Below are the first few pages of my story “The Ideal Candidate”, published by Occult Press in May of 2025. The book can be ordered directly from the publisher in a luxurious limited thread-stitched paperback edition and a fine leather edition: https://occultpress.net/the-ideal-candidate/
Precisely in the center of the sizable door, beneath a wilting, white hibiscus that had been affixed to the surface with a single, blackened nail, was found a curling scrap of yellowed paper with a typewritten word in smudged, blue ink. The word, Remit, appeared perfectly intractable, as if etched into the soul of the house itself. What’s more, no matter how hard he tried, Sylvester was unable to remember its meaning. He was certain he’d heard it in passing before and had probably used it himself on occasion, yet it hung in his mind like a half-remembered melody that refused to coalesce.
Above the door was a wooden sign that read Hotel Noturno in dark red letters. While it didn’t look anything like a hotel, Sylvester was relieved that he’d at least come to the right place. He stepped inside to find a room so dim that he was scarcely able to see. An overhead bulb shed a listless glow, its deficiency blooming like a radiant flower, just barely revealing a console table and the beginning of a corridor. The latter proceeded into stifling darkness. Just as he was looking for a notice or a sign, anything at all that might inform him where to go or what to do, he was startled by the sound of a woman’s voice. It was a little bit distant and slightly muffled, but the words were clear enough: “Oh, good LORD!”
Sylvester quickly whipped around only to find that he was alone. A slender door could just be made out in the shadows to the left of the entrance. The voice had come from the other side.
“I don’t want to hear it, Mr. Chandos,” the voice continued. “Not another word. You’ve bungled up everything we’ve offered you so far. You have no one but yourself to blame for your predicament.”
Though he didn’t know why he was so bothered by something that was clearly not meant for him, the woman’s verbal lacerations seemed to cut into Sylvester’s flesh. Another voice responded from further away. It sounded like an older man. “I don’t see where any of this is my fault,” he said. “Do you have any idea how far I’ve come for this?” His annoyance was mingled with a pleading desperation.
“You should have thought of that before you gummed up the lift,” said the woman. “There’s nothing to be done about it now.”
“But couldn’t you just…I don’t know, fix it?” The man sounded as if he were on the verge of tears. “It was an honest mistake. Anybody could have done it. I was only doing what I thought was expected of me.”
“Oh, this is intolerable!” the woman snapped. “I don’t have time for your puerile nonsense. I’ve got a gala to attend in half an hour’s time. Good day, Mr. Chandos!”
Sylvester heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Like a frightened mouse, he slipped into the corridor, the enveloping shadows effectively concealing him. He seemed to disappear completely as he blindly pushed forward, the darkness absolving him, if only for a moment, of the awkward indiscretion of being himself. He passed over what seemed to be a shallow pool of water which seeped right through his shoes and soaked into his socks. He would have turned around but for a shimmering glow that could just be seen in the distance ahead, the light revealing a tiled floor in a horrible state of disrepair. As the front door slammed with a jarring bang, he emerged into what looked like an ill-lit kitchen.
The space, which was cramped and terribly impoverished, was lit entirely by candles—a leaning taper in an open oven whose interior was blackened and covered with grime; another concealed behind a folding screen with four decorative panels; and a third in an ornate silver holder on a weathered wooden table. A young woman was sitting in a chair before the latter, her attention immersed in an open book. One elbow was propped on the tabletop, a cigarette clasped in her slender fingers. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-two; roughly the same age as Sylvester. She neglected to look up at him when he came in, merely putting her cigarette between her lips as she scanned the open page. Her lack of acknowledgement was as palpable as pitch.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Sylvester after a moment, leaning forward a little toward the table. “But the sign on the door says this is the Hotel Noturno?” He was still regaining his bearings from his passage through the darkness.
The woman raised her eyes to his. She hardly looked pleased to be disturbed. “What of it?” she said with no expression. Sylvester noticed all at once that the filthy little space was freezing.
“I’ve booked a room,” he said. “For a single night only. I telephoned a week ago.”
The woman sat and looked at him as if amazed that he could speak. “The rooms are upstairs,” she casually uttered before turning back to her book.
Giving up for the moment on the insolent woman, he allowed himself to look around. A stairway led upward through a door beside the oven. Nothing could be seen of what lay beyond. Two closed doors stood to one side of the entrance, a shelf between them stocked with glasses and saucers. What looked to be an icebox crouched in a corner, supporting a stack of dirty linens. Aside from an uneven row of cupboards, the only other thing of interest was the folding screen, its panels displaying a stylized forest seen from several points of view at once, all in a limited variety of colors against the sensuous black of the containing night.
