The Uncanny Valley Inn

Trevor surveyed the the valley. So beautiful, it was uncanny, which explained the inn's name.

Serene. Almost too serene. Was that possible?

Still, Margie, his wife, would've loved it. She liked places that looked like postcards. He had talked her out of coming, since her agenda always seemed to interfere with his speaking sessions. Margie always made things more difficult.

"Welcome to the Uncanny Valley Inn," the registration clerk greeted him. "I hope you'll find your stay here as fleeting—as to the calendar...as it is permanent—in your memories."

Trevor tried to process the salutation but decided it was best to just humor him. His name tag read, Cecil.

"Nicely put, Cecil," Trevor answered. "And my first memory of it will be of you, my good man." Trevor said "Cecil," rhyming with diesel.

"It's Cecil," Cecil corrected him, rhyming it with vessel.

Trevor had a tough-guy friend in his youth, a diesel-Cecil who, if you had called him vessel-Cecil, he would have beaten the piss out of you.

"Yes, Cecil" (as per vessel).

"Welcome, Mr.—" Cecil looked down the page of calligraphic names on an oversized book lying flat on his desk. He ran his fingers down the names.

"Whitney. Trevor Whitney."

His eyes raised, but one of them had one higher eyebrow. "Ah, yes! Mr. Whitney."

"Doctor Whitney, actually."

"Oh, my sincere apologies—to the man so eminently educated. Medicine, I presume?"

"No. Divinity."

"Oh," Cecil said. "Again, my apologies," he replied, Trevor uncertain whether he was sorry for getting Trevor's title wrong or for his choice of vocation, even to mastering it.

Cecil's look went beyond the higher eyebrow. He suffered a slight diplopia; even a "doctor" of Divinity could tell. Trevor didn't know which eye to look at when speaking with him. With no clear dominant eye, Trevor would shift his gaze back and forth during their exchange.

"So, sir, what brings you to our little extraordinary haven from ordinary life? Business? Pleasure? Or just spite? Is your wife joining you?"

"I beg your pardon," Trevor responded.

"Business? Pleasure? Or just respite? And...your wife?"

"You don't know, sir?" Trevor replied, suspecting Cecil was messing with him.

"About your wife, no, I don't."

"She's not coming, but no, I meant you don't know why I'm here?"

"Of course I do," the man declared. "You are here for...for..."

"I am holding my seminar."

"Yes!" Cecil said.

"On the eternal soul in today's complicated times of self-indulgence polluting the temporary body."

"I knew that, Dr. Whitney. In fact, I look forward to attending some of your lectures. I'm still choosing. I'll surprise you."

"What fun!" Whitney said, but it was sarcasm hiding behind a personable tone.

His seminar materials had already been put in his room. It was only one flight up, so he declined the offered elevator. The steps were steep, however, so he regretted it, struggling to his room, Room 1101. It was right next to Room 1100.

While that was expected, he found it curious that the room after his was labeled 1110, his room number + 9. He suspected that sometimes an odd wing makes it look like rooms were skipped, but he was curious enough to leave his suitcase at his room and walked a little farther. Room 1111 was next, which made sense to the previous 1110; but the next one was 10000.

Skipping over 8,000 rooms?

Trevor would ask Cecil about this strange room numbering later. He returned to his room and inserted his key. Rotating it didn't open the door. He reinserted it again, hoping it was some kind of electronic key, but nothing happened. He removed it and replaced it once more, and the door popped open.

"Third time's the charm," he quipped.

He peaked in. His room was expansive!

He wondered if he had the whole floor as his room. Certainly, he thought, there must be some mistake. I feel like a rock star.

He put the key into his pocket and looked around. Except for its vastness, all in the room seemed architecturally appropriate.

He thought about the other doorways in the hall. They must be false entrances, he thought, architecturally placed, for symmetry. There's simply no place to fit those rooms, otherwise.

He sat on the king-sized bed and picked up the telephone receiver after he saw a blinking red light, indicating a message. He had been waiting for his IT assistant to call him for the setup of his monitors and PA system for tomorrow's opening lecture.

