The Hotel Dubois

Many had come to the Hotel Dubois with their pockets brimming with so many silver coins they could barely keep their purses shut. Only to be turned away. They’d put up a good fight, waving their hands and demanding entrance. Many often exclaimed, “do you know who I am?” Before Stanley had the oh-so-satisfying job, of sending them on their merry way, occasionally with a kick up the backside if they were behaving like a particular buffoon.

There were a few who over the years, had managed to break into the hotel. Scaling the walls to climb through windows left ajar, sneaking in through back doors or disguising themselves as delivery men and creeping through the kitchen. But all were caught, and those who dared enter without paying the price of entrance, never left on their feet the following morning.

Men and women who wouldn’t look at Stanley sideways on the street, were practically on their knees begging him to let them in. Stanley loved his job.

“We don’t accept payment in coins.” He would explain to all new entrants, politely at first, then with increasing sternness. Many would try to press a penny or two in his palm, with a wink, or a sly smile.

Stanley would just glare at him and let the pennies fall from his hand, so they clattered loudly on the counter. Usually, the embarrassment, of having everyone stare at them would be enough for most high-toff folk, to scurry away. But a few were very persistent. Those were always the fun ones.

One man once brought a whole manner of mysterious and expensive items to Stanley’s counter as if he could guess what form of payment the hotel used. First, he’d tried silver then gold coins, a pocket watch, a string of pearls, then a ruby necklace. After they were all rejected, he’d huffed and begun pulling things from hidden pockets in his cloak, each increasingly more and more bizarre. A Fabergé egg, a bag of teeth, a peacock feather, a vial of what looked like blood. As Stanley shook his head with each item, the man became increasingly more and more frustrated.

“Well, what then!” He snapped, “I’ll pay whatever you want!”

Stanley had the devil’s humour, his mother had always said. So rather than turning the gent away, he just leaned in close. The gentleman’s eyes had widened, first with surprise then with satisfaction. Stanley could barely hold back his grin as he whispered, “Your immortal soul.” The gentleman had jumped several feet in the air.

“What,” he’d prattled about for a few moments, “Well, I-I can’t do that. I..” then with anger, “I renounce the devil and all his worshippers.” He shouted, clutching his crucifix pendant, and rushing out of the hotel with all due haste. The moment he was out the doors, the room fell into a collective roar of laughter. “Oh, good one, Stanley”, many of the patrons had said. Many had even gone over to pat him on the back.

No, the Hotel Dubois, did not require one’s soul for entry. Though that rumour would circulate among the townsfolk for some time afterwards. The price of admission was a single button. Not even a special or expensive one. Anything that fell off your clothes would suffice. Only those who’d been told the secret would know the hotel’s humble price, and that information was guarded closely to the chest of all guests.

The very soul of the hotel lay in its exclusivity. This place offered a break from the mundanity of the world outside. A heathen’s haven. A paradise for all who dared to ignore convention. A home, for those who’d never quite belonged.

In this place, ideas flowed as fast as the rum from its decanters. There were debates and arguments and drinking games. There were brawls and beatings and all manner of lewd behaviour that would make most of polite society blush. A night at the Hotel Dubois was many things, but certainly never tame.

Many guests only stayed for a night, some stayed for days or weeks or even months at a time. It is said that one inhabitant chose never to leave. That his spectre still resides in the hotel and that on clear, windless nights, he can be heard, pacing, and muttering to himself, about how frustrating it is his ghostly fingers cannot hold a quill.

The guests of the hotel bore no particular physical characteristics to tie them together. They were fat or thin, rich, or poor, young, or old, men or women. They fit no mould. Each was brilliant and unique, and unconventional in their own way – their singularity was all they had in common.

The founder of the hotel could be regularly spotted amongst his guests, usually with a bottle of whiskey in hand. You couldn't tell who he was from the look of his clothes; humble but fine, the kind of thing a marketeer would wear but never a high-ranking nobleman.

He'd told Stanley upon hiring him, that he'd made this place, to live through the eyes of interesting people. "I've had forty years of chatting politely about the market and listening to women prattle on about their new hats. Figured I was owed a bit of living before I died." Stanley found the man interesting and engaging and a brilliant storyteller to boot. He belonged amongst his stellar guests, though he'd never agree he did.

The inhabitants of the hotel were often renowned, worshipped and reviled in equal measure by the outside world. They were painters and poets, saints and sinners, acrobats, and atheists. You were just as likely to see them in history books as you were on wanted posters. They are frequently the subjects of enormous envy, and often persecuted because of it. But many are pitied too, those who couldn’t find themselves in the ordinary world around them frequently attempted to do so at the bottom of a bottle.

After their stay, some guests will return to manor houses and palaces, others to humble shacks or even gritty street corners, where they are lucky to be tossed a few coins. Many will end up rotting in prison cells or rocking back and forth in the corner of an asylum. Some will find a wealthy benefactor and be elevated well above their station, and some will fall from the greatest of heights to end up in the slums.

Is it a blessing or a curse to be a guest of the Hotel Dubois, none can say for sure. One thing is for certain, none of the guests was ordinary; by far that would be the greatest curse of all.