The Bluebird Hotel

The Bluebird hotel had the air of age, but not the look. It was three stories that seemed like they wanted to sag but did not. Built in the late 1800’s the facade stood foreboding and desolate. Windows frowned out onto the main street. The garden was ablaze with roses, azaleas and tulips. Any person walking onto the property immediately felt like assaulted with the feeling of being watched. For most prospective guests the oak doors seemed to gleam with newness and salutation, but when you went to push through, a forse seemed to be warning them to try their luck elsewhere. Most people shook it off and walked in anyway.

When you walked in, a slight hum entered your ears, like an annoying bee, but nothing could be readily seen when you looked around at the plush, contemporary furnishings. The lady at the counter was always polite and wore a large smile, but in her eyes a question shined through, like she was questioning why you had possibly come in. As you walked to the counter the floorboards creaked like a ghost’s warning. Again, most guests shook it off. The Bluebird, after all, was at the end of a long stretch of highway, and most travelers just wanted the room for the night.

The beds seemed soft. If you sat, though, the mattresses seemed reluctant to take the burden of your wait. You would run your hands over the pillows and blankets and find them somehow stiff to the touch, but you still knew you would be comfortable in this bed. The food and beverages were even strange. Everything was delicious, but one was left feeling that it could be better, or better somewhere else, at least.