Welcome to a place where things can mysteriously go missing. Does anyone out there have anything to lose?

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The Disposal Room
by Terry Volkirch

The street sign pointed only one way, the little lane met the larger street but did not continue on the other side. A large Craftsman-style home occupied one corner, converted years ago into a sort of rooming-house-cum-residence-hotel-cum-bed-and-breakfast. A big squarish building with gables and porches, the one-time mansion bore it’s demotion to commercial property with the dignity of a bankrupt financier operating a hot dog wagon.

A woodlot sat on the other corner, a clutter of neat stacks of firewood and seemingly random piles of jumbled logs. The randomness, the owner would say, resulted from the necessary moving and turning of the piles of curing wood. A regular array would be less efficient at the task and would have to be unstacked and restacked to be sure the wood cured evenly. Simply moving the pile from one place to another once a week with an ancient forklift turned all the logs over and assured that each got enough sun and air to turn into perfect firewood.

The lane did not continue past the end of the woodlot or the small row of outbuildings behind the mansion. The house, being the only important building facing the street, bore a singular number and the name of the lane as its address. One April Morning.

On this particular morning, a resident of the former mansion woke to a life-changing discovery....

The owner of the establishment stood behind a large oak counter that hid his perfectly creased gray trousers. His matching blazer covered a wrinkle-free lavender dress shirt with the top button left undone. The man didn't like ties. He waited patiently and quietly for the punctual morning delivery of the mail. His face bore a perpetual frown, though the look seemed appropriate for the circumstances that morning.

"What's all that screaming about?" he asked his faithful second in command, referring to the noise coming from the third resident of the house, a cleaning woman by trade, though she did much more than clean the rooms.

The concierge stood just off to his right as usual, wearing a gray Armani pant suit, her blonde hair and makeup professional and perfect. As the sound of screaming got louder and closer, a very faint smile appeared on her face.

"I believe it's our housekeeping professional," she said with a slight French accent. "I moved her to room 1 over the weekend."

"The Disposal Room?!" he said, not quite raising his voice enough to be considered shouting.

The owner nicknamed it the Disposal Room because unwanted things mysteriously went missing there on the first of the month. Whenever an old piece of furniture wasn't worth selling or fixing up, he'd drag it up to room 1 on the last day of the month and leave it there over night. Have a hideous painting that couldn't be given away? Leave it in room 1. By the next morning, the offending object would be gone. No one knew what happened to the things that went missing, and they didn't really want to know. There were no feelings of dread or bad vibes and that satisfied most people. Only the owner seemed bothered by the room, though he still took advantage of it.

The source of the shouting entered the lobby and interrupted the conversation before it could get started. A tall woman in loose blue jeans and a white cable knit sweater appeared before the front desk huffing and puffing. Her wild looking eyes peeked out through strands of long, straight black hair that needed brushing and her face was free of any makeup. She gripped the front edge of the counter with large hands and tried very hard not to break anything.

"It's gone! How? Why? What in tarnation is going on?!" she shouted, her voice in a slightly deeper range than she normally presented.

"Derek?" the concierge asked. "Would you like to take this or should I?"

"I'll try," he replied, turning to face the tall woman.

"I take it you've lost something?"

"You're damn right I lost somethin'! Is this some kind of freaky April Fool's joke or somethin'? If it is, I ain't laughin'."

"I can assure you, Miss Roberts. It might be the first of April but we don't do pranks here."

"Well then? Where did... it go?"

"Does it matter?" Derek asked. "Do you want whatever it is you lost to be returned to you?"

"Hell no, I don't want it back. I've been waitin' years to get rid of it!"

"Then I don't see a problem. Shouldn't you be happy?" The man tried to smile and failed.

The now confused woman edged away from the counter and fell back into a plush white chair. "Yer right," she muttered to herself. "I should be happy. And maybe I will be… after the shock wears off. It ain't right things goin' missin' like that."

Just then, the front door opened with a gust of wind, bringing with it a few dead leaves and a severe frown on the owner's face.

"Can I help you, Mister Tanner?" he asked the man who followed after the leaves.

A gray-haired man wearing a ratty looking heavy brown coat and a hat with ear flaps smiled back at him with a face full of prominent laugh lines and a couple spots of smeared grease. "Good mornin' to you too, Mister Fancy Pants. I done the wood like you asked. Got anythin' else you want doin'?"

Derek started to speak but his concierge beat him to it.

"Please take Miss Roberts here," she pointed to the seated woman, "for a tour of the grounds. I'd like her to become familiar with everything, not just the rooms."

The old man squinted at the concierge and paused a few seconds. He never could quite figure her out, more so than most women that is. "Sure," he finally said, turning towards the tall woman.

"What's yer first name, Missy?" he asked. "I don't do so well with last names."

"Peg," she said, standing and holding out her hand.

The old man gently shook her hand. "I'm Zeke," he said. "Nice to meetcha. Shall we?" He held out his open hand towards the front door.

Peg stood up and smiled. "Sure. Nice to meet you too, Zeke. How's the weather outside?"

He smiled back. "Just a few gusts of wind. You'll do fine in the sun I think. Spring is in the air."

The pair left together, letting in a few more dead leaves that Derek couldn't help notice. He'd ask Miss Roberts to take care of them as soon as she got back. In the meantime, he had a conversation to finish.

"You've been naughty," he told the blonde.

The left corner of her mouth twitched.

"Don't you have anything to say?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." She paused, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "I'm thinking we could advertise… by word of mouth… starting with Miss Roberts. She only started here a week ago but she's fitting in nicely. She and I have had a nice talk and I've come to discover there are many others like her… like she used to be... that could use a stay in room 1."

"Really, Miss Tarquin. This is highly irregular."

"Not as irregular as her… former condition," the woman said. "A single night's stay, or perhaps a weekend, wouldn't mean much in terms of income but I'm hoping that we'd be able to pick up more incidental business, through gratitude or perhaps even curiosity."

"That's true," the man conceded. "However I don't feel comfortable letting more people know about that room."

"It fulfills an important need, Derek. It needs to be done. Please let me do this much."

The beautiful creature flashed him a feral smile, causing him fear and arousal in equal measure. He nodded back to her and turned to face the front door, waiting for the mail. Maybe… someday… he'd work up the nerve to ask her out on a date. She might even say yes. Stranger things have happened.

*** The End ***

 © 2013 by Terry Volkirch. This work may not be replicated in whole or in part by any means electronic or otherwise without the express consent of the Author (copyright holder). All Rights Reserved. This is a work of Fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents past, present or future is purely coincidental.