visit the ladies’ lounge or the library, although sometimes I crept back in when the intruders slept.

I do not sleep much myself. When I do, the nightmare plagues me. I find myself being drawn through those endless rooms again, back towards the glowing door. So far, I have always remembered to tie my silver cord to something before I respond, and I have always managed to resist the glowing door and find my way out again, but it gets harder and harder.

Although nothing was ever said to me, there must have been complaints lodged against me and my failures to oblige. As a punishment for my recalcitrance, the desk clerks stopped sending the most respectable people to share my rooms and began sending eccentrics, people who wore increasingly outlandish clothes. I was shocked by the number of women who exposed their ankles then their calves, wore their hair short like young boys, and smoked like men. Fewer of them brought their own maids, but those who didn’t often didn’t seem to care.

Eventually, the persecution stopped. I was left to reside alone in my rooms for a long time. I enjoyed the peace, but I now seemed condemned to solitude. I am losing hope that I might ever see Richard again. I am no longer angry with him. I only want to feel his arms around me again, to hear his voice, to love him and make him desire me again. If he comes to the hotel and asks for me, he might not be sent up. I wanted to see the manager, and tell him to send Richard to my rooms if he comes again, but I could never find anyone on the desk. The lobby was almost always empty when I went down, and when there were people there, they ignored me. They must have been shown my picture and told of my disgrace. I cannot think why else they would refuse to look at me.

And the nightmares have gradually become more intense. It becomes harder to resist the glowing door. I feel I am growing weaker and fear that soon I will not be able to escape its lure. I am becoming forgetful; the last time the nightmare came, I forgot to secure my silver cord, my anchor, and only remembered when the door began to close behind me; I blocked it with my body, but the strain tired me. If only Richard would come back. I know I could keep him with me this time.

The reopening of the fully renovated and restored Royal Victoria Hotel had drawn worldwide attention. Dozens of celebrities had reserved suites and rooms. And the world government selected the Royal Victoria as the site for the week-long World Trade Conference, which would be attended by hundreds of representatives from dozens of nations.

Spectrum was to provide security. Besides controlling an expected crowd of protesters on the street, agents would have to keep disruptors from getting into the conference itself, and constantly screen hotel guests and employees for Mysteron infiltrators. Captains Magenta, Grey, and Ochre were assigned as field commanders, rotating in shifts. Each would be seconded by one of three junior captains: Celadon, Sienna, and Vermillion. Although the security arrangements were all in place and satisfactory, there had been communication errors on other matters. Because the hotel’s gala reopening was heavily booked, a shortage of rooms to house the Spectrum agents had resulted. They would have to share quarters. Captains Magenta and Ochre were assigned to suite 180.

I am caught up in the nightmare again, but I know I can still find my way back; the doors cannot close on my silver cord, although it no longer glows so bright as it did. I want to get back to my rooms. But I can hear men’s voices coming from the mirror of this room I am in now. I am horrified to hear them. Are they in my rooms? Or are they in Burslem? The mirrors show me both. I do not want to look at them. I will sit and listen until they go away.

On the first evening of the conference, Spectrum’s officers of all grades were required to attend the formal opening reception. Captain Ochre had groaned at the orders. He hated wearing his dress uniform.

“I’m just a middle-class guy. I didn’t even go to college. I’ve never liked these fancy dos. Damn monkey suit!” he groused as he struggled with the stiff collar. “Why couldn’t Blue and Scarlet have gotten this assignment? They were both born to this kind of thing.”

Captain Magenta, immaculately clad in his dress grey uniform with its colour-coded piping, struck a menacing pose. “Have you no pity, man?” he growled mockingly, shaking a finger at his fellow officer. “Paul and Adam have had to endure dressing up in monkey suits, making vapid small talk, and consuming hors d’oeuvres all their lives. You’ve been lucky, Richard Fraser!”

Richard Fraser? Have I heard truly? Timidly I seat myself by the mirror and look into it: it shows me my bedroom, hazily, but well enough. I do not know if the mirror on my bedroom wall shows me, so I peep carefully. The man speaking is tall and well-built, dark-haired with brown eyes, his features neatly chiselled, and his voice has a touch of Ireland. He is dressed all in grey but for a thin stripe of a bright shade of purple the name of which I cannot recall. I do not know him. The other man has his back to me. I watch as he pulls on a grey jacket, identical to the other man’s, but on his the thin stripe is a dark mustard colour. He is as tall as his companion though a little lighter in build. His hair is brown but I can see glints of red as the light catches it when he turns his head. It is familiar to me.

“Ready, Pat? Then let’s go and get this over with.”

His voice is American! But they are leaving the room. I did not have a chance to see the other man’s face. Rising from my chair, I fight the pull of the glowing door and struggle to make my way back to my rooms. It is always an exhausting task but I am determined to escape. I must see him. I must know.

The lifts were crowded, and the agents let several cars continue down without them. Captain Ochre fidgeted. “If not for the 1929 Crash, I’d probably be used to living like this. I’m told my family had money until then. Not that I’m sorry. I like being just a regular Joe. It’s just times like this I dread, trying to remember which fork goes with what.”

“You’ll do fine, as always,” rejoined Captain Magenta. “Just stand perfectly still and don’t say anything.”

Ochre continued grumbling under his breath as they headed for the grand staircase down to the lobby.

