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This chapter required interviews with Wilma and Carlos to piece together the next sequence of events. One guest had his own bizarre experience this same evening while inside the resort. Combining the pieces, this is the way they said it happened.198Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzqd4iRcLbM
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Everything was moving along quite well. The waitresses were busy going from table to table, the maids going from room to room, and the bartenders and chefs were filling orders as fast as they came in. Buck and the band were banging out a country tune and Wilma found this the opportune time to head upstairs and talk to Carlos about the demonic harassment that had taken place earlier tonight.
She moved out from behind the bar and made her way to the stairs that led to Carlos's apartment. Reaching the door at the top of the staircase, she knocked softly three times.
"Who's that, man?" Carlos's voice echoed out from inside the room.
"It's me, Carlos. Can I come in?"
"Right on."
She twisted the knob and walked in. From the moment she entered the apartment, she felt something odd, something dark and mysterious, almost life-threatening. She looked around the room and saw Carlos sitting in an old wooden rocking chair, rocking back and forth with his back to her.
"Carlos," Wilma said apprehensively, " you better start talking, and you better do it now!"
"What's the deal?" he asked sarcastically, his back still to her. "What's on your mind?"
"They're back, Carlos! The demons showed themselves to Texicana and Mabel."
"I just wish folks would bug off!" Carlos's agitation was evident as he slammed his hand against the arms of the rocker, rising to his feet with an irate expression etched across his face. Despite his familiar '60s-'70s hippie attire, there was something unsettlingly different about him. He seemed to exude a youthful energy, almost resembling a teenager. Even more peculiar was the gradual shift in his Hispanic features, which now appeared to possess a more Anglo quality. "Are they messing with anybody?" he asked bitterly.
Wilma's fear intensified as she became convinced that the entity speaking through Carlos was not him but some evil spirit inhabiting his body. His altered appearance only added to her dread. Not only that, but his voice had transformed, shedding its gentle Spanish accent for the harsh tones of a New Yorker. And when he snarled at her, it was like confronting a juvenile delinquent, sending shivers down her spine.
From that very moment, Wilma knew that she wouldn't be able to count on Carlos to help her rid this place of the evil force. He had joined it. But, if she tried to convince Buck of that, he would have a tizzy. She had to find someone to help her. But who?
"Never mind, Carlos," she said as he continued staring at her, his eyes now like invisible knives. "It's just my imagination. I guess I'm being stupid. Too many old memories, you know, from what we went through before. I've got to get back downstairs. I'll talk to you later.
With urgency in her walk, she turned and left the room. Carlos stood perfectly still, watching her as she vanished through the doorway.
Once back at the bar Wilma began serving drinks again. Her trembling hands were making it tough to do her job. It was she, however, who was determined to win this time. It was she who would swallow her fear and find a way to defeat this evil. She was going to find a psychic, a priest, or some trained exorcist to come here and help her rid this place of evil, with or without Buck or Carlos's help.
"Drink!" A deep male voice called out over the crowd, "Gimme a goddamn drink!" The man's words caused Wilma to wheel around just in time to see a mountain of a man sit down at the bar and smile at her with a mischievous grin.
"What can I get you?"
"I wanna rum and Coke, but don't gimme no cheap booze. I want the best....Bacardi, one-fifty-one....if you got it."
"No problem," she smiled and headed to get a glass to mix the drink. In only seconds, Wilma brought the man his rum and Coke and sat it gently down on the bar. She collected his money, but as she started to head for the register to deposit the cash, the man stopped her.
"Aren't you Wilma Cassidy, Buck's wife?"
"Yes. Do I know you?"
"Nope. I'm staying in Room 110 down the hall from here. I'm seeing a buddy of mine. I'm waitin' for him to show up, but he ain't here yet. My name's Chris...Chris Brown. Everybody calls me "Hollywood."
Chris looked like a lumberjack. He had short dark brown hair, parted on the left side, and a full beard that needed trimming. His cold gray eyes were hypnotic and Wilma found them almost frightening after what she had already gone through tonight. She wondered if he was a ghost, so she reached across the bar and gently patted him on the top of his right hand, just to see. She was relieved when she felt real flesh and bones.
"Nice to meet you, anyway," she said with a smile, then headed for the cash register to deposit the man's money. Chris took one sip of his drink then stood up and headed for his suite. He pushed his way through the crowd when suddenly he stopped cold.
He found himself gazing at a large mirror that hung on the south wall of the ballroom. He saw the images of people behind him, walking towards the dance floor as Buck began singing a love song. His heart raced as he gazed more deeply into the mirror, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. Reflected before him was the ghastly image of a woman, her once vibrant '60s-style clothing now torn and bloodied, her pale skin marred by gruesome wounds. Her eyes, wide with terror, seemed to pierce through him as she glided through the room, her movements eerie and unnatural, as if drawn towards the bar by some unseen force.
He stared even more intently into the glass and watched as the butchered girl floated right through the bar where his drink was sitting. He wheeled around on the balls of his feet and searched the room for the apparition, but she was gone, vanished into thin air.
