The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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He fled from the City; his nerves could take no more. It wasn't just the dust and the heat nor the acrid traffic fumes and noise. Not the incessant din from late night bars and honky-tonks. It wasn't the sad, gray faces of crowded, downtrodden people heading to and from deadening jobs in the City. It wasn't even the roar of airplanes overhead ferrying people to and escaping from this fetid metropolis. No, it was far worse than any of the humdrum horrors of urban life.
A new family had moved into his street. Well, not exactly his street but his block. To be precise it was on the corner of the next block over but where one came, more would follow. Outwardly, the man was pleasant and was supposed to have taken up a post as a doctor in the hospital's emergency ward. He drove an imported white BMW and could be seen driving to and from work and to the stores with a friendly smile on his face. He heard that the children were doing well at school. But the man and his family were not local nor even from this country. Where had they come from? Why had they really come? More importantly, what strange, unwholesome dark gods did they worship? What foul sacrifices did they offer up in the secret depths of their basement? What about the man's veiled and robed wife? What lay beneath those voluminous clothes? Was what lay hidden fully human or concealment for some utterly alien body? And what about the rest of their fellow cultists? When would they arrive to his genteel and secluded tree-lined neighborhood? It was not to be borne. He had warned the authorities several times but all that had happened after he sent a letter to the Chief of Police was that a patrol car had called to his apartment and warned him sternly about racism. The burly cop, less than half his age, advised him to leave the family alone.
So he fled to the coast, if only for a few days, just to calm down and give himself strength before returning. He drove to Kingsport where the gray Atlantic waves crash against high cliffs and where, if you stand and look eastwards across the ocean, the next landfall is the old country -- England itself -- with its gently rolling hills and thatched cottages with roses around the door all set within bucolic green pastures.
Kingsport itself had changed a lot since his last visit several years before. That incredibly ancient house up in the clouds on the very highest bluff had become a club house for the Clifftops Country Club and he saw with horror as people in pastel clothing drank cocktails beneath gaudy parasols. The tottering, wormy houses lining streets that were old when Congress raised the flag of revolution had been refurbished and turned into tony gift shops, chic boutiques, couturiers, artisan bakeries and coffee shops and now tourists walked the cobbled streets, their children eating cotton-candy and toffee-apples. Even that decrepit house on Water Street which had once belonged to a sinister old sea-captain had been replaced by a Starbucks.
Eventually, he turned into the Bay Company Inn, a tavern that had been built no later than the reign of the second King George, when he pulled up in soul-destroying shock. What had happened? In place of the ancient brick and wooden building with its graceful fanlight and square-paned windows was a bland corporate hotel made of concrete and bronzed glass. Out front, the flag of the hotel chain flew alongside the stars and stripes. Numb, he parked and walked up into the lobby. Behind the pale wooden counter, next to a potted palm, a small young woman of South Indian origin was tapping away at a computer terminal. Where was the oak table with the ancient leather-bound register? Where was the paneling and Victorian oil paintings depicting seascapes and hunting scenes?
Sensing him approach over the thick carpet with the company's logo woven into the pile, the woman looked up. She wore a purple uniform jacket and skirt and her name badge told him that she was called Arivazhagi. That sounded more like the name of some eldritch goddess from the outer darkness, he thought.
"Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly.
"Mr. Phillips. I've got a reservation," he managed to stammer. He could not get over the loss of his beloved link with the distant past when things were much simpler and better than now. He completed the registration and she handed him an electronic key card. Gone the old brass Victorian keys the old place used.
"What happened?" he managed to say.