I am free again! But I feel so weak now. I am so tired. I do not want to sleep. I cannot. If I sleep, I will be drawn back into the nightmare and fear I may be lost forever. The silver cord I have relied on for so long has grown dim as if tarnished but it resists polishing; the bright glow is gone. As it dims, I fear it might soon snap and leave me trapped in the maze. Unless my Richard has returned? Could it be? Please, God, let it be so! I will give myself to him again freely, if only he will stay with me!

Outside, reporters, paparazzi, and protesters competed for attention and opportunities to penetrate the cordon Spectrum had placed around the hotel. Indoors, Spectrum agents circulated among the guests. In their staid dress uniforms, Captains Sienna and Vermillion felt like mud hens in a flock of birds of paradise.

“I’d hoped I could finally have an excuse to wear something that would really impress Captain Grey,” sighed Sienna.

Vermillion sympathized. “I know how you feel. I’ve got a gorgeous little evening gown collecting dust in my closet. On the other hand, I’d have had to rob a jewellery store or at least disassemble a crystal chandelier to match some of the ice in here tonight!”

Captain Sienna noted that one surprisingly young woman, probably a conference delegate’s daughter, had chosen to wear modest period dress rather than something glamorous, perhaps in honour of the hotel’s origins. Her pale skin and glowing makeup made her look ethereal, yet no one but Sienna seemed to pay any attention to her. The Victorian lady, as Sienna mentally dubbed her, had a hand to her mouth, as if something had shocked or intrigued her. Sienna tried to figure out what it might be: there were several ladies wearing scandalously wispy and expensive shreds of clothing, others with magnificent jewels, quite a few distinguished looking men, some wearing ribbons with ancient orders displayed, and two Spectrum captains, Ochre and Grey. She couldn’t decide which of those people the Victorian lady found so fascinating or revolting.

It is him. I never saw Richard without his beard and moustachios, never imagined that they hid a firm, square jaw, or how different he would look without them. But his eyes are the same, that beautiful gold-touched brown I so often found myself sinking into. He has returned. Soon he will come looking for me! But I am suddenly so tired. So tired. I cannot stop my eyes from closing and as they do the nightmare begins again. I am surrounded by all these people. They bar my way to anything I can anchor myself to with my silver cord. Richard! My love, please help me!

The Victorian lady had disappeared when Sienna tried to spot her again in the crowd.

Hours later, the men returned to their suite. Captain Ochre wanted a sound night’s sleep. Captain Magenta immediately changed into his work uniform since he’d drawn the night shift. Captain Grey would take over from Magenta in the morning, then Ochre would relieve Grey.

“Good night, Pat.”

“Good night, Rick. Sleep well.”

It had been a demanding evening by Captain Ochre’s standards; he’d have preferred to be dealing with crowd control or surveillance. He changed into his pyjamas and crawled to the middle of the huge four-poster bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.

He dreamt that he heard a woman calling his name from somewhere far away. She sounded afraid. He listened then got out of bed and went to the gilded, carven door into the next room. As he passed through the doorway, he felt a cool breeze waft over him. He looked around him. The light was dim, like candlelight; he could see hints of gold as the light flickered and shadows danced.

Richard! the voice cried.

He followed it to another door, painted deep red and also carven. Part of him knew that this door had to lead into the hallway, that the suite only had two rooms. Ochre hesitated, wondering if someone was playing a joke on him. The woman sobbed. Joke or no, it sounded like she was in genuine pain. Ochre seized the door’s handle and plunged into the darkness beyond. Again he felt a soft breeze, colder than it had been before. He couldn’t see much in the dim light, except that he was in another room, and there was another door in the wall to his right. He could still hear the woman’s voice although it didn’t seem much closer. He quickly opened the next door, ignoring the cold wind that swept around him, and continued into the next room and on and on, leaving the doors open behind him.

Eventually, Ochre came into a room dominated by a huge, glowing door that dazzled his dark-adapted eyes. As they adjusted, he could just discern a person trying to shrink into the shadows as far from the door as the room would allow. The person turned, stifling a cry as she saw him. “Richard!” the woman cried. “Please, take me away from here! I’m so frightened! The door . . . The door! It draws me against my will! I have not the strength or will to resist anymore.”

She was very young, Captain Ochre realized, although her antique dress and hairstyle made her look more mature at first. Probably she had somehow lost her way in the hotel’s maze of corridors. Captain Ochre took the woman by the arm and tried to lead her back to the door he had come through. He felt resistance, but it didn’t seem to be coming from her. The glowing door, he thought, seemed to be exerting a magnetic pull on the woman. Slowly, they walked side by side across the room and through the doorway into the next room. Ochre shut the door behind them, then half-lead, half-carried his companion through the next door, and the next, murmuring words of comfort as they went. The young woman clung to him and trotted to keep up with his long strides.

“Will we be out of here soon?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure we will,” replied Ochre, although he had no idea how many rooms he had passed through or how long it had taken. “Just trust me.”

“I do, Richard. You know I do.” She looked up at him beseechingly through eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.

Ochre was about to say something more when the crash of thunder raged around them. The young woman screamed as she and the room vanished before the American’s eyes.

He opened them slowly to sunlight as the thunderous knock at the door rolled again.

“Rise and shine, Rick!” shouted Captain Magenta. “We’ve got a morning briefing to get to.”