The Eaton Page 4

  Sam had made a decision, and turned to Vaughn. “You in?”

  Vaughn glanced back and forth between his friend’s hopeful face and the creepy magic elevator. “Well, you know I’m with you…but shouldn’t someone stay back in order to call 911 if something goes wrong?”

  “This guy’s right,” added Janet, forgetting Vaughn’s name. “There’s no way I’m gonna get phone service down there. And we haven’t even tested the thing.”

  A reasonable thought.

  Sam turned back to the elevator car. “Al, how do we test it?”

  “It doesn’t need to be tested,” came an irritated reply. “These things were built to last hundreds of years.” Sensing a losing battle, he added “this is Victorian craftsmanship” with a dramatic flair. “It’s not some modern piece of junk. No built-in obsolescence here. If it’s powered, it’ll work, end of story.”

  Sarah was looking just outside the elevator car. She asked Sam to shine the light her way, to which he obliged.

  “Here,” she gestured. “It’s a call button. We can send the car down, then call it back up. That’s our test.”

  “The elevator’s not going to move with the door open,” Al scoffed, still standing alone in the car. “Look, if you’re scared, I could just go down myself, count to ten, and come back up and get you kids.”

  “No, no,” Sam insisted. “If anyone’s going to go down alone, it should be me. My property, my risk.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Okay, I love a good dick contest as much as the next girl, but you’re both being stupid. The buttons are on the opposite side of the car, right? We can push one of them with the butt of a light stand after we’ve closed the gate from the outside.”

  “But what if the elevator doesn’t come back up?” Sam protested.

  “That’s the whole point of the test, you idiot.” Her smile softened the insult.

  Al was annoyed. “I really don’t mind going down alone.”

  “No, it’s okay. Come on out. Sarah’s right. We have the ability to do a safe test, and should take it.”

  Grudgingly, Al stepped out of the car and closed both gates behind him. They locked with a satisfying click, and Al took the opportunity to point out this solid craftsmanship to Sam with a brief nod and a hand motion, as if to say, “see?”

  Sam assured the tripod legs of the light he carried were securely closed, then threaded them through a set of bars nearest to the circle marked “1.” With a deep breath, he gently pushed the light stand forward, and activated the button.

  The elevator whirred to life and began to descend. He quickly pulled the tripod back through the iron bars and into the waiting room, almost clipping its metal feet against the ceiling of the moving car. Without a modern, solid external door, the shaft and operating mechanism were visible through the outside gate during the car’s descent. As they shone light upon the chains and motors, it also became clear that Al was correct. Everything was in eerily impeccable shape, and in perfect operating order.

  “This is un-fucking-real,” Vaughn interjected. The rest assented this notion with silence.

  The elevator was slow by modern standards, and it took a several minutes before a dim, mechanical “thud” signaled the elevator car’s arrival at its destination. Sam turned to Sarah and nodded. She returned the nod and pressed the solitary, unlabeled button to the right of the opening. Again, not more than an instant after the button was pushed, the machine whirred to life once more, and after another two minutes, the car was safely back in place, just as they had found it.

  Al stood straight, puffing his chest in triumph. “Now can we go?”

  Sam turned to Sarah with puppy dog eyes, asking not only for permission, but for her enthusiastic accompaniment. She gave both, and grasped his right hand, before taking out her cell phone. “Let me text Kedzie real fast,” she explained. “So someone knows where we are.”

  Vaughn and Al didn’t need encouragement. Soon, the committed four stepped into the car together, and turned back around to Janet, who seemed to be on the fence.

  “Come on, Janet,” teased Sam. “You only live once.”

  “I know,” she responded. “That’s precisely why I don’t take risks.”

  “You can stay and keep watch if you like.”

  She considered this option, but was bored by the thought of sitting in a dark room while four lucky others made what could be the find of the century.

