The Unhallowed

Took me a moment to process the wording. "That's, uh, that's okay. Was by choice."

He nodded gravely, then took out his measuring tape and had me hold one end against my waist. Because my dimensions had changed so much since last night.

Well, some of them had. He'd gone through this rigmarole before snapping his fingers, after all. And a snap of his fingers was all it had taken. But that meant the measuring tape was just for show, the only purpose it could possibly serve was to generate buy-in. Get people to lower their guard by making them feel as though the sort of thing that should be happening was the sort of the thing that was happening. Why bother with that now?

Especially my dang inseam? I was still the same height.

"Think I'll go with the caveman tonight," I said, realizing there'd been no bag of tokens. "Or is that not allowed? Are we doomed to wear the same costume night after night, so as to remind us that we're at the mercy of The Unhallowed? That however much it might feel like it, we are not free in even in the most minimal sense?"

Igor cleared his throat. "Smart choice. You make good caveman."

I was so very flattered to hear that from a guy who spoke in monosyllables.

"Yes?" he asked after dismissing my jeans and T-shirt, replacing them with a Fred Flintstone smock, orange with black triangles, and blue necktie that was tied far too loose. "Everyone see biceps. Great biceps, very big."

I sighed. "Was mammoth wool last night."

"For him. Not for you."

So there was a limited set of options---very limited, as far as I could---but plenty of room for customization? Pick one of these dozen archetypes that have been around since the fifties or whenever, then go crazy. Make it your own. Or, rather, let Igor do that for you.

And why not? If I was to make a list of things that bothered me about this place and the deal we'd been offered to save our father, that would only rate so highly.

Might not even make it, depending on the mood I was in. Heck, it almost qualified as silver lining. I looked forward to seeing what Cass could do with the kitty cat costume, what our mom would look like as a witch. Whether her dress would fall to the floor or she'd embrace the hotel's standard. Whether that was even up to her. Pondering such things not a waste of time either, as sooner or later they'd be bound to make those choices. Yet when they did, they wouldn't look the same as the last woman who had.

"Can you, um, make my hair longer? Messier?" I asked Igor, running a hand through it. "And get rid of the beard? Pretty sure Fred rock's stubble."

He could and did.

#

Cass had opted for the schoolgirl, our mom the nurse. I tried to remember if the latter had been coherent enough to have picked that for the same reason my sister had picked hers. To remember what the ghost who'd lured her husband away, who was responsible, if no more than the man himself was, for him being trapped in this hotel.

Then decided it didn't matter.

I'd have told them both how good they looked---which they did; I'm not above white lies and mere flattery, especially when it comes to friends and family, but I was at the point now where it was pretty much impossible for either one of them to not give me a heart attack---if they hadn't gotten straight to business. Hadn't made eye contact with each of the guests, males in particular, then engineered an accidental meeting near the bar, or the dessert table, or on the dance floor, with whomever had stared the longest.

Jealousy reared its ugly head. Had to remind myself that we were not on vacation, that hey weren't flirting with those men because they were feeling randy, or lonely, or to spice things up. They were trying to get their husbands back.

And if I'd really stuck around to support them, to help them, to rescue my freaking father---did somebody say something about a brother-in-law?---I'd stop waiting for them to decide there were no good prospects here tonight and start talking to some of the women. Who, incidentally, were easy enough on the eyes. Every last one of them.

"So who are you here with?" the witch asked after handing me a drink I hadn't asked for. "Haven't seen you talking to anyone. Can't seem to keep your eyes off the nurse, though." Her fingers found a gold wedding band, gave it an unconscious twirl. Or perhaps a strategic one. "Mine's the wolfman. Unfortunately, he's pretty tame. If you know what I mean."

Didn't mean to scowl, but I felt it happen. Saw her reaction.

"I'm not looking to get that wild," she assured me, hand on my bicep. I may or may not have flexed it. "Not looking to wild at all, really. Just... primal."

Like a caveman? Subtle. Very subtle.

"Does he like to watch?"

"Would we be here otherwise?"

How should I know what they'd heard about his place? I wasn't even sure what my parents had. Yet I did know that The Unhallowed tailored its marketing. Did this witch think she'd dragged her husband to an adult get-together whose only rule was that whatever happened here stayed here? Or did she have specific expectations?

