Morning came, although Angela wouldn't have known it, considering the fact that she was sleeping in a small storage room underground. So she was still asleep when Hogan threw the door open and flipped the light on.
“It’s morning. Get up.” He yanked the blanket off of her.
Angela squinted in the bright light. “What—what time is it?”
“Six A.M. Breakfast is in twenty minutes. If you’re not upstairs, dressed, and ready by then, you’ll have to wait until lunch to eat. So get moving.” He tossed the blanket on the floor and left, leaving the door standing open.
Angela groaned, tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but the achiness in her muscles reminded her of what might await her if she didn’t do as she was told. She stretched a bit and instantly regretted it, as it pulled at the cut on her shoulder. She hissed with the pain and massaged the bandage.
Soon the pain subsided, and she grabbed her toiletries bag and a change of clothes before heading to the bathroom. There she changed, brushed her teeth, washed her face, and brushed her tangled curls into a tight ponytail. She didn’t bother with makeup—it’s not like she had anybody to impress, anyway. Besides, her makeup routine took fifteen minutes at the very least, and that was time she didn’t have. She sighed, took her dirty clothes and bathroom bag back to the storage room, and headed upstairs in her stocking feet.
Hogan was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. He checked his watch. “Cutting it kind of close,” he said.
“Sorry,” Angela murmured.
“I want to make a few things clear before we go into the kitchen.” He crossed his arms, adopting a dominating stance. “First is that the staff here think you are my niece who’s staying here for a few days. Don’t bother asking them for help, because they won’t believe you. All you’d do is force me to take measures to ensure they don’t tell anyone, so don’t even try it.”
Angela’s eye twitched with a sudden surge of rebellion, but she quickly squashed it down before Hogan could notice.
“Second is that I have a tour group coming around eleven. You are to stay in the basement while they are here. The rest of the time I don’t care what you do, so long as you keep out of trouble. Clear?”
Angela nodded her assent.
“Good.”
The lovely smells of breakfast assaulted Angela as they entered the restaurant, bringing with it memories of early Saturday mornings with her dad while her mom worked extra shifts at the hospital. Most days breakfast was cereal or oatmeal or muffins, but Saturday mornings meant bacon and eggs and pancakes with her dad. Angela choked up a little at the memory, swallowing over and over to keep from crying in front of Hogan.
The serving window from the kitchen was closed, the tables in the restaurant empty. Hogan led her to a side door and strode into the kitchen.
“There you are, Gordon,” one of the kitchen staff, an older man with salt-and-pepper gray hair, greeted Hogan from his place at a cutting board. “This must be your niece?”
Angela started a little hearing Hogan addressed by his given name; she had been thinking of him in terms of his surname. Hearing someone call him “Gordon” made him seem all too human.
She realized that the older man had asked her name and was looking at her expectantly. “I'm Angela,” she said a little lamely.
“Manny,” he said by way of introduction. “I'd shake your hand, but I'm covered in bacon grease at the moment.”
Angela found herself giving Manny a genuine smile—the man had a warm disposition that made it rather easy. “I don't mind.”
“What's for breakfast?” Hogan asked, his pleasant tone sounding strange to Angela’s ears.
“An omelet and some bacon. I made your omelet the way you like it.” Manny held up his greasy hands, indicating the bacon he was cutting up. “I haven't made Angela’s yet since I didn't know how she likes her eggs.”
“Sunny-side up is fine,” she said.
Manny shrugged. “Makes it easy on me, I suppose.” He craned his head to look toward the back of the kitchen. “Emma! This girl wants her eggs sunny-side up!”
“Geez! I heard her tell you the first time. No need to shout!” A teenaged girl of about fifteen or so poked her head out from behind one of the tall stoves. Her hair was dyed a bright blue color, and her ears had piercings all the way around the edge. “How many eggs do you want?” Emma asked.
“I’ll have two, I guess.”
The teenager raised an eyebrow. “You guess or you know?”
Angela gave a small laugh. “Sorry. I’ll have two eggs, please.”