  “Ah hell,” Janet decided, stepping forward at last, joining the group inside the gate. “I’d rather kick myself for missing my next appointment than kick myself for missing this.”

  It took a few moments to decide whether to press “11,” thereby exploring the closest level first, planning to move deeper as they went, or to press “1,” going deepest first, planning to work their way up. Sam made an executive decision to start on “1,” deducing that an etched double ring around the “1” made the floor special, and whatever was stored there would make the most interesting find. After a collective, fingers-crossed intake of musky air, the group agreed, and Sam had again pushed the brass circle “1,” this time inside the car, with an index finger.

  As the car descended, Al observed that the functionality was surprisingly modern for an elevator this old, and expressed relief that the elevator didn’t require a trained operator. Still, as they had observed, it was slower than a modern descent would be, which was particularly noticeable as the car passed ten other floors, each slightly visible through the gate. Vaughn and Sam tried to shine the spotlights through the gate and see what each floor had to offer, for none of the floors were lit, but the glare against the vertical bars and the varying depth of the levels made it impossible to adjust one's eyes to the view beyond. Most floors revealed, if anything, simple hallways, but little else of note. The tenth and fifth floors had been different, with clear brickwork, and higher, arched ceilings, but even with the deliberate pacing, it was too difficult to discern specifics in the dark.

  Finally, they felt their transportation slow further and stop at the bottom of its track. For a moment, nobody moved, paralyzed either by caution, fear, or just the understandable twinge of second thoughts. It was Al who first stepped toward the opening, unlatched both gates, and entered the large room.

  It had taken longer to travel between the second floor and the first, even when accounting for a reduction in speed, and now it was apparent why. The ceiling on this level, like the original room they had found, was at least twelve feet high. Sam was initially convinced they had arrived at a great cavern, for his spotlight seemed to be drowned out by darkness too far away from his location. But as he moved his light around, and looked closer at each illuminated spot, he could see the ceiling above them, the tiled floor beneath them, and eventually, the large, imposing desk which faced them, beckoning, fifty feet away.

  “Hey Janet,” Sam mused. “How many square feet is my property again?”

  “Don’t get too excited, kid. There’s no way all of this is still directly under your little train station.”

  “I don’t know,” Al interjected a few paces away. “We still might be below the parking lot. Anyone remember which direction is north?”

  “I think you give my parking lot too much credit, Al. This place is huge.”

  Sarah was again clutching Sam’s free hand, and with a quick jolt, she felt an unwelcome shiver down the base of her spine as they continued into the room.

  “Are you cold?” asked Sam.

  Sarah paused. “Actually, no. Shouldn’t I be? Shouldn’t it be freezing down here?”

  “Or hotter,” Vaughn said with a dry chuckle. “This much closer to hell, and all.”

  Sam was still curious. “What do you think, Al? Climate control?”

  “Possibly,” came Al’s reply, without any trace of sarcasm, unaware that Sam had been joking.

  Vaughn’s spotlights were a poor match for this wide open space and its uncompromising darkness. They were battery
-powered LEDs, meant for accent lighting, not room illumination. Janet’s pocket flashlight was similarly underpowered for the task. Only small pieces of the puzzle could therefore be seen at any one time—two large French doors to the left and right; a handful of Victorian armchairs in red fabric; the deep mahogany and long curve of the center desk, which was now close; black, wrought iron light fixtures eight feet up on the walls.

  Janet had noticed the fixtures as well, and deduced they must be electric. “Anyone see a light switch?”

  Al seemed to have the same thought. He had already reached the long desk, had quickly maneuvered behind it, and was feeling along the wall with both hands. “Hey,” he called, “could you shine one of the lights my way?”

  Sam and Vaughn both complied, and Al was able to discern a small rectangle carved dead-center into the back wall behind the desk. He identified the rectangle as an inset door, and after a little trial and error, opened in outward. Inside, there were five dial-based switches, each angled upward and to the left. In quick succession, Al switched all five of these to the right, and waited.

