It was a disgusting hotel. The paint flaked of the walls like dead skin and the overgrown trellis climbed the building like arthritic veins. The crumbling balcony looked down on the jagged rocks below. The day matched the scene; it was cold, wet and grey.
For the first time in years the hotel had some visitors. Or as the local farmers in the area would call it “fresh meat”. The Prius trundled up the driveway like a derelicts trolley, inside was your regular happy
family, one 4 year old kid, one teenage daughter and a happy middle aged strait couple. It was almost the American dream, except for it was in England.
Earlier that day the Fletcher family had stopped at a petrol station to ask for directions, there suspicions were first aroused when the man refused to help them and closed up shop. That didn’t matter to the fatiguing family, now they had reached their destination.
It turned out that the manager of hotel was also the receptionist, janitor, room cleaner and chef. He was a small man in his early fifties; his hair was slick and sticky like mud and he gave you the feeling that you were in a morgue. The worst bit about him was his smell; it smelt of the silt on the water and rotting fish. This was only to be expected, the hotel was by the sea, but there was something more than that, it was the missing component to his odour. The kind of smell that would send small children running. The manager didn’t introduce himself; he just booked them into their rooms,gave them the keys and sent them on their way. On their way out Mr Fletcher noticed the logbook, almost every room was full. He stopped and listened, he could hear the small residency of cockroaches crawling beneath the floorboards, he could hear God walking around upstairs, but it was quiet, too quiet for a hotel that was meant to be full.