“Coming up!” Emma disappeared behind the stove again.
Hogan placed a hand on Angela’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go sit at the counter while you wait?” He said it like a suggestion, but Angela heard the hidden command in it: “Go sit at the counter and stay out of trouble.”
Angela sat at the counter of an island that had two bar stools pushed up against it. Hogan grabbed his plate and left, claiming that he was going to eat at his desk. Angela sat there while she waited for her breakfast, not sure how she was supposed to act. Her gut instinct was to tell Manny and Emma that Hogan was a crazy sorcery nut that had kidnapped her and was keeping her using what he called a “shackle spell,” but even she could tell that they wouldn’t believe her, just as he said. Even if she left out all of the stuff about spells and contracts and whatnot, and just told them she had been kidnapped, they probably still wouldn’t believe her. After all, he had brought her upstairs and introduced her and then left her on her own. It would totally look like she was making up stories just to be mean to her “nice uncle” who was letting her stay with him at the abandoned motel.
So instead of pleading for help like she desperately wanted to, Angela sat there in an awkward silence, unsure of what to say or even if she should say anything at all. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long; within a few minutes, her eggs and bacon were cooked. Emma brought Angela’s plate over, setting it down on the counter in front of her.
“Gordon left you by yourself?” she asked.
Angela shrugged, not knowing what to say. It felt a lot less oppressive without Hogan in the room.
Emma shook her head. “Some uncle he is, making you get up this early for breakfast then just ditching you here.”
Angela licked her lips. “I’m sure he’s got a lot of work to do.”
Emma snorted. “Yeah, right. I bet he just wanted to watch the horse races. He’s always doing that in his spare time.”
“Emma, how many times do I have to tell you not to speak negatively about your boss to customers?” Manny said, wiping his hands on his apron as he came over. He gave her a soft whack on the back of her head.
“Hey! That hurt!” Emma slugged him in the shoulder as if he were a guy friend and not old enough to be her grandfather. “Besides, Angela’s not a customer. She probably already knows her uncle is obsessed with the Derby.”
“Actually,” Angela interrupted. “I only just met him yesterday.” It was true, too.
Emma gave Angela a strange look. “Really? Why are you staying with him if you’ve never met him?”
“Um…” Uh-oh. What was she supposed to say? She picked up her fork and moved her food around, trying to think of a plausible reason that wouldn’t clash with anything Hogan said.
“If Angela doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t have to,” Manny said. “Come on, let her eat her breakfast in peace.” He steered Emma away from Angela. “You’ve got dishes to do, anyway.”
Angela breathed a sigh of relief. She got off easy that time. She didn't want Manny and Emma getting suspicious, especially since Hogan had threatened to hurt or maybe even kill them if they found out she wasn't his niece. They seemed like really nice people, too.
Angela ate her breakfast quickly, so as to avoid further awkward conversation that might potentially pose a danger to the two kitchen workers. After she finished eating, she thanked them for the food and left to explore her prison. It wasn’t really a prison, obviously, but it certainly felt that way. She wanted to become familiar with it, just in case.
The annex itself wasn’t very large since its main point was to showcase the original motel. It basically consisted of the lobby area, the restaurant and kitchens, the restrooms, and the office. The hallways were adorned with photos and memorabilia from the motel, with a few sporting autographs from celebrities that had stayed there. Hogan wasn’t in his office when Angela got there, but she still only peeked inside, too nervous about getting caught to do any serious exploring. She did see a phone on Hogan’s desk; she so badly wanted to use it that she actually took a few steps into the room before deciding against it. But there was no point calling for help before learning more about the spell that was keeping her captive, so, with a sigh, she turned around and left the room without looking back.
Soon Angela came to the door that led to the original building. Angela put her palms against the glass door and hesitated. Hogan had told her that if she stayed in the building, she would be fine, but did he mean just the annex or was the motel included in that as well? Did she dare try it? What if she got stuck there forever waiting for Hogan to stumble across her?
