The final instance

Warnings: a Halloween horror story. Can you feel it? Can you feel the scent of mystique, dismemberment, and bad humor I'm trying to pass off as dark humor?)) If that doesn't scare you—welcome; but don't say I didn't warn you.

* * *

All his life, Kiryukha hated the phrase "rain like a wall." That's how pizza delivery guys and girls running late for dates would excuse themselves. That's how his mother would scold him: whenever Kiryukha got his feet wet as a kid, she'd plant a hand on her sturdy hip and exclaim, "Are you sick? It's raining like a wall out there! What were you thinking when you put on those sneakers?!"

Mom took a permanent vacation last October,

laid to rest under a slab of black marble, but her voice, full of judgment, haunted Kiryukha to this day.

"I don't like rain," he confessed. The taxi was cutting through the downpour like a submarine, its headlights shining dimly, barely coping with the encroaching darkness. In moments like these, Kiryukha felt the urge to open up, and he didn't like denying himself.

"Once, in the rain, I totally did this chick," he boasted. "Don't know, to be honest, what her tits were like, she was in a coat, plus a scarf, plus the downpour. Like that," Kiryukha nodded, pointing out the window. "Same kind of downpour, like a wall! But her face was totally doll-like. So I pinned her in an alleyway, hiked up her coat and skirt, and she's all wet-faced—no, she says, don't, don't touch me, I'll scream!"

The driver was silent. The back of his head, as well-groomed and slicked-back as his face, expressed mixed feelings.

"Well, I got rid of her tights for her," Kiryukha continued, "And her panties were just, like, all lace. I got into position somehow, finally got it in, and she just screams! Like she was being fucked with a poker, not a dick. She was screeching so much I gagged her with her own scarf and choked her a bit. Just a little, I thought, so she wouldn't squeal. And she twitched a bit while I was pounding away, and then she just went limp, you get it? So I'm fucking this dead chick, the rain's lashing down, and it's all squelchy down there, and warm, like she's alive..."

The driver was silent, and in that silence, you could feel the horror of a man who'd forgotten which number to call the police: "02" or "03"? Meanwhile, Kiryukha scratched his cheek with his fingers, squinting sleepily, and kept confessing.

"And one I actually stuck a poker in, that was a laugh. In the ass, I mean, while I was fucking her from the front. And another one I offered to get high on salicylic acid. She had some crap going on, autumn depression because of the rain or something. Come on, I said, it's safe, what's the big deal? So she was gobbling aspirin by the handful, and then she was tripping, right while we were fucking. Her guts are turning into a sieve, and she's like: ye-e-es, yes, kitty, more! You get it? Blouse wide open, tits out, and they're bouncing, all smooth like, pure marble, and nipples like cherries..."

The driver was silent. Kiryukha was about twenty centimeters taller and one and a half times heavier—a healthy fucker, you couldn't just toss someone like that out of the car with one hand.

"Had a shitload of them," Kiryukha admitted. "And you know how it all started?"

The driver was silent. It seemed to him that silence was his only salvation.

"There was this one chick, Yulka," Kiryukha dreamily closed his eyes. "So, we're sitting in the car, I'm driving, and she's next to me. I slip my hand between her legs, and she's like—o-o-o-oh, fuck, do it again! And her voice is like—with a rasp. That kind of voice makes you harder than a firm third. And her firm third is right there too, spilled out of her sundress and swaying, well, to the rhythm of her moans, and she's all like, white and smooth, like porcelain, it's fucking insane. And I'm spreading all those little folds with my fingers, it's already wet down there, and, you know, pinching, rubbing, and then with my whole hand like..."

The driver slammed on the brakes, vaguely imagining what awaited them now: him, the car, and the client who was batshit crazy. Outside the window, a metal fence was visible—a small hotel outside the city limits. The destination, surrounded by rain.

"So, Yulka deals with my belt in half a second," Kiryukha continued, as if not noticing the taxi had stopped. He was rubbing his hands—it was cold in the car even with the heater on. "I can't do that, I'm not a fireman, after all. And we're on the highway! And she, you know, leans over and takes it all the way to the balls, such a skilled cocksucker, fuck, I was speechless. And then I... you know what then?"

