Stolen Memories of Yesteryear

The following short story, "Stolen Memories of Yesteryear", was originally written for a submission to The First Line. Each quarter, the publication provides the first line of a story and writers submit stories based on that first line. Below is my submission from earlier in 2025.

No one really knows why restoration stopped on the abandoned St. Julian hotel, where commoners and kings once came to relax in luxury. One day, the site was a flurry of activity, workers crawling across scaffolding, beeps from equipment constant, and an excited buzz in knowing this grand site of history prepared to make a comeback.

Then, overnight, activity ceased. Scaffolding, gone. No workers. No sounds of construction titillating the city. Only the hum of traffic zooming by. Orange mesh fencing surrounded the entire lower level of the property, with NO TRESPASSING signs plastered in a way they were impossible to miss. Answers from the planners offered no explanation and the city government was even quieter. Stories flew fast and furious, powered by gossip among the denizens more than anything, growing into legend and eventually forgotten, except for the fact this eyesore stood out downtown. Only given the occasional glance, with most people ignoring history, figuring it to be a relic of another time that a preservation society refused to let rot into dust in the wind.

The latter part was true for Evan Thomas. Unaffiliated, simply a lov3er of history and intrigued by St. Julian’s history, Evan wanted to bathe in every moment the proud hotel once contained.

Evan’s Monday routine of stopping by the site started ordinary enough. The bus dropped Evan at his regular stop only a block away from the site, giving him ample opportunity before work to visit the old hotel and let the creative juices flow. After a long weekend of research, breathing in the half-finished renovation was a fantastic way to put any new knowledge to use. Nothing had changed physically at the site, aside from the weekend collection of litter tossed about. Napkins, half-eaten hot dogs, chewed gum, and a silver hoop earring someone had lost on a lonely two a.m. walk to a cab. Or so Evan liked to imagine. Most of the trash would be gone by afternoon, cleaned by the Monday morning sanitation crew. On the other side of the fence, gray tarp between orange mesh and metal links, the scene was more of the same, garbage untouched over the years, like the smelly underbelly of a landfill.

Vibrations from his smartwatch snap Evan forward. Crap, he thought, nine o’clock already.

But Evan did not move. On this Monday, the St. Julian hotel beckoned to him, calling out to explore, to find a way inside the glorious palace that once played host to the rich, the seedy, the poor, the dignitaries, and everyone else in between. Evan was not sure why the urge to dig deeper into the bones of this hotel compelled him on this day. Usually, an extended look while on his way to work was enough. Today, the voice inside told him this was the day to get inside. A now or never venture if this itch to fulfill the dream was to ever be scratched.

By now in his obsession, based on research in books and old newspaper articles spanning decades, along with online message boards, Evan had memorized every floor and room possible. Much of the building was boarded up, windows and all, due to explorers, vandals, and teenagers finding multiple uses for what most deemed “a vicious eyesore.” Throw in the mesh fencing, rebar, and chain link barriers, little room was given to allow anyone to break onto the property or into the hotel. Except officials – and many of the citizens – had long forgotten about the old tunnels running under the city. Paths for bootleggers pushed towards ancient history as the city grew. One tunnel in which Evan uncovered had an entrance in the building he worked in around the block, leading directly to the kitchen of the St. Julian hotel.

The tricky part for Evan was entering his office building without seen by a co-worker. Good news on two fronts, with the office staff a small one and his group’s office was on the seventh floor. The unwelcome news for Evan was he always seemed to bump into a co-worker on the main floor or in the elevator, no matter the time of day. Thankfully, the elevator aspect was out on this day. Evan made it safely past the front entrance, down a hallway, and to a storage room shared by many businesses in this building. He had access to the room, like numerous employees around the building, and Evan knew seeing someone in the room was a risk, too. He needed a plan to linger or a way to avoid small talk if he reached the room and found it occupied. Looking around, conspicuously, Evan fumbled with the keycard before steadying himself and waving the plastic in front of the electronic pad.

Fortune favored Evan, the motion light switching on when he entered, meaning no one else was in the room. This ten-story building was as old as the St. Julian, Evan learned, which led him months ago on his initial search for the secret door. First, Evan assumed the entrance must be subterranean. But the basement in this building, if it did exist, was long ago sealed. Through research, however, Evan discovered the first floor was indeed once the basement, or slightly below street level. In any case, he could not believe he had been so inattentive in not thinking anything odd about the lobby, where to enter all walked down a set of wide, long stairs to get to the front desk and elevators. Once he confirmed the first floor resided low, Evan studied the schematics and found the storage room with a trap door leading to the historical tunnels of the city.