Having no desire to return the way he’d come, yet knowing he’d probably have to, he addressed the woman once again in an attempt to stave off the inevitable. “Might there be a front desk somewhere?” he asked, rubbing his arms against the cold.
“You’ll need a room key,” she replied without looking up from her book.
“And where might I get that?” he asked.
“Upstairs,” she said. “I told you.”
Sylvester turned toward the ascending stair, which was every bit as uninviting as the rest of what he’d seen of the place so far. The stairway was so narrow that it couldn’t possibly have been meant for guests. It, too, was mired in total darkness, the candles from the kitchen barely lighting the initial steps. He imagined it led into a prison cell.
“Listen to this,” said the woman in an eager voice. “The ideal candidate will have kindled a torch that burns with an invisible light,” she read, “their stratagems informed by the annunciating angel at the pinnacle of industry. Salted by conscience and self-negation, unfettered by hope or ambition, they’ll apply an efficiency freed of toil to placate an engine that consumes no fuel.”
The passage struck like lightning in Sylvester’s mind. ‘My god,’ he thought. ‘Could it have already begun?’ The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d come into town to take part in an interview for a job he had no intention of accepting if it was offered to him. His appointment was scheduled for the following morning at an off-site location on the other side of town. János Industries was specifically known for their unconventional interview style. Curious to see if the rumors were true, he’d decided to apply for a menial position with no regard for the outcome. Having desirable prospects in his family’s line of work, he had not a single thing to lose.
The woman was still immersed in her book, her cigarette raised in her up-turned hand. She seemed much less abrasive than she had a moment ago. Her presence almost felt welcoming. “May I ask what you’re reading?” he gently inquired, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“It’s a book my father wrote,” she said, looking up at him. “His name is Rebus. He owns the hotel.”
“And your name?” he asked, not expecting an answer, having no other motive than to confirm his suspicion.
“My name is Miette,” she said. “It means ‘crumb’.”
The revealing of her name seemed like a ritual act, charging their acquaintance with new significance. Sylvester felt reassured that she’d given it up so easily. It was as if he’d passed a test. “So your father is a writer in addition to being the proprietor?” he asked.
She paused, taking a moment to consider, shifting her gaze toward the folding screen. “He behaves like one, in any case.” She sighed. “He sleeps all day and wakes at night, refusing to come out of his upstairs study. He wastes most of his time devising tactics to defend the hotel against an imaginary coup. He fritters away what’s left of our funds to print updated versions of the exact same book over and over again. I’m sure the hotel would be better off without him. He barely seems to know we exist.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sylvester, his sympathy sounding hollow even to him. Miette had nothing to say in response. She merely took a drag from her cigarette. With her plain gray top and crimson skirt, she seemed immune to the biting cold. Sylvester noticed that her feet were bare.
“There’s more,” she said, exhaling a lungful of smoke, her eyes turned back to the book. “But what of the imposter who’s adopted our method for their own less-than-suitable ends?” She spared a brief glance up at him. “The solution is as obvious as it is elegant. One must incorporate their efforts without their knowledge, casting them out into the arsenal of night by their own effete designs. There they’ll discover an ethos whose capacity exceeds its source.”
Now Sylvester was sure of it—this was all part of his interview. The entire situation was a calculated front arranged by the company to test his resolve. He suddenly felt as if he were playing a game that had no established rules. He was amazed at the lengths the company had gone to for the sake of such a minor post.
“My father’s been developing these ideas since I was a girl,” said Miette, idly flipping through the pages. “He’s a piss-poor poet and a miserable parent. What’s worse, he’s hopeless at running a business.”
“Does the hotel have many guests?” asked Sylvester. He would have liked to sit down, but Miette was sitting in the only chair.
“More than we can handle,” she said, turning her gaze to one side. She sat and smoked for several seconds before flipping the book shut with a gentle thud. Her body was tense with a strained contempt, though this was no longer aimed at Sylvester.
“I’ll take you upstairs to get your room key,” she said, looking back up at him. “We’ll have to retrieve it from Decline if we can find her. She’s probably sleeping in her office. She doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
She took one final drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out on the table and tossing the butt into the open oven. Rising from her chair, she took the candlestick in hand and headed toward the stairs. Sylvester didn’t hesitate to follow her.
Two new collections are coming in the first half of 2026. The first (which may or may not be published first) is a collection of occult retro-gaming fiction from Church Ghost Press. The second, at last, is another new collection, Saint Severina's Fire, which will be released on Occult Press. Both books feature a larger-than-usual amount of previously unpublished material.
