Anomaly Flats (2 page)

“No one complains much.”

“’Cept you,” Rolly chipped in sourly.

Mallory shook her head at the two different menus. “Seems like you could’ve saved on printing,” she pointed out.

Trudy cleared her throat and crossed her arms. “Do you want the waffles or don’t you?”

Mallory sighed. In spite of her protest—and undeniable weirdness of this place aside—she
was
hungry, and, as a general rule, she
did
like waffles. She wasn’t a monster.

“All right,” she conceded. “Hit me.”

Trudy knocked on the wall above a square opening that led to the kitchen. “Blue plate!” she hollered to whoever was manning the griddle in the back. She glanced over her shoulder and considered Mallory for a few moments before adding, “Hold the extras.”

“What extras?” Mallory asked. But either Trudy didn’t hear her, or she just ignored the question, and she swished out from behind the counter instead to check on the customers at the tables.

Mallory propped her elbows on the counter and laid her head in her hands, scrubbing her fingers through her increasingly wild hair. “What a nightmare,” she muttered. She sat up, swiveled around, and peered out the window at her car, hoping maybe it had fired back up on its own and might be waiting patiently for her to finish eating her coffee and drive it away into the night—out of Missouri, up through the plains, and into Saskatchewan, to Lenore’s place, where everything would be okay.

Instead, it just sat there, dark and cold and resolutely broken-down.

“Order up!” Trudy sang out, grabbing a plate from the kitchen window and skimming it down the counter.

Mallory swiveled back and pushed the menus aside as her waffles arrived. There were two of them; crispy, golden-brown, and distinctly of the Belgian variety. A pad of butter slipped over the waffles’ little square pockets as it melted. The steam wafted up and teased its way into her nose. It smelled of childhood Sundays.

“They do look good,” Mallory admitted, picking up her fork and knife.

Trudy grabbed a half-full syrup dispenser and took the liberty of covering the waffles in field mouse syrup. “Like I said: best waffles in the quad-counties,” she repeated proudly. “Enjoy.”

And Mallory did enjoy them. She hadn’t had waffles in ages—probably twenty years, at least—but the sweet, sticky, buttery flavor brought her right back to spring mornings at her grandmother’s farmhouse. She could practically hear the cows and smell the cornbread.

These waffles are magical
, she thought.

But they weren’t magical enough. They could help her remember, but they couldn’t make her forget. Had the deputy back at the bridge recognized her? Had her car been flagged? She’d been careful, but even so…

“Trudy,” she said, swallowing down a mouthful of waffle, “that repair shop…you said it’s closed until morning?”

“That’s right, hon. But no matter the trouble, I’m sure ol’ Rufus can fix it in a jiff. Boy’s got more heart than brains these days, but I swear, whatever he’s got in his head, it’s shaped like an engine block.”

“What about a dealership? Maybe a used car lot?”

“Gracious! In Anomaly Flats?” she laughed. “I think you’ve got us confused with Kansas City.”

Mallory frowned. “Do you know anyone who’s selling a car? Or anyone who
would
sell their car?”

Trudy raised an eyebrow. “Lord, girl. You’re anxious to get wheels underfoot, ain’t you?”

“I’m…” Mallory paused. “I’m in a hurry,” she said finally.

Trudy made a strange noise in the back of her throat. “No matter.” She shook her head. “People in this town ain’t really much for automobiles.”

“What do you mean?” Mallory asked, sliding a piece of waffle around a pool of syrup.

“We don’t got much call for ’em. Most people just walk to work, or take the bus, when it decides to run. Probably ain’t more than, oh, say, a few dozen or so vehicles total in the Flats. And most of ‘em spend more time in Rufus’ shop than a cat spends in the sun. We just don’t hold for cars ‘round here.”

“This is insane,” Mallory said, more to herself than to her waitress. “What sort of town is this?”

Trudy wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “I know it’s none of my business, honey, but you know, Anomaly Flats is a...well, it’s a special place. Unique. I don’t know why you’re in such a twist, but I wouldn’t be so quick to leave it behind if I was you. Give it a day or two.” She gave Mallory a smile and a cold little wink. “Our little town might just grow on you.”

Mallory swallowed down the last bite of her waffle and pushed the plate across the counter. “Sounds like I might not have much of a choice,” she said.

Trudy shrugged. “We’ll just keep you however we can.” She smiled again and cleared the plate and silverware back to the kitchen window. “Seeing how you’ll be here for at least the night, you’ll want to head on over to the motel.  Finest one in Anomaly Flats…the
only
one in Anomaly Flats, too. Just down the block, and right on Aberration Lane. You’ll see the sign.” She leaned on the counter and whispered conspiratorially, “Tell old Maude I sent you.”