She chided herself for being such a wimp. After all, how would she ever find a way to escape if she never tried simply because she was afraid of being hurt? Besides, she had no proof that this so-called “shackle spell” really was area-bound, other than Hogan’s word.
She had decided. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped out into the outdoor covered “hallway” of the motel.
Nothing.
She let out a shuddering breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding in. She looked around to see if anybody was nearby before taking a few cautious steps.
Wham. Again she felt the tremendous force that yanked her to the ground, this time onto solid concrete. Even as she lay spread-eagle face-down on the ground, unable to move, she could feel the burning pain of road rash on her wrists and forearms.
“Ow.” Now what? Already her body was feeling the strain from the tremendous pressure of the spell. She groaned. Would she really be able to hold out for any longer than a few minutes? It was even worse than she remembered it. The only thing she could do was clench her teeth and try to bear it.
“I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”
Angela never thought she'd actually be relieved to hear Hogan’s voice, but she found that she was. “You said I would be fine if I stayed in the building. How was I supposed to know that didn't include the motel?”
Hogan sighed, then said, “Dimitto.”
Angela shakily got to her feet, wincing. “Ow,” she said again.
Hogan grabbed her by the wrist, examining the road burns on the inside of her forearm. “Tsk,” he said, shaking his head in annoyance. “There should be a first aid kit on the shelf in the storage room downstairs. Go get yourself cleaned up, then stay downstairs until the tour group has left.”
“But it's only nine o'clock!”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do I care? Now do as you’re told.” He shoved her in the direction of the annex door.
Angela turned back to face him. “How do I know when the tour group is gone?”
He crossed his arms, shifting his weight to one foot and cocking his head to the side. “I'll come down and tell you. Now go!” he said, making a shooing motion with his hand.
Angela swallowed a sarcastic retort and did as she was told.
After finding the first aid kit and cleaning up her arms, Angela decided on exploring the basement. After all, Hogan had said nothing about staying in the storage room, only that she had to stay downstairs until the tour group had left. Having no idea how long that might be, she had no intention of sitting on the cot for hours just twiddling her thumbs.
She began in the workshop where she woke up. If there was any place that might have clues about the spell Hogan had put on her, it would be there. As she came into the room, she discovered that it had a light switch next to the door; she flipped it on, and the room was flooded with fluorescent light. Which meant that last night, Hogan had been using candles and an electric lantern on purpose—whether for ambiance or as part of the spell, she had no idea.
The workshop itself was rather simple and cluttered. The workbench she had woken up on had once again been piled with junk, and there were several shelves full of tools, gadgets, and other random things. One shelf held strange objects: a golden statue of a face without a nose, an authentic-looking Native American hand drum, a tiny skull that might have belonged to a mouse, a brass statue of Buddha, an old-fashioned key, the shed skin of a large snake, among other things. Angela found herself drawn to them and repulsed at the same time.
Below that shelf were several old leather-bound books. One book, a dark navy blue book with shiny gold lettering, had some of the same symbols on its spine as the ones Hogan had drawn on her face with the blood mixture. Angela instinctively reached out to grab it and was immediately repelled, her hand tingling with an electric shock. Another spell? She tried again to take the book and was once again repelled in the same way.
She sighed. Of course. She should have known it wouldn't be that easy. In fact, she should have figured there would be something keeping it safe, especially since Hogan had left the book hidden in plain sight. Still, it was infuriating to have information about her spell so close—literally at her fingertips—and yet be completely unable to access it. She lingered at the shelf a little longer, trying to see if any of the other books offered any clues. The titles all pointed to Hogan’s interest in the supernatural: A Comprehensive Guide to Native American Spiritualism; Demons, Djinn, and Oni: Evil Spirits Around the World; The Lesser Key of Solomon: Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis; Arabian Nights and its Influence Today; The Goetia of Dr Rudd: The Angels and Demons of Liber Malorum Spirituum Seu Goetia. The rest were in obscure languages and texts, like the book with the strange symbols; impossible for her to read.