The latter, most likely. Expectations no one seemed to have had the night before.

Expectations that were already being met.

Since we'd started talking, all of sixty seconds ago, the dance floor had ceased to be a dance floor. It was now a performance stage, albeit one that was not elevated. The wolfman---witchy's hubby---had his pants around his ankles and his dick was being passed from the fluffy bunny's mouth to the pussy cat's. Thus proving how tame he was? I guess?

They might have been the ones who'd broken the dam, but it was all flowing freely now. It was like the music had stopped and everyone was scrambling to find a place to sit---or a person to sit on---before they were all taken. I'd barely begun to process the first brazen act when a second and third got underway. One of which involved my mother.

No, not her. Couldn't be. Some other nurse let out a nervous laugh as the pirate guided her onto all fours, told the cop to present his nightstick, then took up position behind her. Was about to suck one guy off while another hammered away at her.

Or not? Were those signs of reluctance?

If so, they were signs the guys chose to ignore. Which might have prompted me to run over there and beat their asses if I thought there was any chance my mother would thank me for doing so. If I didn't know that her consent was not conditional on her arousal, that she had her own reasons for doing this, entirely independent of pleasure.

Which she nonetheless seemed to be experiencing.

"Uh oh," the witch said playfully. "Fun's started, and your wife didn't wait for the signal." Another caress of my arms. She was really into biceps, wasn't she? That, or cartoon characters. "Haven't got anything against cops, have you?"

"Are you asking about my politics?" One comment about riots, about how all lives matter, and... well, I guess it wouldn't change anything. Would be selfish to allow it to.

Still turn into one of those ugly witches, though. In my mind at least. Even if she did have luxurious black hair, plump lips, and the cutest little nose. Not long or crooked.

"Anyway, that's not my wife your husband's with." When I saw her bemused expression, I added, "Or my girlfriend." Still wasn't getting it. "We're not together."

And I wasn't saying that because I needed to hear it.

"Then which one is yours?"

She seemed awful sure that I was. Heart racing, I told her the schoolgirl was.

Would I pay for that later? Or would the bigger mistake be saying something that would tip her off? Sam had said we were allowed to do that, as long as we didn't spell things out for them, hadn't he? Didn't tell them exactly what would happen if---

I followed her gaze, lost my train of thought. No signs of reluctance from Cass. She was riding the cowboy like a bucking bronco. Even twirling an imaginary lasso overhead.

"She didn't wait either."

"Doesn't need to," I said. "It's not like that between us. I trust her. Trust her judgment. As long as I'm in the room, or she tells me about it after, we're good."

"We're the same way." Instead of caressing my arm, she took my hand and planted it on her hip. "Most of the couples we play with are still kinda new to whole scene, though. Just opened their marriage, haven't really done anything yet, you remember that stage."

Suppose I would if I was the sort of person I was pretending to be. But in that case, would she need to go on like that? Would we still be---wait, it was my fault, wasn't it? That she'd approached me did not mean it wasn't the guy's job to initiate. Some things never change. Or won't until those who see themselves as liberated, as open-minded, allow themselves to question stereotypes handed down by people whose authority they rejected.

Telling myself I was doing it for Dad, I forced the witch to her knees.

#

Back in the room by eleven.

I was, not the other two. They were having too much fun.

Uncharitable to think that way? Maybe, but if I understood the situation, if Sam hadn't explained it to them differently than he had me, their jobs had been done for a while now. Kudos to them for feeding the house not one, not two, but five souls in a single night, as that got us off to a great start, but, um, yeah. Once every man in the room---except for me, obviously---had shot a load in either Cass or Mom, there was nothing to be gained by letting themselves be passed around some more. By offering some guys, most of them really, a second go. A third. No reason, that is, except for the one I'd just ascribed.

"Oh, you're still up," Mom said when she came in. Her hair was a mess, the white pumps dangled from her fingers, and she only had one stocking on. A glorious mess. I'd be lying if I said I was any less attracted to her now than I had been at the start of the night.

Okay, maybe somewhat less. Infinity minus a hundred is still infinity.