  At first, there was just a dull whir, like the sound of distant machinery. But then, the two lights above the desk faded up to full brightness. Additional light fixtures became activated at other points of the great room, most of which had been undetected in the spotlight sweeps. Soon, the area was awash in so much amber light that Sam had to squint to allow his eyes to recover.

  He had begun to make the assumption, as they all had upon seeing certain elements in the spotlights, that this must be some sort of lobby. But Sam had not been prepared for a lobby. Indeed, everyone had gasped—loudly, and in unison—when the lights came up and the truth was revealed. Janet had even dropped her flashlight, which made a small echoing “thump” by her feet and switched itself off. No one even flinched, or noticed.

  Sam gave voice to the thought lingering thick like fog in the room.

  “Holy shit.”

  The lobby, and it was most certainly that, was breathtaking in its design and elegance. The walls were painted in regal reds and browns, which explained why the spotlights had been so ineffective against them. Deep, rich elaborate molding adorned every angle between floor, walls, ceiling, and doorways. Tasteful gold accents were embedded in the desk, the visitors chairs, and even the floor tile.

  But what held Sam’s attention, more than any other feature of this impossible place, were the large, gold, gothic letters dead center on the wall before them, proudly declaring the name of where they had ended up:

  T H E E A T O N

  Sarah, realizing the only plausible explanation, asked softly, to no one in particular: “…a hotel?”

  Al stared at the letters in utter astonishment, as if he had solved some ancient riddle. He thought of his childhood, his Grandpa, and of all the buildings he had explored and restored over the years. Then, he laughed aloud. As he was still standing behind the large concierge desk, Al turned to his companions, feigned an air of sophistication and belonging, and placed his hands down on the shiny, lacquered wood.

  “Why yes, ma’am, and welcome,” he said in a mocking tone of professional courtesy. “Would you ladies and gentlemen happen to have a reservation?”

  five

  The first floor of The Eaton was massive by comparison to the defunct train station above it, but quite intimate when compared with a modern hotel. The main floor was divided roughly into thirds, with the lobby, desk, and a small posterior employees area making up the center column, a ballroom and bar through double doors to the left of the lobby, and a dining room and kitchen through double doors to the right. Al estimated the entire size of the level at about 5,000 sq ft., perhaps 70 feet square. The ballroom had a small brass sign listing its capacity as 80 persons, and the dining area, with a portion cut out for the kitchen, had a listed capacity of 65. The luxury apparent in every detail seemed designed to impress an elite group of guests.

  Sarah had been drawn to the dining room. There were fifteen tables, three rows of five, with padded wooden armchairs arranged around each. Each table was dressed with a crisp, white thick linen tablecloth, and a small brass candle holder at each table’s center. A few extra chairs ran along the far wall, near a small serving area which connected with a back kitchen. The lack of cobwebs and significant dust struck Sarah as quite odd, for if they had truly stumbled upon a long-closed hotel, she assumed there would be more evidence of neglect.

  Al startled Sarah as she was running her finger along the server’s countertop, checking her dust hypothesis. “We’re underground,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s a sealed space. Dust has to come from somewhere. In fact, most dust, in a house or office, is nothing but dead skin cells. I’m guessing there hasn’t been any skin down here in over a hundred years.”

  “That’s…disgusting.”

  Al shrugged, unaffected. “It’s true. I used to sell Kirby vacuums when I was right outta high school. One of the sales pitches we were trained to use was sucking dust out of a person’s mattress, then peeling the sticky, dusty film out of the canister, explaining to the client how we were holding a sheet of their rotting skin in front of them. The first woman I tried this on just ran to the bathroom to vomit, which convinced me I had lost the sale for sure. But then she came back with her checkbook and bought the premium model.”

  “As gross as that story is,” Sarah continued with a disgusted shudder, “surely you must find the condition of this place a little too good to be true.”