The hidden entrance, uncovered in the storage room, led him to wonder if others had indeed known of its existence. Until this day, after discovering the location of the trap door and the access he had to it, Evan had not taken the plunge in releasing the latch. Keycard swiped and access granted, Evan entered, then walked to the far corner. He looked upon the tile of flooring only slightly discolored with age. He guessed the area to be four feet long, three feet wide. But is there a drop? How will I get down? Evan thought, successive questions that stalled him briefly. “Now or never,” Evan whispered, hooking the latch with his right index finger and using his left hand to guide the door in silence. Evan took out his cell phone, shining the light down. A ladder, steel bars lined up evenly, and appearing to be perfectly intact, providing enough evidence for Evan to turn off the light.

Quickly, he moved onto the rungs, pulling the trap door closed over him before proceeding. Evan guessed the ladder to descend ten or fifteen feet, so darkness would be a volatile enemy against the trust of the ladder. Nerves aside, the steps were easy. Hands firmly entrenched on steel; one foot stayed on a rung while the other reached for the next. A careful process that brought success and safety in the descent, feet and hands working in fluid tandem while Evan tried to remain calm.

Until he no longer wasn’t.

Right foot dangled in the air, leg extended, no rung to be found. Fear of letting go prevented Evan from pulling out his cell phone to check how close the ground was, or if there was any ground at all. Sweat chilled on clammy skin. What if he were wrong about the tunnels? What if he were dropped into nothingness? “Crawl back up you idiot,” Evan said aloud. “No, you’ve got this. Have confidence you were right in your research,” answered his heart. Two sides waged war while Evan’s grip tightened, knuckles turning white. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, counted to three, and released.

Barely flying when he hit the ground, no more than two feet later, relief soaked into Evan. He acknowledged the fall could have turned out much worse, paused to collect his bearings, and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. Evan smashed the flashlight button, providing the illumination needed. Particles of dust floated lazily, attaching themselves to nearby cobwebs that occupied the corners and other angles of the tunnel. But there it was. The pathway Evan hoped led to the secret entrance of the St. Julian. A wide tunnel, easing Evan’s mind because he would not have to crawl or make a tight squeeze of things. In fact, Evan noted to himself that the width was enough to haul goods and other cargo, and two more of him could easily fit side-by-side down here. The ease in which he walked, air not choking him just yet, ground devoid of hazards save the occasional fist-sized boulder or dusty beer bottles of days gone by, made Evan even more excited to reach his destination.

The entrance he sought, by his estimation, was a city block away. Evan had spent hours memorizing old blueprints at the library and using other online resources. He would know more or less if the information were correct because soon, he should be coming upon a fork in the road.

“Yes!” screamed Evan, seeing the path diverged ten yards in the distance.

Entombed in the tunnel, sounds from the world above were non-existent. No honking, beeping, loud engines, or sirens. Only a calming silence. Evan paused to listen for signs if was followed. Nothing except the loud thumping of his heartbeat filled Evan’s ears. To the right he traveled, knowing if the plans were correct, he’d soon find a series of stairs that led to a short ladder like the one he had just come down. Or so he hoped. Chances were high this could be all for not. What if the trap door did not work? What if he had to turn around and could not get back up? Thoughts of being trapped here, dying down here, brought sudden worry to Evan. A quick glance at his phone showed he still had service. A small relief entered Evan’s mind. An emergency call and explaining everything, well, Evan would worry about that later. For now, moving onward.

Near pipes, humid and dusty air choked at Evan, a mild irritant on this quest. Evan imagined bumping into a skeleton; a soul who lost their way down here on the same expedition he now undertook, given over to eternity. Evan was a bundle of jumbled nerves, despite the path forward being quite simple and rather mundane. The end game kept Evan full of excitement and soon, the next step happened upon him: the end of the passageway.

Luck prevailed, cell phone light revealing a fully intact ladder from ground to ceiling. Evan wasted no time rushing forward, putting away his phone, and scaling the ladder, more haphazardly in his ascent than the descent on the previous one. Only seconds went by before Evan reached the top. This was it. The journey would either end here thanks to a locked or blocked entrance, or the trap door would release, allowing Evan to proceed. Feeling around, one hand holding onto a rung, Evan found the inner handle of the latch. He pulled, heard a click, and pushed up. “Crap,” he uttered aloud, trying repeatedly to open the latch. Nothing, so Evan retreated a rung, re-thought his plan, and centered himself. Not ready to give up, Evan rose again. Close as possible without falling, Evan pulled the latch, simultaneously ramming his shoulder. Once. Twice. Three times. Shoulder sore, Evan powered up with one final heave, knocking hard.

Success! The door flew open, old metal crashing loudly to the floor above.

Evan crept to safety, pulling himself into a cramped area under a counter. He had to crawl four feet until he could fully stand but he was here. The once proud kitchen where chefs cooked up five-star meals served to whoever wanted to taste stellar cuisine. Much like the hotel itself, the quality of food eventually took a dive, giving way to the atmosphere of a greasy saloon. Enamored with the elegance of the hotel, Evan felt he would have also appreciated its final decades of degradation much more. He held an odd affinity towards the kitsch in the nostalgia of life, especially concerning history. And this abandoned restoration project fascinated him, especially since the city could not – or would not – tear it down to pave the way to the future.

