October 19, 2007
Most grand hotels, once you’d seen the lobby or lounge, offered little reason to explore further. The Imperial was different. Every floor harbored its own built-in wonders—alcoves, sitting rooms, and hidden crannies where a guest could easily lose themselves. The stonework, the hotel’s harmonizing thread, wove through the corridors. Down the ominous staircase, it formed a serpent-like balustrade that spiraled into the sublevel below.
It was there, on the steps between the main floor and the lower lobby, that Greene caught a whiff of something foul—something that cut through the sharp chemical fumes of the sealant he was applying. He stopped rubbing it into the marble, set the bottle down, and discarded the used rags. The stench returned, stronger this time.
Then it vanished.
He sniffed hard, nose in the air like a hound, head turning slowly. Nothing. Just the faint tang of sealant. He picked up the bottle of Sen-Guard, unscrewed the lid, and took a whiff. Strong, but definitely not the same. What he’d smelled was a sickening mix of rotten eggs, sewage, and gas.
He descended with purpose, fingers brushing the back of the monolithic stone serpent. In the lower lobby, he hurried across the floor and pushed through the kitchen’s double doors. He moved from burner to burner, sniffing for gas, even sticking his head inside several ovens. Nothing. Unwilling to dismiss his senses, he called his employer.
***
The next day at noon, a technician arrived and inspected every stove and burner with a handheld device and flexible gooseneck sniffer. The man finally shrugged.
“Nada… zippo… zero.”
“I swear I smelled something.”
“Well,” the technician said, packing up his gear, “you must have had an olfactory hallucination. Might want to see a doctor—you could’ve had a minor stroke.” He handed the caretaker a clipboard. “On the bright side, the seismic shutoff valves are working perfectly. If a quake hits, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
***
Across from the kitchen, on the opposite wall of the lower lobby, lay a lounging area where guests of bygone days once relaxed with drinks, socialized, or read the paper. The wall itself was adorned with large Mayan reliefs that stretched from floor to ceiling. Using the caretaker’s bible, he started at one end and worked his way along, searching for the carving that best matched the illustration on the open pages.
It wasn’t easy, but he found it dead center—an elaborate relief featuring both sitting and standing figures, a man and a woman, surrounded by mysterious symbols. He pressed the precise glyph. It depressed with a satisfying click, and a crack appeared in the wall, revealing a hidden door. He pushed it open. Immediately, the climate shifted from cool marble to warm, humid, almost tropical air.
The garden had been designed to evoke the sublime through careful orchestration of flora and fauna, and decades of neglect had rendered that vision moot. The path leading from the entrance into this private Eden was barely recognizable. Still, he ventured a few feet forward—then stopped. A dense canopy blotted out the sky above, and the bushes ahead were too thick to push through. He had stepped into a hidden rainforest.
To go any further, he would need proper equipment. Minutes later, machete in hand, he began slashing at the foliage and tangled vines, following the faint trail as it wound through the thicket. He reached a clearing and froze in astonishment. A Maya ruin stood in a field of tall grass—a three-story temple pyramid that looked as if it had been built in the sixth century. Which was, of course, impossible.
Drawn to it, he waded through the waist-high grass to the foot of the ceremonial stairs, where a single carved stela stood vigil. He traced the glyphs with his fingertips. An almost electric charge ran through him as the afternoon light brought the three-dimensional carvings to life. Then a gloom settled over him. He glanced up at the banks of skylights, most smog-covered and gray, with only occasional clear panes. That would have to be fixed.
He climbed the stairs and stood before the dark chamber entrance. Mysterious symbols framed the opening like a portal to another world. Before he could step inside, irrational fear rooted him in place.
Fighting it, he forced one foot forward, then the other. He was nearly across the threshold when a large python slithered out of the darkness. Paralyzed, he tried to scream. Only a pathetic squeak escaped. Roots seemed to sprout from his feet as the meter-long snake passed between his legs. Unable to move, he twisted to watch the horror descend the stairs and vanish into the grass.
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***
Echoing the rest of the building, the skylights were extraordinary. Designed to emulate a corbeled vault favored by the Maya, the rooftop formed a complex of angled glass terraces rising to a peak. Attached to them was a mechanical catwalk that followed the exact contours of the glass—an ingenious system that even someone like him could operate.
After some adjustments, minor rewiring, and thorough oiling, the catwalk clunked to life. He tested it back and forth with the toggle switch until satisfied. Then he turned his attention to the grime below. Securing a pressure washer with enough hose, he made short work of decades of buildup. Wearing wet gear under the glorious sun, he found the job more fun than work.
The next day, back in the solarium, he tried to picture the garden in its prime. The path was currently only wide enough to squeeze through, so widening it became priority one. After an hour of machete work with little progress, he switched to the chainsaw. Hours later, halfway done, he shut the Husqvarna down for a break. Wiping sweat from his brow, he removed his safety glasses and blinked against the sting.
