A TRAVEL HORROR STORY
After having woken suddenly and without reason in the middle of the night, I was finally drifting back off to sleep. Then I heard something. It sounded like voices in the distance. Tracking the direction, it sounded like it was coming from the clearing in front of the rusty, abandoned trucks we had seen earlier. My heart began to beat faster. My mind raced. I pictured rituals including blood sacrifice. Maybe she was chanting spells. Through slitted eyelids I glimpsed flickering light. How did it get so close? The voices had seemed far away…
Almost six months ago, I had booked reservations online at the Mount Robson Lodge for our family and our good friends, the Prewett family. Since they were not open until May, there was no one to man their phones. Yet, despite a few unreturned emails and phone messages, I was still pretty sure we had a reservation, we just needed a confirmation. May first rolled around, and I finally got hold of someone at Mount Robson Lodge. They had no record of our reservation, nor of any messages or emails I had sent them. We had all already booked holiday time, so I scrambled to find another venue. Everything I could find, from Valemount, B.C. to Calgary, Alberta, was fully booked. When I finally found the little place just outside of Valemount, it seemed, if a little far away, perfect in every other way. Private one-bedroom cabins away from a larger lodge house, reasonably priced at $125 per night until the end of May, a kitchenette included. I booked it by phone, confirming the number of people and price. The person on the line expressed her concern that we had young children, “because there is a wood fireplace,” she said. I assured her that we would watch the children.
The day we were to go, the Prewetts found out that they would not be able to leave until later in the day. We would meet them at the cabins.
We arrived at the Dream Catcher Inn at around 7 pm. There, we met the owner, a nice lady of about middle age, who invited us into her office to complete the paperwork. No, the rooms were not $125, they were $135. Moving into the main lodge would be $98. “That’s what we agreed upon,” she said. “I have it right here from our conversation on the telephone.” She held up a slip of paper she had written on, apparently, when I called to book the cabins. I mentioned that this was not what was advertised on her website. “Well, I’m not sure what is on the website, dear,” the owner replied. She frowned. “I’ve run this place for three years. I know what the rates are.” I frowned as well. We didn’t have much choice. No other place nearby had vacancies and the Prewetts would be arriving later on sometime.
When we went up to the cabin, we took a look around. Cute, well-decorated, comfortable. No fireplace, but that was fine. Hmm…where was the kitchenette? There were some dishes and cutlery, a coffee maker, a fridge. No sink. No hotplates (which had been in the description on the website) nor anywhere else to cook. ” The hotplate must have been misplaced,” I thought. I went back to the office to speak with the owner.
“Hotplate?” She looked baffled. “Nobody ever asks to cook in the cabins. We don’t have any hotplates.”
“Well,” I asked, “if there is nowhere to cook, can we move into the lodge?”
The owned smiled sweetly at me. “Oh, the lodge is only open if you rent the entire place.” “I decorated the cabins myself,” she added defensively. Now, I was a little confused and rather frustrated. In the silent moment, the owner fixed me with a stare reminiscent of Kathy Bates and breathed, “I do care about what you need.” Cue creepy music.
I gave up trying to get the deal we expected. While “Kathy” promised to bring us her own hot plate to cook with, I wasn’t counting on it. We decided to explore the grounds.
The lodge was empty, as was the third cabin. Empty? Something in the back of my mind stirred uneasily. Everything else in the area was completely booked and we were the only guests on this large piece of property. There was a walking path that ran in a wide circle back around to the main office. Everything else was wild with tall trees and undergrowth. There were some rusty trucks abandoned just uphill of the path. All was silent. As we walked around, “Kathy” appeared several times to engage us in coversation. Finally, we retired to our cabin to sleep.
After a restless night, I awakened at 5 am. I moved out to the couch of the cabin to read. The sky lightened. I could hear only silence. Silence. No birds chirping in the treetops. No cars going by on the highway. Nothing but the creepy music still playing in my head. I thought over the previous evening. Perhaps I was mistaken about what I had read on the website. Perhaps the owner needed help in remembering the details of her advertisements. Perhaps she didn’t normally run the place. Perhaps more people would arrive today. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, dark shape. I caught my breath. It was a man I had never seen, wearing an ill-fitting, dark, plaid jacket. He was tall, but hunched over as he tried to step quietly. Purposefully, he came across the porch towards our back door, stiffly swinging one arm by his side. My heart jumped into my throat. Creepy music shifted to “Psycho” music. Oh, it’s only Lily wearing her husband’s jacket and trying not to wake us. They had arrived in the night.
By the time Lily and I had caught each other up on the events that had transpired the previous day, I was feeling more at ease, ready to leave behind the frustrations of the day before. Soon, the kids woke up, excited to see one another in a new place. They quickly found the steep grassy hill leading down to the inn’s main office. Lily, Ken, and I took turns watching Hugo and Alisha run up and down the hill and “being lost” in the bushes.
“Kathy” wandered out to welcome Lily. The owner smiled warmly and asked Lily how she liked the cabins. “I decorated them myself,” she declared, beaming when Lily gushed about how cute they were. We watched the kids run up and down some more. The owner pointed out that the cabins didn’t have a kitchen and we would have to wash our own dishes. ”Of course,” we replied. The kids ran under an evergreen. “You have to be careful,” said the owner seriously. “There are cougars in these parts.” She looked down at Hugo and Alisha, showing teeth with a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “We wouldn’t want you to get … lost.” As I ushered the kids away for a snack, she met my eyes. “I really do care about your needs,” she breathed.
In the afternoon, the Prewetts all retired to their cabin for a much-needed nap. Ken wanted to take photographs and Alisha needed to run some more. The circle we had walked the previous evening had a fork we hadn’t noticed, so we decided to head down there. Most of the area owned by the inn was the same: hilly, forested land with a great deal of tall grass. As we walked along, we discovered what was once a playground with a swing set and sandbox. The swings had been pulled off the frame; the sandbox was full of broken glass and bits of machinery. There were makings for a bonfire and some strange looking chemicals on the side. This place had been running for three years? There were rusty old broken-down vehicles here and there all around the property. Planter boxes were strewn about near the swings. No signs of small animals or birds anywhere. Occassionally, a truck drove through without stopping, continuing on past the cabins into the wilderness beyond.
That night, I developed a fever. It progessed from a mild feeling of unwellness, to a determination that I would not waste this trip by being sick, to confinement to bed. I turned the heat up and trembled with cold. When I walked across the room, my heart raced. My head spun with “Kathy’s” voice. “I really do care about your needs.” “It can be dangerous in these mountains.” “Housekeeping doesn’t come in on Sundays.” I danced with the idea that I had been poisoned. Then I awoke and heard voices outside. The chemicals. The bonfire. No one else on the acreage. I was ready to take my family and run screaming far, far off the property.
Ready for the anti-climax? Alisha had woken in the night with nightmares of cougars running through her head. Ken snuggled in bed with her and used his micro-computer to show her Sesame Street videos. The other-worldly, far-off voices belonged to Cookie Monster and Elmo, and the flickering light was reflected off the window from the screen.
Still, I am not going back to the Dream Catcher Inn anytime soon. No, scratch that. I am not going back to the Dream Catcher Inn ever again.
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