I stumbled over my Louboutin loafers and burst, in a rather undignified manner, through the hotel’s revolving door. I know where I am and how I got here, but the whole ordeal is still disorienting, having died and all. I’m quick to regain my balance and straighten my suit but thankfully it seems none of the other hotel guests noticed my blunder.

The lobby is glamorous, high end, decorated in a flawless recreation of the American 1920’s art deco style. The sort of retro that is inspiring rather than gimmicky. I’m not sure what I anticipated for the halfway house between life and death, but I surely did not expect that my first thought would be to compliment the decorator.

The staff ruins the illusion of normalcy. The strange, human-sized creatures have too many arms and eyes. Most have wings, though all the ones I can see have them neatly folded against their backs. They are all dressed in classic bellhop uniforms but since the things are not shaped like humans the effect is somewhat off putting. The lack of any sort of mouth also sets me on edge, but I suppose it’s good to know I won’t have to deal with overly chatty help.

Most of the other guests I see milling about have opted for theme matching attire, dressed up in wonderful homages to the roaring 20s, but a few appear to be dressed for a very different costume party with clothing from an eclectic range of time periods and cultures.

I approach the front desk and clear my throat, gaining the attention of the wing/arm/bellhop thing behind the counter. It looks me over with a handful of eyes and moves to approach.

“Um, yes-” I start and then taper off as the creatures are significantly more unnerving up close. My eyes refuse to stick on any one feature, quickly darting from place to place and drawn only to its outer edges. I can safely say that it has both fur and feathers on the main body, but the multitude of arms and hands are distinctly human aside from the additional peepers. I refuse to consider how many eyes might be hidden under the ill-fitting uniform. The location of the eyes seems to shift in my peripheral vision, and at one point I counted 5 arms and yet now I am completely certain it has 7. The head is animalistic in shape though I can’t place what animal it reminds me of, and the strap of its little bellhop hat seems too tight around its mouthless chin. I almost want to tell it to take the silly thing off.

I give my head a shake to stop from staring and/or comment on fashion choices. I pride myself on my diligent efforts not to judge based on appearances, but this is- well it’s a lot to take in all at once. I am going through something with my death and all, still, no excuse to be rude.

I clear my throat, “My name is Isaiah Bradley, who can I speak to about a room?”

Some eyes blink at me and a few others look over the ledger on the counter between us. It finds what I assume to be my name with a tap of one of its fingers and turns to begin looking for my key among the others hanging on the wall behind it.

The writing in the ledger is nothing like I’ve seen before, but the layout of the page is easily recognizable. Not only did I travel often for my work, but hotel management has its place on my resume. Most of the ones I’ve dealt with were digitized of course, but I suppose a log for reservations is a log for reservations regardless of what plane of existence one is dealing with.

A key is dropped into my hands, ending my contemplations on interplanar hotel management.

“Thank you.” I look up, waiting for instructions and the creature stares back unblinkingly. I feel increasingly lost as to what to do next. I used to be better at these sorts of interactions. Being dead has thrown me off my game. I clear my throat again, buying time to sort myself out. The creature continues to stare, and it finally dawns on me what it must be waiting for.

“Ah! Payment!” I pat my pockets for my wallet, only to find them all empty. A cold wave of panic washes over me as my eyes lock with a few of the creature’s eyes in front of me. It gives me a shake of its head and I am suddenly quite sure there is not going to be a bill to settle. Relief warms over the chill of my momentary panic. “Wonderful! if that’s settled, could you please direct me to my room?”

The creature blinks a few eyes at me, and I get the distinct impression that the answer is no and that I have already received the full extent of assistance this entity intends to offer me. To further reinforce this belief, the creature turns away from me and even the eyes on the back of its head are avoiding my general direction. No points for customer service.

Clearly dismissed, my body autopilots me over to the elevator, slipping me in between the operator and the other patrons before I’ve had a moment to sort out exactly where I am going. There’s a moment of tense silence, and uncharacteristically uncomfortable, I adjust the cuff of my sleeve. The elevator operator presses its wings closer to its back, sending me several eyes of mild annoyance. The lift is decently sized and there are only two other guests, but the wing/arm/bellhop/operator takes up a good deal of the space and I am now infringing upon it.

“What floor, mate?” the other fellow in the lift asks. He doesn’t match the 20’s vibe and instead has the appearance of a stereotypical 1980’s mob boss with his big hair, open lapels and cigars tucked into his off the rack coat where one would normally keep a pocket square. On anyone else it would be garish, but the look suits this particular man perfectly.

“Ah, yes,” I stammer slightly and frown at my prickling uncertainty “Um, I am actually not entirely sure…” I double check my keys with my room number embossed on a little tag, “Would either of you happen to know where 518 is located?” I question, forcing a chuckle that does not defuse the awkward air as much as I’d have liked.

“I don’t know what kind of joke you’re playing,” the woman scoffs, “but some of us have places to be.”

I already find being disoriented very uncomfortable and now this is the second time my attempt to ask for directions has resulted in hostility. “Yes, ma’am I very much agree.” I unfortunately snap back, “I’ve just died today and that alone is very taxing, but no one appears willing to direct me towards my room where I would very much like to rest a while!”

The woman appears taken back, which is fair, I’ve just snapped at her, but the fellow equally startled by my proclamation which feels a tad unexpected.

Apologies-,” I begin but am not allowed to finish.

“You’re lost?” he summarizes incredulously.

His shock and blunt summary is really not helping my discomfort with the situation. “Precisely,” I admit anyway. As much as I dislike it, lost accurately describes how I feel.

“I’ve never heard of anybody getting lost.” The fellow says with further disbelief.

I find that hard to believe given the complete lack of signs or people willing to offer directions.

“It is weird,” the woman agrees.

Alright, I’m done with this, “I apologize for causing you both a delay, I’ll just head back over to the front desk and attempt to get more information out of the…” I frown, “fellow? Thing- working there.” I need to figure out what those creatures are called quickly, “Good day.” I step back off the elevator and am quickly followed by the mob boss man

“Wait,” he calls, catching my arm, “the Keeper won’t be any help.”

So that’s what they’re called.

“It just gives out keys. You need to talk to Lizzie. She’ll know what to do.”

“Lizzie?”

“She’s the hotel manager.”

It’s difficult to express how nice it is that someone is finally answering my questions, “Ah, wonderful.” Is what I end up saying. I fear that does little to convey my gratitude. “Where can I find Lizzie?”

The guy gives his forehead a smack, “Right! You’re lost. That’s so weird it didn’t even occur to me you can’t find her either!”

I smile because telling him off for rubbing it in would not be a good way to show my appreciation for his assistance.

“Just leave it to me, pal,” he slaps my back and dons a huge grin, “I’ll get you there.