Copyright (c) 1994 
 
                      SHORT BLACK DRESSES 
                         By Michael Hahn
 
     We checked into the hotel about ten o'clock and had 
to wait in the lobby for twenty minutes before we could get into
the restaurant. There must have been a party going on somewhere in
the hotel--there were a lot of women in fancy dresses. Short black
dresses. They varied only slightly in length, tightness, and plunge
of neckline. 
     We finally got into the restaurant; my colleagues ordered clam
chowder, and I ordered a burger. While we waited for the food, I
looked around at the other tables. There seemed to be a lot of
women in short black dresses. It was funny, really, because I'm
usually not prone to notice things like that. Especially after a
long plane flight; travel is the part of this job I like least. 
     The food finally came and, as usual, my colleagues teased me
about my aversion to seafood. They sat there slurping their
chowder, with Deidre making really obnoxious "mmmmmmmm" noises.
Eileen was doing her best not to laugh, and Teresa, the head of our
little group, was unsuccessfully suppressing a smirk. 
     We all settled down a bit after a time, and discussed strategy
for the conference beginning in the morning. The annual conference
for our industry, usually held in late October or early November,
was a great opportunity for us to sniff out what our competitors
were up to, as well as a chance to sell our little asses off. In
our consulting practice, we tried to avoid the feast-or-famine
cycles suffered by most of the other folks in the electronic
publishing business. 
     We called it a night about 11:30, and I bid goodnight to the
rest of the group as we rode the elevator up to our respective
floors. Deidre and Teresa had a two-bedroom suite on the sixth
floor, while Eileen's room was on the eighth floor. I rode up two
more floors in silence, walked down to a door marked 1024. I smiled
a tired smile as I considered the irony of a computer geek in a
room with that number. 
                               ***
     I have a really hard time dealing with travel. I tend to get
motion sickness, and I always have a hard time getting to sleep in
a strange bed, particularly on the first night in an unfamiliar
hotel. This trip was no exception. I tossed and turned for a couple
of hours, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt.
Exploring a strange hotel was routine for me, too. In this case,
I figured the exercise would wear me out enough to force a few
hours' sleep, as well as giving me a feel for the conference's
layout. 
     I walked to the end of the hall opposite the elevators, and
stared out at the moon. It was large and full; it made me feel
small and empty. I rode the elevator down to the third floor,
stared through the glass at the hotel pool and health club. It was
closed; I'd missed the one o'clock closing by slightly less than
half an hour. 
     I rode the escalator to the second floor, poked my head into
a couple of the conference rooms. A hotel crew was clearing the
remnants of a Halloween party out of the second ballroom; with
October now over, I was into my eleventh month as a consultant. 
     I turned down a dark hallway, drawn by a sound I couldn't
identify. There was a dim glow ahead of me, and my insomnia and
curiosity drove me toward it. The glow belonged to a pair of
candles, one each on a pair of tables flanking a pair of large, oak
doors. The sound, louder now, came from beyond the doors. 
     I stood for a moment in the darkened hallway, frowning. Where
I belonged was nine floors up, in my rumpled bed. The rhythmic
droning beyond the doors begged investigation, though, so I quietly
eased the left-hand door open and slipped inside. 
     It took my eyes a moment to adjust. Candles surrounded a dais
at the front of the ballroom, and the stray sparkles reflected in
the chandeliers above me lent a touch of the unreal to the scene,
as if the scene needed it. The ballroom was full of women in short,
black dresses. There was an almost overwhelming mixture of scents,
clashing perfumes and something else, something I couldn't quite
place. All of them were chanting, though I couldn't hear the words.
The chant was low, soft, and rhythmic. Oddly, the chanters seemed
to be perfectly in sync. The drone filling the packed ballroom
sounded like the purring of a large, black cat. 
     I shook my head, focused my attention on the dais. Seven
candles stood upon a table; there were other objects on the table,
but my view of them was obscured by the distance, the gloom, and
the three figures in long, black robes standing before the table. 
   The robed figure in the center of the peculiar tableau slowly
raised an object above its head, and the droning chant began to
grow in volume. I suddenly felt many hands guiding me forward. I
moved inexorably toward the table, caught in a tide of firm,
feminine flesh and soft, black fabric. I reached the foot of the
dais as the three robed figures turned toward me. 
     I recognized the object raised above the head of the middle
figure--it was a knife, with a gleaming, triangular blade. The
table was not a table--it was an altar. And as they pushed back
the cowls of their long, black robes, I recognized the faces of the
three figures before me:  Deidre, Teresa, and Eileen. 
     Somewhere nearby, a clock struck two. 
                               END