"This is your first message," a robotic voice announced: "Third time's the charm." And that was it—the entire message. Trevor punched the receiver cradle button a couple of times and it began ringing.

"Cecil here, Mr. Whitney," vessel-Cecil greeted him.

"It's Dr. Whitney," Trevor corrected him for the second time.

"Oh, sorry, Doctor. I'll get it right, yet. Third time's the charm."

Trevor froze, half in bewilderment and half in a strange dread—that cold dread that blankets the unknown, be it friend of foe.

"Cecil," he said, "I had a message on my phone. Strange, for it said the same thing you said."

"What, mister instead of doctor?"

"No. Third time's the charm."

"But what was the message?"

"That was the message. Can you explain?"

"I'm afraid not. Some coincidence, though, eh?"

"Thank you, Cecil."

"Will you be dining tonight, sir?"

"I don't think so. I had a huge lunch before I arrived."

"Please do let me know if you change your mind. You can dine in, if you'd like."

"Thank you, Cecil," Trevor said again.

He wasn't hungry, but the lunch he had was peaking his insulin, and he became suddenly very sleepy as his sugar plummeted. He leaned back fully on the bed and fell asleep.

He slept in his caloric coma until he was startled awake by a commotion.

"Stop!" a woman's voice cried. "Please, don't." Then he heard her scream, followed by what sounded like an adult hitting the floor. He put his ear to the wall. "It's my body!" she said, but lower and meaner. "I can indulge in anything I want!" Then he heard what sounded like someone being struck, followed by another of her screams.

He was still dressed, for that is how he had napped, so he arose and went to his door. He stepped outside of his room and looked down the hall. Standing outside of Room 1100 was a young brunette woman whose shape he couldn't ascertain because she was wearing a housecoat. Other than a black eye, she was very pretty.

"Ma'am, are you OK," Trevor asked.

"Yeah, Dr. Whitney. Why shouldn't I be?"

"You know my name?"

"Of course. I read all your books. I'm here for your seminar."

"Oh," Trevor said, "of course," now remembering his booking had sold out the whole hotel. He squinched up his face a bit in confusion. "What room are you staying in?" he asked.

"Oh, Dr.Whitney," she smirked, teasing him in accusation.He worried about who had been at the other end of her black eye.

"No, it's not that," he said hurriedly.

"Too bad, Doc," she said, putting her lower lip out. "Well, my room's right here—Room 1100–if you need anything." She winked with her non-blackened eye.

"It's just that my room," Trevor explained, "is so—is your room big?"

"No, not particularly. But I like them big. Most girls do, don't you agree? Is yours big?" she asked, although he suspected she wasn't talking about room size. He also felt the psychic stare of his wife, Margie, from several states away.

Both architectural and interpersonal dilemmas discombobulated him. He knew there couldn't be a room there, that Room 1100 had to be a fake; it would have been impossible, given how large his own was. Yet, here this woman stood, outside of what she claimed was her own room. For a moment he considered asking her if he could see her room, but then considered her suspicious, seducing come-on, not to mention a man who liked to blacken eyes or worse. He recalled what he had heard through the wall: "It's my body! I can indulge in anything I want!"

"Thank you, um—"

"Hannah," she said. "Hannah Retter."

"Well, thanks, Ms. Retter."

"Miss."

"Yes, thank you Miss Retter."

"I'm a palindrome."

"Excuse me?"

"Hannah Retter. Both names read the same forwards and backwards."

"So they do," he politely agreed.

"You won't know whether I'm coming or going," she laughed. "Most men don't."

"Oh."

He turned a blushing face to his partially opened door, intending to return to his room, but before he did her housecoat fell open a bit to reveal she was naked.

And shapely.

"Remember," Hanna said, "if there's anything you want. It's the least you can do for how you changed how my life was going."

"Going...or coming?" he joked, now clearly out of Margie's psychic stare.

"Oh, my," she said, in mock fanning of her face with her hand, "I'm not even breathing hard."