His eyes locked onto a curious grassy opening through the thinned brush. It was perfectly round, about fifteen feet across—clearly man-made. A picnic spot? A place for sunbathing? Who knew?
He cleared the remaining brush leading to it. By noon, standing at the edge of the pristine circle beneath the glass, a sudden desire overcame him. He stripped off his steel-toed boots, coveralls, socks, and underwear and stepped onto the warm grass. The sensation of bare skin against earth filled him with a brief, glorious freedom.
Then the feeling changed.
Something moved near his feet. He parted the stalks—and found a writhing ball of snakes. As if the grass were on fire, he leaped out and ran, bad leg be damned.
***
It took a couple of days to work up the courage, but armed with a rake, he returned. His clothes and tools lay where he’d left them. He probed the grass viciously, hoping to impale a few of the creatures. Seeing no blood and convinced they had fled, he fired up the chainsaw once more.
After several trips between the tool room and the garden, he began leaving the hidden door propped open. The extra airflow helped with the humidity. With most of the overgrowth cleared, he realized the trail’s twists and turns were deliberate—designed to trick the eye into believing one walked through a vast tropical rainforest rather than an indoor garden. The wail of sirens and roar of traffic outside shattered the illusion.
Once the main path was finished, he cleared the smaller trails leading to the other clearings over the following days. They varied in size, but none exceeded fifteen feet across. He began to suspect they served a ceremonial rather than a purely leisurely purpose.
The garden was finally fully accessible. Stage one: complete. The next stage would be far more demanding. The pathways allowed imperfection, but the central plaza and its forest boundary demanded geometric precision. Without surveying equipment, he relied on the golden ratio, string, and stakes to establish mathematically sound lines.
Even his trusty Husqvarna proved inadequate against the plaza’s edge. After a week of long shifts, the green still dominated.
Adding to his frustration was the mountain of felled branches and brush. How would he dispose of it all? Garbage bags would take forever, and the dumpsters would overflow instantly. Rent a wood chipper? Buy one? Fuck.
Feeling defeated, his eyes landed on one of the sprinkler heads. When it activated, he stripped off his clothes and stepped beneath the cold spray, letting it wash away the grime and sweat. Refreshed, he wandered deeper into the garden until he reached a bed of purple flowers. Their color and sweet scent lured him down. He lay face-first, then rolled onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes, and sank into deep sleep.
High above, coiled serpent-like around a tree limb, the god flicked its forked tongue, tasting the sacrifice below. Uncoiling smoothly, it descended to the forest floor and approached the sleeping man unseen. Within inches, its jaws unhinged. It swallowed the caretaker’s head, then slowly, insidiously, devoured him whole.
Words cannot describe the terror of being swallowed alive. Yet beyond the initial horror, inside the luminous pink belly of the Creator, an unexpected calm washed over him. Strength renewed, he pushed and kicked until the viscous walls stretched and tore. With one final explosive movement, he burst free.
Covered in gunk and trembling, he crawled through a gauntlet of sprinklers to the edge of a pool. Washing himself clean amid lily pads, he caught his reflection in the still black water. Running fingers through his hair, he touched his perfectly restored face. Overwhelmed, tears flowed, mingling with the water.
***
When he woke, everything was black except for the orange glow of streetlamps bleeding through the bedroom window. He turned on the lamp and stared at his scarred, disfigured face in the mirror. Just a dream. A fucking dream. How long had he been out? His shaking legs suggested a full day, maybe two. These spells weren’t new, but he had responsibilities now—the Imperial demanded his care. He couldn’t simply check out.
The last place he remembered being was the solarium. How had he ended up back in his bed? And where were his clothes?
Pushing the questions aside, he pulled on sweats and went to the kitchen. Hunger gnawed at him. Hoping to jog his memory, he grabbed a flashlight and entered the garden.
A few feet down the path, strange sounds stopped him in his tracks. Rasping and growling rose to a crescendo. The ground itself seemed to quake. He angled the flashlight downward.
The forest floor was carpeted with snakes of all sizes. More hung suspended from the trees like living vines.
Startled, he stumbled backward, caught his heel on a root, and fell. The beam of light swung upward, illuminating the legions above.
…well.
That cliffhanger wasn’t planned to be quite so literal.
Poll Reminder!
Quick vote time, everyone! What do you think is happening with the serpent dream and the sudden snake legion? Cast your vote above and drop your theories (or which option you picked) in the comments — I read every single one! Your feedback genuinely helps steer the mysteries of the Imperial.
Greene’s serpent “Creator” dream (with the temporary healing) + the garden now swarming with snakes… what’s really going on?
