Page 10 of Oh No! There's an Incubus in my Hot Spring
Crowded.
Dilapidated.
Not up to code.
“Fuuuuck meeee,” I groan, wishing Irene had put some Baileys in my latte.
The main building is jutting right out of the mountain with an entrance at the bottom, but much of it looks completely unsupported. To the left and right are smaller buildings attached by arboreal corridors. I’m guessing one is my home, but the other is maybe storage? The photo walkthrough of the space wasbad, as my mother pointed out many times. But still, it’s mine.
So, I pull up my big-girl panties and head toward the main entrance.
The key is in a lockbox on the side that opens to the passcode: 1111.
I turn the key and illuminate the space with my phone light. The interior has real wood walls and ceilings, giving it a cabin-like feel. Dust coats the carpet, and there’s not a single footprint. Motherfuckers. Those photos really were from twenty years ago.
The antechamber has a sitting room populated with musky couches that I’m sure have been fucked on more times than a haunted couch should, and a customer service station carved into the mountain. Little empty alcoves punctuate the walls near the couches where I might put magazines or drink stations. Dust wafts off the carpet as I walk, revealing its color.
“Red. Really?”
I wish I had Charlie with me. He’s in the back of the car.
I keep going, panning my light from side to side as I take sips from my latte. The all-wood walls stop past the service desk, and a thick layer of something dark melds the planks to the rocky surface of the mountain itself. I shine my light directly on the substance, hoping to ascertain its composition but get no further details with more illumination. It looks like some kind of sap, or tar. One more mystery for the contractors, but it’s been doing a fine job of holding the place together so far.
Past the main entrance, there’s a hallway leading to what I assume is the owner’s place since there’s a “Do Not Enter” sign on the wall, and another hallway leading to locker rooms for men and women. I’ll need to update them to include a private option.
I step into the women’s locker room. The walls are white tiles with blue accents. Not terrible looking, but definitely outdated. The raw material of the mountain is actually quite lovely…I wonder if I can just have it shaped and polished.
My mental list is starting to get a bit long, so I start typing down notes in my phone.
The standing lockers are wood, and not cedar, so they’re completely rotted out after twenty years of darkness and humidity. Hells, this place is kinda creepy even when you don’t believe in ghosts.
I find the sinks, toilets, and showers farther in. Everything is bare and exposed, but there are no deep cracks and no furrows that show the structure is damaged irreparably, which is a great sign.
I leave the locker room and head deeper into the mountain. The first hallway leads left and right or up. A wooden sign on the wall states there are private saunas to the left and public pools to the right. I could check out the rest of the first floor, but something draws me up the stairs.
It’s a narrow, winding staircase with no handrail. A safety hazard just waiting to blossom into a lawsuit like my mom said. But it’s carved into the stone of the mountain, so theoretically, I can have a handrail carved in too, or anchored with metal rods. I’m not even sure how much stonemasonry costs. It’s a good thing I still have a nice lump of money in my business account.
The second floor is all mountain. No red carpet, no wood, no tile. The place definitely has an appeal for the au naturel. Lines of silver run along the ceiling and part of me wonders just how much that might be worth. Maybe I should scrap the whole place and mine it.
Don’t you dare.My monologue takes on a new, masculine voice, and I suck in a breath.
“What the fuuuuck?” I say to the dark walls, but no one answers.
I’m probably just high on nutmeg. It’s a real thing. I looked it up last year when my local barista told me I was drinking too many PSLs.
White spray paint carves across the back wall beside the stairs, claiming this space as “Leonard’s,” whoever that is. My fingers graze along the rough wall and the paint, feeling what’s mine.
Mine.
I stop to inhale the sulfuric air.
“It’s all fucking mine,” I say to no one but Leonard. His claim will be removed soon enough.
My phone bleats at me, warning that it’s at twenty percent battery.
“Of course,” I say with a sigh.
Tour cut short, but that’s fine. I have a power bank in the car, along with my blow-up mattress and everything else. I can come back later.