"...and then you slow down and fasten your seatbelt?" the driver suggested, either fearfully or shyly. He was as pale as the upholstery of his Lada.

"No-o-o," said Kiryukha, and his face suddenly turned predatory. All his features sharpened: here was a man chatting about his exploits, and here was a man-wolf. Even the dimple on his chin became sharper, like a crack in marble. "And then I fuck up, we smash head-on, and a piece of metal takes out my whole face—bam! You get it?"

Rain was hammering on the car roof—beating on the metal like bolts were pouring from some infinitely large bucket.

"So I became a ghost," Kiryukha finished, pulled a five-hundred note from his wallet, and tossed it onto the front seat next to the driver. "One chick decided to give me a blowjob, and because of her, I kicked the bucket. You get it? And I thought—what the fuck? Now I fuck them and kill them—every whore deserves it."

The driver mumbled something, trembling finely and not taking his eyes off the road. Not that he believed in the paranormal nature of his client... but, whatever his nature was, the driver's situation was fucked.

"Well," said Kiryukha. "So what should I do with you?"

"I-I-I..." the driver drawled. "I'll give you your change now and drive off..."

"Nah," Kiryukha answered lazily. "You'll run off now, blab about everything to the cops... I might be dead, but I don't welcome publicity."

The driver mumbled something, stunned, completely speechless with fear.

"I didn't hear you," said Kiryukha and half-rose. "What are you mumbling? Turn around when you're talking to me."

His hands closed on the other man's head and turned it confidently, like in the old joke—"until it clicks." The driver's facial muscles contorted, and he instantly ceased to be well-groomed, polished, and alive.

"Well, there you go," Kiryukha said, disappointed, and turned, climbing out of the car. "Fuck if I understand you: twist an arm—you scream, twist a head—you stay quiet..."

* * *

All his life, he hated the phrase "rain like a wall."

...and now it was the only thing that fit. Every drop seemed cold and sharp, like shrapnel. The rain fell from the sky like an iron curtain, cutting off the tiny hotel from the whole world, and Kiryukha crawled out of the car, holding his umbrella out in front of him like Wonder Woman's shield.

On the entrance door was a soggy piece of paper. "Dear hotel guests," it informed. "Our team wishes you a pleasant stay and assures you that none of the service staff are zombies."

Below, in crooked handwriting, was added:

"Or vampires."

"Or aliens."

"Even if the porter swore to it on his pinkies."

Reaching the entrance, Kiryukha shook himself off and somehow folded the metal ribs of the umbrella, mercilessly twisted by the wind. His hair was soaked through. The swollen belly of his suitcase was splattered with mud, like an African hippo in its natural habitat. Kiryukha was chilled to the bone and looked like a man who had just forded a drainage ditch, a couple of streams, and Loch Ness.

The bright little lobby greeted him with silence. Tables were piled along the windows: one of them was overturned, and behind another sat an old lady in a dark blue dress and a hat with a veil, dark and tasteless in an old-lady way. On the other side, a small bar reigned, with the porter's desk tucked beside it. Right on the desk, legs crossed, sat a huge guy with short-cropped light hair. Judging by the uniform, he was the bartender. Judging by the unbuttoned black vest and carelessly rolled-up shirt sleeves—he was a bad bartender. Judging by the fact that instead of working he was sitting on the porter's desk, smoking a cigarette and diligently blowing smoke towards the fire detector, the service here was generally lousy. The detector didn't go off, the bartender got upset and stubbed out his cigarette right on the desk, then lowered his head and finally noticed Kiryukha.

"Oh!" he exclaimed without enthusiasm. "Oh. Killing taxi drivers is bad form. We'll, of course, take care of the car, but..."

"Fuck off," Kiryukha wheezed with effort. Seems he caught a chill on the train. "Is there anyone here..."

"No-o-o," the bartender drawled lazily, lighting another cigarette. He had no plans to get his ass off the desk. "The porter's not here now. Fuck knows where he's been wandering for the second month now, but he's a real asshole. What do you need him for?"