For a self-help guru wary of self-indulgence, Trevor's eternal soul began rationalizing the most wicked thoughts for his temporary body. And her body.

"Your—what? Boyfriend? Husband?"

"Just me," Hannah said.

"But I heard—"

"Yeah, I heard it, too," she said. "Some poor girl. It was terribly upsetting." She smiled and rubbed the skin under her black eyelid.

Instead of returning to his room, he descended the stairs and approached Cecil, who immediately looked—Johnny-on-the-spot—to address anything Trevor wanted.

"Cecil," he said, "I'm a little confused. "I seem to have a room that's so big there's no way the nearby doorways could be other rooms."

"Do you not like your big room, sir?"

"Oh, no. It's not that. But I wonder, who's in Room 1100?"

"Room 1100?"

"Yes."

"No, that's impossible."

"I thought so. I mean, my room' so—"

"Then you know you're the only one in the hotel right now?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The whole place is empty, except for you."

"But I just saw a guest outside of Room 1100. Who's that?"

Cecil made a face like he had been asked a personal question. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Dr. Whitney," he said skittishly. "No one here but you."

"But I saw—"

"And I believe you. Perhaps someone from housekeeping?"

Trevor didn't see the point of pursuing the matter. But that didn't lessen his apprehension. There was a woman. A naked one under a housecoat. With a black eye. And there had been a scuffle. And his room was such a big-ass suite that he had to be the only one on the whole floor.

"Cecil, I wanted to make sure everything'lle b ready for my initial presentation tomorrow morning. And I'm a little concerned that—as you said—there's no one here yet but me. Are they expected to all check in tomorrow during the seminar's mid-morning break?"

Cecil made the same face. "Sir, your seminar doesn't start tomorrow; it starts next Monday."

"No, that's wrong," Trevor argued. Everything was arranged months ago."

"That's true, sir, but for next Monday, not tomorrow."

"One of us is wrong, Cecil," Trevor pointed out.

"Dr. Whitney, I'm so sorry for the confusion. When you had booked your accommodations beginning tonight, I assumed you wanted the week to prepare or rehearse. A 5-day seminar is quite the undertaking."

"May I see your reservations screen?"

"Sir, I'm afraid that the names are personal."

"But they've registered to see me!"

Cecil reconsidered silently, then smiled a little too politely. He swiveled the screen toward Trevor.

"There, sir." Trevor leaned over the desk. "You see, this is the upcoming week. All vacancies. And that's not on purpose. Your seminar's reserved the hotel's rooms for the following week, so this week is just a bad week for us." Then he advanced the screen by a week to show all of the days displaying multiple solid colors of bespoke occupancy. "So, sir, you'll see that—"

"No, Cecil. I do see. OK. You're right; I'm wrong."

"I'm so sorry, Doctor."

"No. It's me. But you know, maybe I really can use this time to prepare and rehearse."

"Very good, sir."

The following day, the Monday before the actual starting Monday for the seminar, Trevor had hoped to sleep in, but instead spent the morning explaining to Margie how he would be out of town for another week. He finally assuaged her after the back and forth of her coming vs not coming.

She wouldn't be coming.

He shaved, dressed, and then left his room, but paused for a moment at Room 1100. He thought for a moment and then politely knocked on the door.

No one answered.

He descended the stairs to the lobby, and there was Cecil.

"Don't you sleep, Cecil?" he asked. Cecil smiled.

"Sure looks like I don't. But I assure you, I do."

Something was off with Cecil. His face looked different. It was Cecil, but it wasn't. Trevor couldn't tell what was off, but something...two raised eyebrows?

"Sleep's always good. Is the cafe open?"

"Oh, yes. For lunch."

"Thank you, Cecil."

After lunch he settled the check and returned to his room. He was surprised to see the message light blinking on the phone.

"This is your second message," a robotic voice announced: "Third time's the charm."

And that was all. He slammed the receiver down.

