THE GULL CRY HOTEL: Occult Supernatural Mystery by Catherine G. Lurid

Author:Catherine G. Lurid [Lurid, Catherine G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Outside, dawn was breaking. Anna was approaching the final scene. At some point, she reconciled with all the horrors unfolding around her and focused on her work. Thank goodness, as the sun rose higher, the corridor grew quieter, but not the room. No. Whispers continued to murmur and mutter there. That was when Anna threw on a woolen cardigan, grabbed her laptop, and left the room. At six in the morning, the lobby was empty, still smelling of whiskey from the evening’s gathering, and unbearably cold. Settling into Jill Amsterham’s spot, the writer stared at the screen. This armchair seemed to have absorbed all of Jill’s creams—the ones that smelt so familiar to Anna this morning.

How quiet! she exclaimed with relief. How wonderfully quiet …

An hour passed as if it were a minute. All the fears she had experienced found refuge in the mystical novel—a novel destined to revive Anna Walker’s career and become another bestseller. She had heard many times that for a creative breakthrough, many writers turn to psychoactive substances. Some of them immerse themselves so deeply in their characters that after putting the final period in their manuscripts, they head to a rehabilitation clinic. Anna no longer cared about what would happen afterward. She was completely consumed by what was flowing from her pen right now.

“Good morning.” Benedict appeared on the stairs.

In a neat tweed suit and a stiffly starched shirt, he looked as if he hadn’t lain down since the evening before—the only gentleman among the rustic islanders. Anna never asked where he came from, but from the very beginning, she was convinced it was Dublin. Residents of the Irish capital always had three things: impeccable manners, innate kindness, and a retro style.

“Good morning, Benedict! I apologize—”

“Stop it, dear Anna!” he immediately interjected. “Believe me, each of us has reasons to be concerned. If you want to talk about it, I’m all ears. But if you prefer to keep it to yourself, I won’t pester you with questions. Agreed?”

Anna nodded.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, Benedict, I really would.” Anna perked up. “But let me brew it for us, and you can read this in the meantime.” She turned the laptop toward her companion, and he hurried to take his reading glasses out of his breast pocket.

“Do you not fear showing the manuscript before publication?” He smirked.

“Stop it—you don’t seem like a competitor. In reality, there are only seven plotlines. Ideas in books repeat all the time; what can’t be replicated is the style. Immersion in the atmosphere, the utterly realistic depiction of unreal things and events. And that, Benedict, is impossible to steal and extremely difficult to replicate. Besides, every creator would like to hear a few kind compliments for motivation.” She winked.

She was on the rise. She was genuinely enjoying what she was creating.

Anna turned on the coffee machine, stretched her back, and faced the French windows. The fog had lifted, but only slightly. Beyond the glass, a small patch of green lawn appeared like an island, and a strip of damp gravel was visible, followed by white mist.

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