Down World by Rebecca Phelps (best new books to read .txt) 📕

“I’m with you,” Brady said, his tone softening. “Of course I’m with you.”

We were sitting close together again, conspiring in whispers like we had in his room that day. But then he pulled away.

“Besides, it’s the only way I’ll find Piper.” He stood and offered me a hand to help me up.

“All right, then. I guess we should invite ourselves to dinner or something.”

“Okay,” Brady agreed, guiding me over to the hotel again, “but remember, if John eats after five, he gets heartburn.”

I laughed again. “I’ll bring him a celery stick,” I said, indicating the garden plot beside us marked CELERY, but containing nothing but weeds and dirt. Brady cracked up as we walked back inside.

We searched the whole ground floor for Sage, who had apparently disappeared.

“Hello?” I called as we made our way from room to room. As Brady had pointed out, this place was indeed “creepy.” The whole building was very old and looked somehow frozen in time from the Old West. The carpet and the wallpaper both used the same dark red and brown colors, designed in swirls, which, while clean, had been dulled and darkened by the years.

There was a front desk with an old-fashioned register and an actual rotary phone hanging from the wall. It smelled like burned coffee and I looked around for where it might be coming from.

“Do you feel like we’re in an episode of Scooby-Doo?” Brady asked.

“Totally,” I agreed. “And they would have gotten away with it too . . .”

“ . . . if it hadn’t been for those darn kids.”

It was then that we heard the music drifting down from upstairs. It was a bluesy kind of music, and it reminded me of something my grandpa would listen to—a woman with a high voice singing on what sounded like an old record player. Floorboards creaked overhead. The hotel was so old that every time someone moved above you, you could trace their every step simply by listening to the creaks.

I pointed to the sound and started walking up the wide staircase that curved behind the front desk, covered in that same threadbare burgundy carpet. Brady followed.

The second floor looked like a typical hotel floor, with long dark hallways leading to maybe a half dozen doors in either direction. We heard someone humming to herself from one of the rooms with a propped-open door, and I could tell it was Sage, probably doing some cleaning. That must have been the source of the footsteps we’d heard, but not of the old-fashioned music. That came from farther up the stairs. I glanced at Brady, who nodded towards the music.

With each passing floor, the music grew louder, but we had not yet reached its source. Each of the next three floors looked exactly the same, and there was no indication that any guest was staying in any of the rooms. In fact, judging by the generally dank smell of old cigarettes and mildew, I would guess that no one had stayed here in decades.

Around the next bend, the staircase narrowed and was met at the top by a door. It was notable, since it looked like the front door of a house, complete with knocker, and had clearly been installed by the hotel’s owners. The door was slightly ajar and the music was pounding out of it, accompanied by the tapping of a foot keeping rhythm inside.

I looked to Brady, who gave me a shrug and nodded towards the door. I smiled and nodded in agreement. I took a second to collect myself and then banged the knocker a couple of times.

I wasn’t prepared for how loud it would be. It echoed like we were standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon. I flinched, and Brady moved to edge himself in front of me in a protective way, until we could see who answered.

“Is that them, Sage?” came a man’s voice. “I thought you said they left.”

Brady seemed to think about it for a second, debating whether to respond or just push the door open. “It . . . it’s us, sir,” he called.

After a brief moment, the music turned off and the silence from behind the door was startling. “Well . . . ,” the man finally said. “Are you coming in or what?”

Brady positioned his body to block mine even more as he pushed the door open. I couldn’t really see anything but his back when I heard him gasp at the sight before us.

“What? What is it?” I asked, all but pushing him out of the way. I came around him and saw the last thing I had been expecting.

The top floor of the hotel had been completely gutted. They had knocked out all the walls, removing every room, and leaving nothing but a few support posts here and there. The hideous carpet had been replaced with hardwood floors, highly polished and bolted together with what looked like flattened black railway ties. What remained was one enormous loft, clearly decorated by Sage, with sitting areas here and there peppered with ornate throw pillows, white billowy sheets separating a bedroom area from a dining area, and wisps of yellow sunlight streaming in across a coffee table that looked like it had been handmade using one enormous piece of wood from a giant tree. And a glimpse to my right revealed a large bathroom area, the only part of the whole place with a door, painted fire-engine red.

Sage and John lived in my dream apartment. It was like they had read my mind. Or maybe I had read theirs. It was so beautiful I suddenly wanted to cry.

John was sitting at a workbench. He had a magnifying glass strapped to his forehead and seemed to be painting little figurines under a lamp. It seemed like an odd pastime for a man who looked about forty, but judging from the collection of little warriors and knights before him, he had been at it for quite a while.

“Well,