"Shit!" he growled as he tucked his white shirt into his brown slacks. "I'm going loco!"
The man knew it wasn't the rum. He'd just arrived here and ordered his first drink for the night, and he had only one sip of that.
"Well, shit on that!" Chris shrugged off what had just happened and headed on. He walked down the paneled hallway to his suite, Room 110. He discovered the hallway unusually hushed, a stark contrast to the lively ambiance typical of a bustling Country Music dance hall and resort.
"Guess that ghost must have everyone too spooked to hoot and holler," Chris remarked with a chuckle, as he reached for the closet to retrieve his $100 silver Stetson, he felt a chill run down his spine. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of movement and swiftly turned to face it. To his astonishment, standing beside him was an incredibly bizarre creature. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before--- a four-legged entity with jet-black fur, sporting a face that resembled neither dog nor cat but had an eerily human-like quality. The creature observed him intently, its gaze following his every move as if assessing him.
"I don't know how you got in here, but you're in my way," Chris declared, his voice dripping with defiance as he addressed the peculiar creature. "And let me tell you, I'm rough and tough. So, if you try to take a bite out of me, you better be ready for a fight."
"The creature you see before you can overcome any opponent, no matter their strength," the voice echoed from the hallway, ominous and commanding. "And as for me, I am its owner. This animal is not a threat; it is a benevolent protector."
Chris stood there, dumbfounded, as a man materialized before him, seemingly emerging from thin air. Dressed in a conservative three-piece suit with a tie neatly knotted at his neck, his hair slicked back in a manner reminiscent of a bygone era. There was something about his demeanor that suggested he was a relic from another time, an enigma wrapped in the trappings of the past.
"Come to Adelaide," the man said as he knelt in the doorway. Chris looked back at the creature, then back at the stranger. Something didn't sit right with him, so he decided he didn't need his fancy cowboy hat after all. He cautiously walked away from the animal and past the man, then strode up the hall and out of the room.
Outside, Chris still felt it. He didn't know why, but he had to wait for the man and his weird friend to come out. "Why you just standing there, son? Got some dancing to do, and you're in the way," a guest remarked impatiently, eyeing Chris curiously as he lingered in front of his door.
"Hey, you gotta believe me, man," Chris pleaded earnestly, eyes wide with urgency. "There's something weird in my room. This guy, he's dressed like he's from the '60s, I swear, and he's got this freaky critter with him. Looks like some kind of human on four legs. You gotta check it out for yourself."
With a roll of his eyes, the irritated guest pushed open the door to Room 110, grumbling about wasting his time. Moments later, he emerged with a smirk on his face. "See, there's nothing in there," he declared triumphantly, arms crossed. "You must've had one too many drinks, buddy. If I'd seen anything like that, I'd have taken care of it with my shotgun ages ago."
Chris was incredulous! With the suite having only one entrance or exit, he was certain the man and his peculiar pet were still inside. Spotting another gentleman in a red and black checkered shirt making his way down the hallway, Chris hastily waved him over, urgently requesting that he investigate his room and recounting the strange spectacle he had witnessed.
"Sorry, buddy," the gentleman in the red and black checkered shirt shrugged as he returned from inspecting Chris's room. "I didn't see a damn thing in there. Maybe lay off the drinks, eh?"
Once he went back into his suite, Chris found himself engulfed in a state of fear and confusion. First, he had seen a mutilated woman, and now the man and his strange pet had disappeared as if they'd never existed.
Chris had seen enough. He made a beeline for the concierge desk, quickly checked himself out, and practically sprinted for the front door. He was eager to leave the eerie atmosphere of the resort behind him before anything else happened. Though he could have used the drink he left on the bar, he had no intention of staying in that place for another second.
The burly man pushed through the front doors without saying a word to anybody. All he wanted to do was get away from the Lone Star Honky-Tonk as fast as possible!
Wilma noticed the man didn't return for his drink. She picked up his glass and poured the contents into the sink. It puzzled her that someone would pay good money for a shot, take just one sip of it, and then just leave. Maybe he was a ghost, she thought. She had no idea why Chris Brown had left so suddenly.
The rest of the night went smoothly. Wilma assured Texicana once again, that she would get something done, but she made the girl promise not to mention this to anybody until she found a solution.
Several hours later, the ballroom closed for the night, Carlos stood at the window of his apartment and watched Buck, Wilma and some of the employees drive from the building.
"Something's wrong with me," he muttered aloud. "I feel like something's inside me." Carlos was his old self for now. The ghost that had possessed him was lying dormant, waiting for the right time to use his body again. Carlos didn't remember Wilma coming upstairs tonight. He didn't even recall the evening that the entity had entered his body, but he knew something was wrong. He turned from the window and walked across the room, then lay down on the bed staring up at the ceiling. He had no idea that his body was being used and controlled by some diabolical force, the entity entering and leaving him at will.
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