“Thanks,” Mallory muttered. She picked up her backpack and unzipped it, digging for her wallet, but Trudy held up her hand.

“No charge,” she said. “First one’s on the house.”

Mallory looked up, her eyes skeptical. “I probably won’t be back.”

Trudy just smiled. “Oh, trust me, darlin’…you’ll come back,” she said. “And you’ll keep coming back, too.”

Chapter 3

Mallory turned down Aberration Lane and stopped dead in her tracks. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”

The hotel wasn’t a hotel at all, but a stately Queen Anne-style mansion that perched on a little hillock, looming over the dark street below. It stood three stories tall, and while most of the house was constructed of rough, pebbly blocks of quartz, two towers rose through the stone, edged with smoothly-carved, utterly dark wood. They seemed to have been built from the strongest, darkest trees dragged from the Black Forest and dropped in the middle of Missouri. Antique gaslights were visible through a collection of small windows, set into the house in an odd arrangement, as if the architect had worked on the manor one piece at a time and had never examined the entire picture until he was finished. Floodlights staked into the ground shot streams of harsh light up at the house; its ledges and eaves threw tall, ominous shadows that went leeching up the walls and looming across the roof.

A tall sign rose from the grass just beyond the manor’s green wrought iron gate, similarly lit by a too-bright flood lamp. It bore the name of the house in polished iron letters tacked onto a darker metal background.

The finest motel—the
only
motel—in Anomaly Flats was named Roach Motel.

Mallory briefly considered going back to her car and holing up in the backseat for the night. The Impala was comfortable, the locks worked, and there was nothing roachish about it. “But I’m not a hobo,” she said through gritted teeth. And that settled it.

She shuffled up the path, which curved from the sidewalk to the front door and was lined on either side by unevenly spaced weeds with long leaves and small bunches of tiny white flowers. The weeds were wild and tangled, but there was a strange sort of ordered chaos about them…they seemed to have been planted there purposefully. A rich and generous bedding of fresh mulch insulated each plant, and the bed had been recently watered. Given Mallory’s attitude regarding nature and her insistence on avoiding it as often as possible, she wasn’t terribly keen on the various species of plant, and she didn’t know this particular weed from a dandelion. Fortunately, a small identifying plaque jutted out from among the thin stalks near the front of the walk, just barely legible in the darkness. It read, “Conium Maculatum (Poison Hemlock). Ingest At Own Peril.” Mallory snorted. “Well, worst case scenario, I can off myself and be done with it,” she grumbled. And she decided that particular fate truly would be preferable to spending one night covered in skittering, rattling roaches. The thought sent a shiver through her whole body. She considered snapping off a bunch of the little white flowers, just in case the Roach Motel really did live up to its name. “No. Be strong, Mallory,” she whispered, patting the Jansport backpack. “You can live with anything for one night.”

Somewhere deep inside, a small part of her wondered if that were actually true.

A tiny bell jingled above the door as she entered the house. The entryway was spotless; the windows sparkled with reflections of a brass gaslight chandelier that hung gracefully from the high ceiling; a low bench to the left was upholstered in deep red velvet that had been recently brushed; the maple wood floor had been polished to a high glow. A withered old woman stood primly behind a stately oak counter on the opposite side of the foyer. Her bones were wrapped in wrinkled, papery skin, and her long, silver hair was pulled back into an oppressively tight bun. She wore a deep red crepe dress with a high collar buttoned to the throat. The flickering light of the chandelier threw dark, hollow shadows into her gaunt cheeks and cast a sinister glow in her eyes, dull brown in color, but sharp as steel. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, her long, thin fingers intertwining like gnarled tree roots. “Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was wind blowing through a tunnel.

“Do you—” Mallory began.

The old woman cut her off sharply. “Close the door.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Mallory shut the door and turned to begin again. “Do—”

“Lock it.”

Mallory hesitated. “Lock—lock it?” The old woman said nothing. “It wasn’t locked when I…” Her voice trailed off. The look in the woman’s eyes left no room for argument. “Okay,” she said, throwing the bolt. It slid easily into place with a
click
. “Are you closed now, or…?”

“The Roach Motel is
never
closed,” the old woman intoned. “There are things in the yard tonight that are best kept at bay. Did you not hear them coming up the walk?”

Mallory smoothed down her hair and brushed off her t-shirt, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Uh…no. No, I didn’t.” She clutched her backpack tighter.