He picked up the phone to call Cecil. It rang four times then went to its own voicemail. "Call me, Cecil, please," he said tersely.

He opened his box of seminar materials on the room's dinette table, having converted the kitchenette area into workspace. He settled into the chair when he heard a knock on the door.

"Probably Cecil," he said to himself. "He could've just called." When he opened the door, it was Hannah, this time with two black eyes.

She seemed inexplicably nonplussed about it.

"Hannah?" Trevor greeted her tentatively.

"Hi, Trevor," she said breathily. She was still in her housecoat and Trevor assumed only the housecoat.

"Hannah," he told her, "it would be more appropriate if you called me Dr. Whitney."

"Why?" she asked cooly. "You call me by my first name."

"Well," he paused awkwardly, "maybe during the seminar then? Just keep it professional?"

"Sure, Trevor," she promised.

Via skillful peripheral vision, he saw that her housecoat was behaving. Looking at her face, directly, however, he of course first noticed the new black eye. But he also noticed the new one was in the same stage of clearing as the first one. With identical yellowish staining where darker black—and only on one eye—had been the day before. He found that curious, as if one side of her face was an exact reflection of the other side, just flipped at the midline.

He recognized now how non-bilateral we all really are. And how a reflection of one side copied and pasted to the other could present as as an entirely different looking composite person, compared to the alternate side similarly doubled. The two double reflections—right + right and left + left—would be two completely different people.

It made something about her just...off.

"Come, Trevor," she said. "I want you to see something." She turned to her room.

He followed her lead and entered Room 1100. He stopped just inside the door. The room, like his own, was palatial.

"Impossible," he whispered.

"Nothing's impossible," she replied, walking over to him and reaching for his hand. He was already in her room, a temptation argued. Behind closed doors.

He fretted the "near occasion of sin," which was to be his keynote speech to open his seminar. He had placed himself squarely in that occasion—and quite near, in, at that.

He didn't care. Especially when her housecoat feel open and then dropped to the floor.

Margie who?

There is a point on a trigger's squeeze when the hammer can't be pacified. Where what could be can no longer return to what was.

Trevor was weak. He had crossed the event horizon of the near occasion of sin.

Suddenly, the phone in Hannah's room rang. She huffed in frustration and walked over to answer it.

"It's for you, Trevor."

"Really?" Who knew he was here? Well, of course, all of the registrants.

And his wife.

His wife! What if it were his wife? He put the phone to his ear.

"This is your third message," it said robotically. "And...third time's the charm."

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door, demanding and angry. Hannah hurriedly jumped back into her housecoat.

"It's open," she shouted.

It was Cecil.

"Cecil?" Trevor called him out. "What's the meaning of this?"

"It's Cecil," vessel-Cecil now pronouncing it diesel-Cecil.

Cecil looked different yet again. Now Trevor knew why. Like two different people can come from which side of the face is mirrored and flipped, this was not his most flattering side showing both Cecil's sides.

"It's my body!" Hannah shouted. "And I can self-indulge it anyway I want!"

"So can I!" he shouted back, than assaulted her, fists flailing.

Trevor leapt between them to protect her and soon they were both beating on him.

Trevor began to fear for his life, but being bigger than both of them, succeeded in extricating himself, although there would be more black eyes shining soon.

Suddenly it stopped. Before Trevor saw Cecil's knife.

"I'm sorry, sir," he told Trevor. "I lost my head."

Now Trevor saw his knife.

"Different people," Trevor coughed. "We're all different people in our own skins, aren't we?"

Hannah collapsed on the bed.

"I hope this little episode won't dissuade you from putting on a successful seminar, sir."

"Forget it. It's off now. I'm going home. This place is bad for me." Trevor stood and brushed his clothes, smoothing the wrinkles. He didn't say goodbye. He left the room and walked toward the stairs, bleeding heavily and bruised.

He paused to look into the hallway mirror.

Something about him was just...off.

"Almost, Cecil," Hannah sobbed. "We'll get the next one."

"Yeah. So close," Cecil replied. "Fourth time's the charm."