Friends! Enemies! Tenderhearted strangers!
On Friday morning I finally got my hands on finished copies of both the US and UK editions of THE HITCHCOCK HOTEL. Will I ever act naturally in front of a camera? Probably not. Will opening a box of books with my name on them ever get less thrilling? Also probably not!
I usually have a clear favorite when it comes to my book covers, but I truly love both this time. Check them out in the video below, which is actually a photo with a link to watch beneath it because Substack’s video upload/embed options are garbage.
And now, onto the main event. I’m thrilled to share with you today the prologue and first chapter of The Hitchcock Hotel. This is my small way of saying thank you for your support—and maybe whetting your appetite to read more. 😉 Without further ado…
Excerpt of The Hitchcock Hotel
Prologue
The crow waits until the guilty one disappears; then he flies down the hallway. How he wound up in this part of the hotel, he cannot recall. He has no memory of the tartan wallpaper, the dim flicker of the sconces. He does not know which humans lie behind which doors.
He knows only to obey the scream of his instincts.
Leave.
Now.
Go.
Danger hangs over this place like a blackening cloud. The people inside are not to be trusted. The crow rests for a moment on the horse hanging from the sky. He dares not wait long. Soon they will all rise again. Soon there will be much commotion.
He did not catch more than a glimpse, but a glimpse was all he needed. Such an ugly shape the limbs made, the neck contorted. The thing hardly looked human at all.
The crow takes to the air again, finds himself ever more eager to return home to his kin. What will the rest of the murder think? He flies around and around, yet still he cannot locate the path back to the aviary.
It’s no use. He’s trapped like the rest of them.
One
Alfred
Let us begin with an establishing shot. A three-story Victorian house stands alone on a hill in the White Mountains. The house boasts a wrap-around porch, mansard roof, and bay windows. Despite the building’s age, her shingles gleam, shutters sparkle. In other words, she is beloved.
We swoop in through an open window on the third floor to reveal a handsome hotel room. A woman with a face of cracked earth leans against a four-poster bed, watching a man in his thirties survey himself in a pedestal floor mirror.
I twist away from the mirror to face my housekeeper.
“How do I look?”
Danny takes her time considering me. “Like Norman Bates,” she jokes.
I scowl. “I meant my outfit.”
“Not many men can pull off a turtleneck, particularly with a suit,” she says. “You look good, Alfred.”
“Too much?” I ask, holding the pocket square to my chest.
She scrunches her nose and nods. I toss the silk square back on my desk, then hand her my stack of note cards. “Quiz me.”
“You’ve been over these a hundred times.”
“Go on.” I turn back to the mirror.
Danny sighs and pulls one from the deck. “What are Samira’s children’s names?”
“Aditi and Shivam.” Got that from Facebook.
“TJ’s official title?”
“Freelance security specialist.” LinkedIn.
“Zoe’s drink of choice?”
“Lagavulin with one ice cube.” This detail took some effort. I started by calling Saint Vincent, pretending to be a devoted fan who wanted to send a celebratory bottle the head chef’s way. Imagine my surprise when I was told Zoe was on indefinite leave from the restaurant she opened. From there I turned to Instagram and tallied all her photos with alcohol in them. In twelve percent she held a glass of red wine, in thirty-six percent she gripped a pint, and in a solid fifty-two percent a glass of scotch sat by her place setting. In the scotch photos, a bottle of Lagavulin appeared in the background nine times out of ten. I’ve stocked half a dozen bottles, to be safe.
“You’re ready, honey.” Danny crosses the room and palms my cheek. “If you knew any more, they’d think you’re a stalker.”
I look once more in the mirror and finger the soft cuff cloaking my neck. They will comment on my turtleneck—I know they will—but what choice do I have? I haven’t bared my neck in years, and I’m not about to start today of all days.
Never mind. No one has even arrived yet, and already I’m falling into old routines, getting defensive. I have much more important things to do today than hide in my room.
“Staff meeting,” I say. “Shall we?”
I hold the door for Danny. I was skeptical when she interviewed for the job—she’s the fittest senior I’ve met, but she has to be pushing eighty. Happily, she’s proven my doubts unfounded. She’s my hardest-working employee and rarely complains, unlike the younger ones. She’s also become my trusted lieutenant.
Danny pauses at the threshold and meets my gaze. “I won’t let them hurt you,” she vows.
The old widow is overprotective of me, which I grumble about but adore. In this case, she need not fret. They’ll be dolls in my dollhouse. I am the child at play.
We walk down the third-floor hallway in quiet companionship. I note with pride the vacuum lines on the plush navy carpet. Sometimes I still can’t believe I own a hotel. Technically it’s an inn, but “hotelier” sounds grander than “innkeeper.”