A few fumbling steps toward the bathroom. Drunk again, though not on alcohol this time. Hadn't seen a glass touch her lips. "Thought you left because you were tired."

"I said that, sure. But some of us---"

However much her appearance had changed, that was a motherly glower.

I cleared my throat. "That came out wrong."

"Uh huh."

Further attempts at offering an apology should have been made. By me. Yet I couldn't help thinking she should be trying to mollify me. Or the two of us, as adults, should accept that others were going to do what they were going to do and think what they were going to think, that I was no less entitled to an opinion than she was her actions.

"Cass said not to wait up." Her tone was cold. Fair or not, I was on the shit list. "Think she's hoping for an invitation to spend the night with wolfie."

"And the witch."

"Probably." I preferred to cold. "Is that okay? Does she have your permission?"

Wow. "Doesn't need it," I mumbled.

"What's that?"

"She doesn't need it."

"Damn straight."

I got up, grabbed a beer from the minibar. Not like we were gonna be charged for it. Plopped down on one of the beds. One of two beds. Still hadn't discussed how that was going to work. Whether one of us was supposed to sleep in a chair the way I had most of the afternoon. "Can we not do this? Next two weeks are gonna be hard---"

"Not gonna take two weeks," my mom called from the bathroom. "Not if I have anything to say about it." The faucet came on. "Not if we have another night like tonight."

True. Yet also besides the point.

When she returned, it looked like she'd taken a shower, dried her hair, applied a fresh coat of makeup. Yet all she'd done was change out of the costume.

It surprised me, at first, to see that she was still young, or of indeterminate age at least, still built like a wet dream. Shouldn't have, because I still had my abs, even if they didn't show when I was sitting like this, my jawline, the veins in my arms. Because Cass and I had looked better than we had any right earlier, while Mom was still asleep. Because Sam had all but revealed that it wasn't the costumes that had transformed us the night before but the hotel itself and we were still in the hotel. Had given ourselves to the hotel, if only temporarily. All the same, I had not been prepared for her to look that good. For her hair to hang in perfect sheets to either side of her head, for her lips to be so red, for the figure her silk robe did not conceal to be so curvaceous. Her skin so smooth and devoid of cellulite.

Her eyes went to the bottle in my hand, then without passing judgment, she opened a small bottle of wine. Leaned against the dresser, not quite sitting on it yet still giving her poor son reason to be somewhat envious of wood and nails. "Need I remind you that your father was taken from us? That he may well have been in the ballroom tonight, but he hasn't been anywhere the rest of the time? That he's basically a puff of smoke and will remain---"

"I'm aware of that." Though I did not think he'd been there tonight.

Wouldn't he have said something to us if he had been? Assuming he could?

Right. Assuming he could. Which we had no reason to assume.

"Then why did you look at me like that?" she asked, a little less heat in her voice. "Why did I have to cut off before you said something you'd regret and I'd wish I could forget?"

All I could do was sulk. If she was still a mom, still someone who cooked and cleaned and asked if homework was done, then I was still her son. A child. A good little boy, most of the time, who had little practice navigating the awkward conversations that occurred when he wasn't. When he'd done something to disappoint her mother as much as anger her.

She came and sat on the bed. The very edge. Whole length of the mattress between us. Nothing compared to the chasm there'd been a moment ago. "Can't have been easy seeing your mom like that."

Deep breath. Exhale. "Or you your son."

"And daughter."

Different kind of awkward. I hoped. Or if it was the same, I hoped that meant we'd only need one bed after a few more nights.

Except I didn't hope that. Not really. Made a nice mental image, but the thing about fantasies is that they end at the best part. Never had to deal with the fallout.

Suppose I did take both of them as lovers, and suppose our plan actually worked. Would Dad even want to leave with us? Would Mom keep a horrible secret from him for the rest of their lives? Would it drive a wedge between them? Between us?

How could she not grow to resent me if that happened?

"Penny for your thoughts?" she said.

Grumble, grumble. "Who'd have guessed that the hard part would be after hours? Sharing a room with people you lived with for twenty-odd years?"

My mom cracked a smile, patted my leg. "I would."

"Yeah, well, that's cuz you're smart."

"Because I'm wise. There's a difference."