Now here he was, ready to drink it all fully.

The kitchen was dark, so Evan let his cellphone light guide him. An empty room, nothing remaining of a once thriving culinary life. Pushing open the swinging doors, Evan stepped into the dining room. A high vaulted ceiling holds a grand chandelier, which remained hanging, dull strands of crystal reflecting the light from Evan’s phone. Truly little else was present. A stack of chairs. A table teetering on three legs. A random assortment of broken sheet rock. Mostly, a floor covered in inches of dust and dirt, marking Evan’s presence with each passing step. Evan imagined the parties, the dinners, the laughs, and the tears all shared in this mighty room. Joy, but also sadness, in knowing no one would experience either at this hotel again.

Exiting the dining room, walking through the space where doors used to hang, Evan marveled at the ambiance. A hallway, dark tiles leading the way. Evan’s very own yellow brick road (of a different color). Cracks on the boarded windows and doors allowed streams of sunlight to flow in the lobby, giving Evan reason to put his cell phone away and to truly experience the day. He gave everything around him extended looks. A long front desk, its face comprised of smooth granite. Ugly, flat lime colored carpet that Evan loved. Spinning slowly, giving himself a panoramic view of walls stained in sections, wood paneling peeling, Evan locked his focus on a spot still in pristine condition. The grand staircase. A center railing, gold. Two more, one on either side. Deep red carpeting complementing the carpet he stood on. So many people passed up and down those stairs that led to another lobby, elevators, and the first set of rooms. Evan had no choice but to go and explore more.

He walked up the center of the staircase, guided by his hand on the railing, not caring about years of grime collecting on his palm. Evan wiped away thick layers on the rail, revealing a gold glean, like the hotel itself, beauty hidden by marked commodities of destruction and time. An admission by Evan that struck him to the core, even as he admired how much of the interior was still in place and not destroyed. He embraced step after loving step. Evan reached the top and turned, staring down at a lobby filled by the emptiness of someone else’s memories. He wished he were rich; to restore this hotel and this spot in the city to its former glory. A welcome addition to this ever-changing landscape that had grown ten times in size since the abandoned restoration project. Old world meets new world. A chance to blend.

“Come on then,” whispered Evan, “move on.”

To the area behind him he turned, drawn to a far hallway where he was sure rooms awaited. Evan passed by the elevators, doors missing on the entire row of three, tethers dangling mid-air. Furniture was not present, just another section of the hotel stripped for parts. The lone relic standing was one little end table with a green vase on it, next to the window. An impressive feat, considering the vase was a perfect target for rock throwers, back before everything was boarded up. Or the object of wrecking desire by a bored member of the renovation crew.

Walking slowly, approaching the row of rooms, Evan passed by a door with clearly painted words: STAIR ACCESS. He considered a climb, but pushed the thought aside, settling on traveling upwards as a last resort if all the lower rooms were inaccessible. Plus, he harbored a fear of reaching another level and falling through unstable floors, leading to injury or worse.

Perspiration building on his forehead, Evan first tried the door to his left. Locked. To his right, room number two presented the same outcome. Rooms three and four? More of the same, even backed by a shoulder tossed into each door. Evan’s nerves raged, fearing he’d come all this way and would not get to scope out a room. Room five, locked, so he moved to room six. Evan inhaled deeply, resigned to pessimism as he grabbed the handle. He quietly released out of defeated instinct but given a reward with the door moving an inch. Using his foot, Evan nudged the door open, hinges silent, the door swinging inward. Light blared through, the one window on this entire building completely free.

A glorious, welcoming sign Evan absorbed for close to a minute before deciding to fully enter the room.

His reward? A room frozen in history. No television on the long bureau to the right. One gray ice bucket, ST. JULIAN’S HOTEL emblazoned on the outside. The thought of sneaking out this piece of memorabilia crossed Evan’s mind. Nearby, a pile of towels, yellow with age but stacked neatly. On the opposite wall, a watercolor hung, a painting of snow-capped majestic mountains. Below the painting, a king-sized bed. A maroon comforter perfectly pressed, nary a wrinkle found. Four pillows, expertly placed, and next to the bed, a small dresser with a black rotary phone atop it. A simple, standard hotel room all the same but to Evan, just as he imagined it would be. One last step and Evan’s adventure would be complete.

He crawled onto the bed, discarding any disgust with dirt. Evan lay down, staring at the ceiling, soaking in the moment of being inside the hotel. The peace. The quiet. Shutting out all else, pausing any worry about how he would get out of the hotel, Evan closed his eyes and pictured the glory era of this bustling town and this hotel’s place in history. Restoration may never continue, and the spot may one day come crashing down in exchange for the construction of a new, taller building. But in this gentle moment, Evan had his peace and a very own memory of the St. Julian no one could ever take away from him.

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