As soon as this other me passed into the Imago Hotel, I had no further memories of what happened, even when I reread passages several times. The remainder of the account was relatively brief and the brief postscript only made my sense of unease grow stronger as I put the pages back into the envelope. We were now nearing Pripyat and the end of my journey, but I feel I should share with you that last account by the version of me that fell through the Bowl of Pripyat into that strange hotel ballroom. It may make the rest more understandable in some ways.

****

The Imago Hotel, as I came to learn, was a very exclusive, very secluded hotel in the western part of America. I searched the memories of both Alexi and Brian, but neither had ever heard of it before. Then again, only a select few were ever allowed entry.

The hotel was old and massive, with an air of elegance and wealth and history that was both wonderful and a little terrifying at the same time. Everything was in its place and everything was beautiful…but too much so, if that makes sense. The spotless marble floors, the polished glow of the wood walls and the artfully decorated coffered ceilings far overhead almost gave it the solemnity of a church, though a church for some unknown and alien god unseen in the minds of most.

I’m sure this all sounds quite melodramatic, and I ask your forgiveness on that point. I know I will fail in describing this place properly, but I feel I must try. And it should be noted that the oddness of the hotel only began with the décor. Far stranger were those that inhabited it.

After I found myself in one of the smaller ballrooms of the hotel, I was greeted by the owner herself—Angelica Lemark. She was a tall, very thin woman with bright, intelligent eyes and a kind of magnetism that made it easy to get lost in her voice when she was talking to you. If I hadn’t already been so muddled from my journey through the bowl and my growing blood loss, I might have drowned in the soft roll of her words and the deep, raspy warmth with which she intoned them.

But the pain where the knife had pierced me demanded attention, both from me and from a doctor. Showing remarkable strength, Angelica picked me up with seemingly little effort and carried me out of the ballroom and across a brightly-lit lobby. As we moved into the open, several other men and women came walking up, their faces interested but unconcerned. She told two of them to get a wheelchair while directing a third to wake the doctor and prepare the clinic for their new guest.