Eventually, she gave up and left the room. The books with English titles were all accessible, but the ones she really could have used were protected by spells and impossible to touch. Nothing else in the room even merited more than a cursory glance. Instead, she decided to continue her search in another room. She decided to turn left down the hallway, in the opposite direction of the stairs. There were a few more storage rooms, and then the hall took a right in a 90-degree turn. There Angela found a pair of double doors that opened into a large room, as big as a basketball court. The room had no furniture—the only thing of note was a large pentagram painted in the center of the floor, completely enclosed by a large circle. The symbol made her uneasy, a lump of bile forming at the base of her throat. She quickly closed the double doors and moved on.
She soon discovered that the hallway doubled back on itself, forming a large square that surrounded the strange empty room. The only other rooms she found were another bathroom, two more storage rooms besides the one she was sleeping in, and a weight room. Too quickly she found herself back at the staircase leading up to the main level, and it was only nine thirty. She had spent a mere thirty minutes exploring, and now had at least three hours left in which she must keep herself entertained.
Angela still had no desire to sit on the cot doing nothing for three hours, so she ended up going to the weight room to work out. First, she did some yoga to warm up, then she did a few reps on various weight machines. After that she spent about thirty minutes on the bike, followed by her Tai Chi routine to finish off the workout. By the time she had finished, it was just after eleven o'clock; the tour group was finally arriving.
If she hadn’t been panting and dripping sweat she would have been tempted to disobey Hogan’s order and take a peek at the tourists. As it was, she desperately needed a shower. So instead she headed to the bathroom. She got undressed, and carefully removed the bandages on her shoulder, using the mirror to guide herself. As she removed the bandage, she was surprised to see that wound was now surrounded by a mark, almost like a tattoo. At first, she thought it was Sharpie, but when she looked closer she discovered that the mark was deeper, and more of a dark brown color than the bleeding black of a Sharpie. The mark almost looked like a hieroglyphic of the sun, with a spiral in the middle and wavy lines extending outward, the cut from the knife in the immediate center.
When could Hogan have made the mark? He certainly didn’t make it with the Sharpie—all he had done was draw a small “x”. Besides, this looked like it was more than skin deep.
Angela decided not to worry about it too much. It would probably get washed off in the shower anyways. So she got in the shower, turning the water to steaming hot, the way she liked it. She sighed and closed her eyes, the scalding hot water beating a rhythm into her back. For the first time since she woke up this morning, her thoughts turned to her parents. They probably still had no idea she was missing. The tour group was probably visiting that one ghost town in New Mexico right now—she couldn’t remember exactly which one. The last time she had spoken to her parents was the night before she had been kidnapped when she called to tell them about visiting the Lorraine Motel in Tennessee, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Her dad, who was currently writing about the Civil Rights movement for his dissertation, wanted to know every detail since he was unable to go himself.
She sighed again and shampooed her hair. Her dad had been so excited about seeing the pictures Angela had taken of the site. He had made her promise not to upload them to Facebook so he could use them exclusively for his dissertation. Did this mean that she would never get to go through those pictures with him? That she would never again listen as he passionately explained how the Civil Rights movement had shaped our current culture? This was part of the reason why she had wanted to stay busy—she didn't want to have to think about everything she had lost when Hogan had kidnapped her.
Angela struggled to hold back her tears for only a few seconds before giving in. She squatted down on the shower floor, tears streaming down her cheeks as the water rushed down her back. She sobbed out loud, the noise of the shower muffling her cries. She cried until the water ran cold, freezing her bare back. She jumped up and quickly finished washing up before yanking the knob into the “off” position.
As she toweled off, she took another good look in the mirror at the mark on her shoulder; the strange symbol remained, completely unaffected by the shower. Suddenly she remembered Hogan drawing something on her shoulder with blood, just after he had drawn the symbols on her face. The color of the mark even looked just like dried blood. But if it were blood, wouldn't it have washed off in the shower? She would have to ask Hogan about it later.