The house has three floors, excluding the attic. On the first floor are the lobby, restaurant, bar, home theater, parlor, and aviary—probably the sole hotel that has one in the country, a real feather in our cap. The second and third floors host six guest rooms each. This weekend’s guests will take the rooms on the third floor. Only the best for my former best friends.
In the lobby I wait with my hands clasped behind my back for the rest of the staff. I try to see the space as a guest would, searching for dust bunnies in corners, shoe prints on tiles. I’ve styled the hotel like a Scottish hunting lodge—low lighting, dark rugs, upholstered furniture, heavy drapes. Moody portraits of women hang on the walls because Hitch surrounded his heroines with them on set. The reception desk to the left of the staircase took me weeks to find: an antique piece with a matching chair that would fit perfectly inside a medieval castle.
And what of the staircase? Devotees will know that harrowing things happen on Hitch’s staircases. Ours is T shaped with two landings, one halfway up the central section and another at the top. Mahogany steps jut out from both sides of the landings. These steps lead to the guest rooms.
Suspended from the ceiling above the staircase is our pièce de résistance: one of the original carousel horses from Strangers on a Train. It wasn’t cheap, but can you put a price on owning a piece of one of the most iconic scenes in cinema? The horse’s mouth is agape, eyes distressed. I swear, on occasion I’ve seen it sway ever so slightly, giving a ghoulish feeling to an otherwise refined space, which was the effect our set designer was going for.
(It’s me. I’m the set designer.)
I greet each staff member as they arrive, wait patiently until all have gathered. “Okay, folks,” I say. “We’re giving up a high-season weekend of leaf peepers for this free stay. Let’s make it worth the lost revenue.”
For the next few days I’m hosting my five closest friends from college. We met at Reville, took a film studies class together, then went on to found the campus film club. I haven’t seen them in well over a decade, so this is an informal reunion.
I carry on. “I know how hard you’ve all worked lately. As a thank-you, I have a surprise.” I pause. “You can take Saturday and Sunday off.”
The twentysomething bartender gasps. A brief commotion ensues. The staff is surprised and confused after the fuss I’ve made this week. I laugh off their concern, say my friends and I would like some privacy.
“Let’s get these folks settled in. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Danny, of course, will stay. I can’t do this without her.
I remind the concierge that we’ll have no late reservations or walk-ins. The staff disperses as I move to the round table in the middle of the lobby. I tip my nose into the autumnal floral arrangement, then fan out the half dozen copies of Travel + Leisure. I glance at one of the headlines: “14 Most Unique Stays in New England.” With any luck, my hotel will make that list next year.
I glance at the wall mirror and tug on my turtleneck. My temples glisten. I wipe my forehead.
“I’m going to wait for Zoe,” I call over my shoulder. The concierge waves in response.
Outside, I breathe easier. Though it’s supposed to rain the rest of the weekend, today the sun is shining. New England is at her best in the fall. The mountains surrounding our region are aflame with color—trees painted crimson and gold. From our hilly perch we have a clear view of the valley that houses my small college town. There I spent some of my happiest days—and also the worst of my life.
October is a month crafted for Hitchcock. This is the lone time of year when villains don’t have to hide in the shadows, when frights are welcomed, even begged for. The cooling weather sends people indoors, to their sofas, to their television sets—to cherished films. Autumn is the perfect season to commemorate the Master of Suspense. Here we are, celebrating our second fall in business. One year ago today was the hotel’s opening. At times I worried we wouldn’t make it to year two.
The parking lot has twenty spots over two rows. I squint and notice a small wad of gum stuck to the blacktop. From my pocket I pull a Swiss Army knife and scrape at the gum until it comes free. I toss it into the stone receptacle near the front door, then survey the lot again. Better.
I run through my greeting with Zoe. Do I give her a hug? Shake her hand? Wave? Hitchcock used to introduce himself as “Hitch without the cock,” but only geniuses get to be that crude. I check my watch: ten minutes after two. Zoe has never been known for her punctuality.
Just then a Wrangler speeds up my quiet lane. My breath quickens, heart pounds.
What I’ve done, what I’m doing, is a risk.
The tires screech as the SUV rips around the corner. I swallow, mouth bone-dry. I catch a glimpse of Zoe as she does a sloppy parking job in the second to farthest spot from the building. Still that same blond pixie haircut and enough eyeliner to pass for a raccoon. She climbs out of her Jeep, dressed in all black and combat boots.
People don’t change—not much, anyway. The thought calms me. I know these people. I can predict what they’ll do.
I breathe onto my palm and sniff. It doesn’t smell, but I put two Altoids in my mouth anyway. I watch Zoe hoist a duffel bag out of the back seat of her vehicle, then head toward me. She waves. From this far away I can’t tell whether she’s smiling. I wave back.