“They must have been watching you very intently,” the old woman said, narrowing her eyes. “I wonder why that would be.”

“I…I don’t know.” Mallory crossed the foyer uneasily and approached the desk. “Do you have a room available? For the night?”

“All of the rooms are available, and have been for some time,” the old woman said. “We don’t entertain many guests.” She spoke almost suspiciously, as if the thought of Mallory’s money were somehow off-putting.

“I can’t imagine why…everyone’s been so hospitable,” Mallory said, rolling her eyes.
Easy, easy
, she reprimanded herself.
This woman is going to have keys to the room where you sleep tonight.

“Most people pass this town by,” the old woman continued. If she caught Mallory’s sarcasm, she didn’t let on. “But not you.”

Mallory shrugged. “Nope. Not me.” Then she added, “Just lucky, I guess.”

The old woman raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Mallory blinked. “Listen, I’m sorry, it’s been a really long day. Do you think I could get my room key and head up? Or down—or wherever you keep the guests?”

The old woman sniffed at this but turned to the wall behind her just the same. It was dotted with a dozen wooden pegs. Each held a ring full of keys. “How many nights?” she asked, running her hands along the keys as if feeling for the perfect set.

“Just one.”

“Hmm…” The woman’s hand stopped at a particularly dusty ring on the bottom row. “This one, I think.” She grabbed the keys off the peg and laid them before her guest. “Thirty dollars a night. If you stay more than three nights, you have to pay a week’s deposit up front. Otherwise, you pay when you check out.”

“That’ll be tomorrow.”

“We’ll see.” The old woman picked up an old ledger, an old-fashioned ink pen, and a full inkwell from somewhere below the counter. A cloud of dust puffed into the air as she opened the ledger. She waved it away and turned to the next blank page. Then she picked up the pen and dipped the nib into the ink. “Name?”

“Mallory Jenkins,” she said automatically. Then she winced.
Fake name, idiot,
she chided herself
. Use a fake name, for crying out loud.

“I’m Mrs. Roach,” the old woman said, writing Mallory’s name down in the book.

“Oh! Ha.
Roach
Motel,” Mallory said, suddenly smiling. “That makes me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t. The cockroaches are nicer than I am,” the old woman muttered, slamming the book shut. “Or so I’m told.” She eyed Mallory’s backpack warily. “Luggage?” she asked.

“Just this,” Mallory said, hiking the Jansport higher on her shoulder. The old woman narrowed her eyes in disapproval.

“We prefer not to welcome transients,” she said sharply.

“
Transients
? I’m not a
transient
.” She shifted the weight of the bag. “I’m…just an efficient packer.”

The old woman made a strange sound in the bottom of her throat and slid the ring of keys across the counter. “You’re in Room 205. Up the stairs, down the hall, to the left. The linens are fresh. The washroom’s at the end of the hall. Don’t make a mess of it. Any questions?”

“Which key is it?” Mallory asked, picking up the ring.

Mrs. Roach straightened her back. “All of them.”

Mallory furrowed her brow as she did a quick count. “There are…seven keys on this ring.”

“And there’s a piece of chalk on your desk, with instructions on how to draw the protection runes.”

Mallory tilted her head. “Did you say protection runes?” she asked.

“Draw them right, or they’ll be less than useless,” she said. “Or don’t draw them at all. Makes no difference to me.”

“Seven keys and a chalk drawing. Sounds a
tad
like overkill.”

“Overkill is precisely what I’m trying to avoid,” the old woman replied. “There’s no telephone in the room. If you need anything, you’ll have to come down here and ask for it. Lights out by 10:00, please. It’s in less than an hour.”

Mallory snorted. “I think your clock might be fast,” she said, glancing down at her wristwatch. “It’s only…” She stopped mid-sentence, and her eyebrows knitted themselves together in confusion. Her watch marked the time at ten past nine…but how was that possible? She’d sat in the diner for no more than half an hour, and the sun had just set when she reached Anomaly Flats. At this time of year, that should put her at 7:00 at the latest. “Huh,” she said, more to herself than to her host. “I must’ve lost track of time.”

“See that you find it again soon,” Mrs. Roach snapped. “Check-out is at 11:00 am sharp. If you miss it for any reason, you’ll be charged for a second night.”

Mallory rubbed her forehead with one hand and jangled the keys in the other. Her body seemed to tilt and swim with disorientation. She was usually so good about time…how had it gotten away from her? “11:00. Got it. Thanks.” She turned and headed up the staircase, into the flickering gaslight flames of the second story.

The old woman’s lips curled into a smile as she watched her go.