"You're both."

A not-so-modest shrug. A not-so-modest sip of wine. "Maybe we should insist on taking things up to a room next time. Work out who gets this one and who has to go elsewhere."

"Not a bad idea." Though I'd be lying if I said I'd taken no pleasure in seeing her like that, wouldn't feel somewhat cheated if I never got to see it again.

There'd been anger, yes, and jealousy. Maybe even disgust, though that's such a harsh word. Shame, on her behalf and my own, her for doing and me for watching when I should have given all my attention to the witch. Self-loathing. All of that and more.

Yet part of that "more" was arousal.

More and more as it had gone on.

How could there not have been, when she looked like that? When the same wanton behavior that had tied my stomach in knots, same disregard for what onlookers might think, had led me to consider possibilities I'd otherwise have ruled out? Had made me think I could get my mother to try things I hadn't even realized I'd want to try with her?

I felt some now, just thinking about it. Remembering the things they'd said when they were inside her, the things she'd said, the sounds she'd made. How her body moved. The hypnotic ripples of her ass when they did it doggy-style. How her breasts bounced when she was on top. How happy she looked with a dick in each hand, the giddiness of her laughter every time a sticky rope landed on her face. Some of that had to have been fake, her attempt at mimicking porn stars the better to keep anyone from thinking she was a normal, relatively straight-laced mother of two who'd been dragged into something horrible, something she was willing to sell their souls to escape. Some of it. How much, though? And might that which had started as a performance become sincere over time?

Wasn't it Alan Moore, he of Watchmen fame and much acclaim, mostly warranted, who said that if you wear a mask long enough, you forget who you are beneath it?

"Or... whatever," my mom said, cheeks flushed.

And eyes looking everywhere but between my legs.

"We can work out a system so anyone who's uncomfortable can let the others know." Try as she might to look away, her eyes were drawn to it. "That way there's no need to plan out what will happen where." Was she licking her lips? Because they were dry, right? Wine did that to you? "I wouldn't want... to deprive you...."

"Mom!"

She stood, turned her back to me. "Sorry! I shouldn't have said that." A peak over her shoulder, a guilty grin. "But I will say that you shouldn't be embarrassed. Honestly, I'm flattered." Back to staring at the wall. "If I'd known you felt that way, I wouldn't---"

"Come on. You would have, and there's no reason you shouldn't have."

I mostly believed that. I wanted to believe that.

She sighed. "I don't know what I would've done." The rest of her wine vanished, consumed the way this hotel was consuming us. "Certainly sheds a light on your reaction earlier, though." She gave me a sympathetic smile that was actually closer to a frown, grabbed another bottle of wine. "We can just forget it happened."

Be a lot easier if I wasn't still hard. I got off the bed, tucked myself into the waistband of my drawstring pants, sat in the chair by the window. "Consider it forgotten."

"You're own mother?" she said, before slapping a hand over her mouth. "Okay, I really shouldn't have said that. Can we blame that on the alcohol?"

That she'd just drunk? That hadn't had any time to work its way through her blood stream? Sure. Whatever it took to end this conversation.

Strangely enough, though, the look she gave me was not aghast, incredulous, or even amused, which might have been worst of all. The most emasculating. No, it was intrigued.

Also seemed to be studying my physique, as though she'd never noticed how broad my shoulders were, had been for a while now, or how lean The Unhallowed had made me.

"Just not something a mom expects to hear," she muttered, half to herself.

Technically, she still hadn't heard it. The admission hadn't come from my mouth.

"Could, um, tell yourself it wasn't you I was thinking about." That made her snort, so I rushed to add, "That's not what I mean. The witch was great, really knows how to use her tongue, but couldn't hold a candle to the nurse. Thing is, when you were in that costume, even right now, you don't look like my mom. Easy for me to forget that you are."

"I see."

There might even have been some truth to that, albeit less than I'd implied.

It was not my body she was examining now but her own. "That does make some sense. If there were more mirrors around, I'd probably feel same. Would probably have to stare at myself for a good, long while before I believed the reflection wasn't a lie."

In a way, it was. An faithful representation of what was nonetheless a falsehood. No need to get all philosophical, though. This conversation was heavy enough.