Vigliacco’s Quest
February 15, 2010

With one hand resting on the shifter knob, fingers tapping nervously on the worn leather cover, he drove along the windy back road he found himself on. Normally he wouldn’t take such a road, but a rockslide had blocked the main road and this was the only other way that could get him to where he was going. He didn’t like this road because it was full of potholes and cracks, obviously not a high traffic road. There were no lines painted on the asphalt, but it was wide enough for two vehicles going in opposite directions, though he hadn’t seen another driver all day since he’d been on it despite that it was almost noon. This back road was taking him through a dense forest and he could only see the sky in small pieces, which made him nervous. The radio was only picking up static, so he had turned it off. He had no tapes to play, so he listened to the sound of his tires on the road and tried to stay calm. A battered road sign told him that he had another ten miles to the highway, but only a mile to a hotel he had never heard of. He sighed inwardly and pressed his foot down on the accelerator a little harder, eager to be around people again. The engine growled as his speed increased, pushing the tiny car along. He hadn’t gone far after speeding up before he heard a metallic clanging and a gaseous sputtering come from under his hood, followed by a plume of smoke the same color as the road. “What? No, no, no…” he cried as the car slowed to a stop and the engine died completely.

He turned the key in the ignition but the car wouldn’t start, even after several tries. He climbed out and slammed the door shut behind him. The engine was still smoking but had ceased making noises. He put his hands behind his head and made an angry grunting sound while kicking the car’s front tire. Exasperated, he looked around vainly for a telephone booth. To his surprise, he had stopped just outside the parking lot of the hotel that the sign had mentioned.

“Well, Vigliacco, it looks like you’re not royally screwed.” He said to himself as he started across the weed-strewn lot. The hotel was a three-storied Victorian house with peeling brown paint and broken latticework hanging from the eaves. All of the window shutters were closed and no light could be seen through their slats. The front door was a heavy wooden block with a wrought iron handle and a decorative stained glass inlay which was dirty and faded so much that all the colors seemed to be various shades of brown. There was no sign proclaiming the building’s name or its vacancy status.

Vigliacco walked up the cracked wooden steps to the door, slowly processing his surroundings. He took a nervous step forward and tried the door. The latch clicked and the door opened slightly and he looked through the crack into the hotel’s lobby. The room was small having only a reception counter, a door to the east, and a staircase to the west occupying it. The counter was covered in dust, as was the hardwood floor. From the door he could see a telephone on the counter. Taking a deep breath he stepped inside and crept toward the phone. The floor creaked as he walked over it, making him flinch with each step. When he reached the phone, he picked up its dusty receiver with high hopes. To his relief he heard a dial tone. With a quick pace he turned the phone’s rotary dial and called a tow service he knew by heart. While it rang, he tapped his fingers against his leg, holding his breath the whole time. When the tow shop answered he blurted out his situation so quick that the man couldn’t understand him and asked him to repeat it. After a deep breath, Vigliacco explained more slowly of his predicament and his location. Once he was finished, the man on the other end told him that it would be twenty minutes till he could get there. With a curt thank you, he hung up the receiver.

When the clatter from the heavy plastic subsided, he could hear a wind picking up outside. The shutters rattled against the windows, surrounding him with heart-stopping noise. His whole body shook with fright and he began to walk to the door. When he reached the open door and was about to step across the threshold a series of creaks came from the floor above him, evenly paced and sounding like his own footsteps on the lobby floor. The closest creak stopped at the top of the stairs. He couldn’t see up the stairs from his location by the door, but he was sure he didn’t want to see.

Vigliacco ran through the door, leaving it open behind him. He flew down the stairs and across the vacant lot, back to his still smoking vehicle. He slid over the hood to the driver’s side and jumped inside. When the door was shut and locked, he began to breathe rapidly, so much so that he pulled a paper bag from his jacket and breathed into it for several minutes. When he calmed down, he looked back toward the hotel. The lot was still empty, and the door was still open. The wind was still blowing, but the shutters had ceased to rattle. He lowered the bag from his mouth and stared at the run-down hotel. Just as he was starting to look away, he saw the hotel door shut violently, making him jump in his seat and resume his hyperventilating.

His experience in the hotel had been frightening and he was glad to be out of there, sure that it had just been his imagination, but all during the time he waited for the tow truck, he kept one eye on the hotel’s front door, just in case.