  “Oh, no doubt,” Al eagerly admitted. “This is fucking golden.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, that depends. If I’m right about the climate control, I believe that a consistent temperature, in a protected underground environment, might very well hold up a hundred years or more. But I’m not saying it ain’t weird. How often do you get the chance to walk back in time?”

  Sarah and Al heard Sam calling to them from the lobby. They left the dining area and found him, standing near the entrance of the ballroom, beckoning them to follow.

  Vaughn and Janet were already inside, Janet sitting at a barstool, with Vaughn behind the bar. He had retrieved an old bottle of scotch, and presented it with with pride to the entering patrons.

  “Guys, check this out. It’s a 12-year-old scotch. From 110 years ago, according to the label. Which means…it’s a 122-year-old scotch! We have to try this.”

  Al rolled his eyes. “Scotch doesn’t age in the bottle. It ages in the barrel. A 12-year-old bottled scotch 50 years later or even 100 years later is still a 12-year-old scotch.”

  Vaughn looked disappointed, then recovered. “But dude, seriously. You’re not going to try some?”

  Al cracked a smile. “Well, I didn’t say that.”

  “That bottle might be worth a lot of money,” Janet protested. “You sure you want to waste it?”

  Sam stepped in. “I believe Vaughn’s response would be that drinking quality alcohol would never be considered ‘wasteful.’”

  Vaughn smiled in concurrence. “And besides,” he added, “I bet there are a hundred unopened bottles in these cabinets. I think we can spare one for celebration.”

  Al sat down next to Janet, and Sam and Sarah embraced momentarily, holding hands again. Sam looked into his girlfriend’s eyes with such vivacious intensity that she almost burst out laughing in response. She hadn’t seen that look since the first time they had made love two years ago.

  “I’m a little jealous, sweetie,” she admitted. “You’re looking at The Eaton with more love than you look at me.”

  “Oh, Sarah,” Sam protested in response, “I am looking at you. I wouldn’t be this excited without you here. I’m excited for the future this could mean for both of us. What good is finding treasure without someone to share it with?”

  Sarah beamed at this. But she saw a hint in his eyes that wasn’t just excitement, or love for this discovery, or l
ove for her. It was something different, something new, as if their natural blue color had gained an attractive new sparkle. And as she leaned back to observe him more carefully, she realized it wasn’t just his eyes. Sam’s posture had changed as well, and he stood a little straighter, as if in uniform. Since they had been together, Sarah couldn’t remember a single time he had appeared to her in this condition, and it soon dawned on her what it was: pride. He was exuding a sense of accomplishment that, even on his best days, had always eluded him. He had found this old train station. He had gone through hell to buy it. And now, mere hours after signing the documents and getting the keys, he didn’t even have to wait a year to see if his proposed nightclub would be become profitable. Rather, with this discovery, he had become a success today. And he knew it.

  Sam couldn’t resist snapping a few quick photos with his cell phone, including a selfie with Sarah, though naturally they were too far underground to have cell service, and The Eaton was a hundred years too old for hotel wi-fi. Still, it would make one hell of a post later.

  Vaughn had poured five drinks, and managed a gentle, impatient cough to persuade Sam and Sarah to sit down. They obliged, and each lifted a heavy, leaded glass into the air. Vaughn opened his mouth to speak, then silenced himself, deferring to Sam with a nod. His friend took the cue.

  “To The Eaton,” Sam declared in triumph.

  “To The Eaton,” his friends repeated.

  Each took their scotch in a single gulp. All but Al gasped and choked before the empty glasses clinked back down to the bar.

  “Christ,” coughed Sam. “Is it supposed to taste like that?”

  Al closed his eyes and smiled. “Only when you’re lucky, kid.”

  Sam regained his composure, turned back to Sarah, and kissed her on the cheek, a gesture of thanks for partaking in the fire water. She squeezed his hand in reply, and again had a smile for him.