"I'm a ghost," Kiryukha explained to him, as if to a dummy. "And you've got the last refuge for ghosts here, all that. I was told!"

"Of course," the bartender replied in a bored tone. "He was told."

Kiryukha aimed his umbrella at him and gave him a stern look.

"They say here, kill all you want, you'll clean everything up," he informed. "And free booze, too..."

"Everyone wants free booze," the bartender grimaced, jumped off the desk, rummaged behind it, and then threw something rectangular and metallic in Kiryukha's face, hitting him painfully on the nose. "Room 307, third floor, left from the stairs."

The key, attached to a heavy metal rectangle, fell to the floor. Kiryukha bent down and fumbled with his hand, while the bartender left the porter's domain and returned behind the bar counter. Clinking something, he placed a couple of glasses on the table, inspected a bottle of whiskey, and instead opened vodka.

"What about the whiskey?" Kiryukha took offense. Now that the bartender was standing, he turned out to be two meters tall and built like a bear. It seemed he didn't button his vest not out of sloppiness, but because the standard uniform didn't fit across his chest.

"Eat what you're given," the bartender cut him off. "We're strict with newcomers here—need to sign a bunch of papers, collect certificates... so that, you know, you become an officially registered ghost for the hotel."

"Oh," Kiryukha was surprised. "Bureaucracy here too. Is it always this empty here?"

"No-o-o," the bartender drawled, swirling the glass in his hand. He drank vodka in an inhuman way—clinked glasses with Kiryukha and now savored it like good cognac. "We've got a shitload of people here, you'll see. And who gave you the address?"

Kiryukha downed his shot in one gulp, grunted, and glanced to the left—on the bar counter stood a dusty glass into which the bartender had also poured two fingers. Next to the glass, there was no one, just a bar stool.

"Well," he began. "So I'm fucking this chick..."

"...a-a-a-awesome rest, just awesome. So, can I stay?"

The bartender poured him more vodka, and himself started polishing tall cocktail glasses. He didn't look embarrassed, scared, or anything.

"Well, if that's the case," he informed. "I'll tell you the rules for comfortable living in our hotel."

Kiryukha nodded, listening to himself and feeling the numbness in his chilled muscles fading. Warmth was spreading from somewhere below—strangely, not from his stomach, but from his feet.

"Everyone here is weird, but you'll get used to it," said the bartender, pouring something light and peachy-smelling into the dusty glass on the counter. Kiryukha didn't notice where the vodka went and didn't ask. "See the old lady at the table? Don't touch the old lady, don't touch her at all, she doesn't like newcomers... And she doesn't like me, and doesn't like anyone, only sometimes plays checkers with old lady Meg."

Kiryukha raised his head.

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who is old lady Meg?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the bartender replied. "Next. The day porter is a fucking asshole, don't mess with him. You can't fuck the laundry workers, or we won't see clean sheets for the next year. Don't cause trouble in the hotel, I have clear requirements for guests."

He rummaged under the counter, pulled out a scrap of paper, and stared at it disappointedly.

"Fuck. Need to print more."

He dropped the paper next to Kiryukha's hand and seemed to lose interest in it. Kiryukha somehow smoothed it out with his warmed fingers. On the paper, in ordinary Times New Roman, was printed:

"Hotel guests are strictly prohibited from:

— singing serenades of frivolous content to old lady Meg and the cats of the guest from room 305;

— threatening the laundry workers with anathema.

— catching female staff and dragging them by the legs down the corridors while screaming 'Burn the witch!'

— when checking guests into rooms 102, 103, and 108, whistling and yelling 'Loser!' Yes, these rooms have no windows, and they shrink in length by 2.5 cm every hour, but that's no reason to consider them worse than the oth..."

The rest of the entry was cut off. The paper ended in a fringe, as if it had been chewed and spat out. Kiryukha whistled.

"Fun place you've got here. Did you wipe your ass with the rest of the rules?"

"Old lady Meg ate the rest of the rules."

"Who?!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the bartender responded. "Alright, get to your room. Been on the road all day, I bet?"

"Sort of," Kiryukha nodded and somehow slid his ass off the bar stool. His head was buzzing as if he'd been drinking dich