Chương 68: Book 3 - Chapter 7 B

That Halloween evening I joined the group for the after-dark ghost tour. Something new the hotel was promoting now that they were no longer closed during the winter. The air inside the main lobby of the Stanley was thick and hushed, smelling faintly of old cedar and pipe tobacco, a ghost of its wealthier, earlier years. The only light came from the massive fireplaces at either end of the hall and a few strategically placed lamps that cast long, uneasy shadows.

I had finished the game quickly, and now, instead of playing music or resting while the other players continued, I found myself standing near the Grand Staircase with a group of excited people. Our guide, a woman in a long, dark velvet dress named Maeve, waited until the clock chimed six. Her voice, when it came, was a theatrical whisper.

"Welcome, all of you, to the heart of the Overlook—or as we call it, the Stanley," Maeve said, her voice echoing just slightly off the high ceilings.

"Tonight, on the night when the veil is thinnest, we do not just tell stories. We walk with them." She gestured toward the sweeping central staircase, its white painted pickets and mahogany railings polished to a mirror shine, but now mostly swallowed by shadow.

"Before us stands the Grand Staircase, the focal point of all activity. We call this the Vortex because for decades, guests and staff have reported cold spots that twist in the warm air and the faint, unsettling scent of perfume where no one stands. It is here that the hotel's original owner, F O Stanley and his dear wife, Flora, are sometimes seen, gazing down from the first landing. They are said to be benevolent, watching over their beautiful creation. But not all spirits here are so kind."

A woman in the group gasped faintly. I noticed the ornate, old-fashioned elevator near the staircase was lit but immobile. Maeve led us past the Pinon Room—the old men's smoking room—and toward the Concert Hall, a separate, detached building connected by a long, enclosed walkway. The walk was the spookiest part. The moon was obscured, and the wind had picked up, sending a low, mournful sighing sound around the building's white Georgian columns. The shadows outside were deep and moved with the sway of the branches.

Inside the Concert Hall, the temperature dropped instantly. The large room smelled damp and cold, like a cellar. Maeve stopped us in the center.

"This hall is Flora's favorite," Maeve murmured, her shadow stretching long and thin behind her.

"Flora Stanley loved her music. And when she loves something, she stays with it. We have staff who report hearing the Steinway Grand—her beloved piano—playing late at night. Sometimes the keys move. Sometimes the music simply drifts down from the empty stage, beautiful, but utterly impossible. She is said to be playing for her husband." Maeve paused, turning slowly to face the long shadows beneath the stage.

"But Flora had company in this room. Down beneath our feet is the storage area where we believe a man named Paul still works as a night watchman. Paul was very serious about the hotel's old 11: 00 PM curfew. Many years ago, a worker was down there after hours. He felt a pressure on his shoulder—a persistent guiding hand. Then, he heard a voice, sharp as a whip: 'Get out.' Paul is still enforcing the rules." Maeve let the words hang in the silence. I felt the catch of a shiver.

The theatrical delivery was a wonderful way to escape from reality for just a moment. On Friday, I saw Kamran Shirazi near the lounge before the match began, and I gave him a slight nod.

"Salam, Kamran. Omīdvaram rūz-e khūbī dāshte bāshīd," I greeted him in Farsi. ("Hello, Kamran. I hope you have a good day.") His face—a mask of tournament tension—cracked slightly into a genuine smile.

"Man hamīntor, Dr Cook," he said, returning the sentiment. I then dropped my voice.

"I'll be playing music again tonight. I hope you can join us." He looked surprised, but gave a small nod before heading to the board. This game was a non-negotiable full point. Shirazi was an inconsistent player, and I had a firm lead. I played a clean, efficient game, converting a favorable position into a win without any complications or theatrics. He fought honorably, but the result was never in doubt. He resigned on move thirty-one.

That evening, Kamran Shirazi was the first to settle into an armchair in the music room. The days of play had seen all the chairs moved into a circle around the piano. He closed his eyes, listening as Boris and Lev debated politics and technique in rapid-fire Russian while I played a difficult, swirling nocturne. Later, as I played a simple folk song, I could see the tension leave Kamran, replaced by quiet remembrance.

The complex psychological and cultural exchange was my only true enjoyment in the midst of this tedious competition. I was making friends that would serve me well. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Saturday morning, I lazed around watching cartoons and eating a room service breakfast. That afternoon I sat against Boris Kogan, my closest companion among the competitors.

The other defectors mostly spoke Russian, as did I, but only Boris and I communicated at the evening piano events in Ukrainian. He was an honorable man and a defensive fortress—a veteran of the Soviet school. My strategy called for exactly four draws, and this draw was a gift to Boris, a testament to his sheer, stubborn defensive skill. I pushed hard in the mid-game, demonstrating that there was no breach in Kogan's iron-clad position. Like Kogan, I allowed no breaches.

The resulting position was a long, grinding draw, mutually agreed upon after three hours of maneuvering. Boris had held the tournament leader to a draw, and he deserved the small victory he would surely brag about to the others. He looked immensely pleased. Sunday was an unofficial rest day. Matt and I spent it wandering through Estes Park along the river. Poking our heads into shops and buying souvenirs for my family back home in Tulsa.

The Riverwalk running through the back side of downtown was the perfect spot to enjoy a big hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream as we watched the sunset over the looming mountains and listened to the burble of the river. Monday, Matt was unusually nervous.

"If you win this one, or even draw, you'll win the tournament."

"I know. I'll win. It wouldn't be dramatic enough if I won the tournament by coming to a draw against the reigning US Chess Champion." He chuckled at my bravado, but took me seriously. After he performed a quick check of my clothes and hair, Matt escorted me out for the final game against Lev Alburt. Everything was on the line for Lev. I had 10 points, he had 9. 5. As Matt had said, he had to be the first to defeat me in competition if he wanted to remain champion. It was a title match that had everyone excited.

We sat down, and I offered him a slight smile. He simply nodded, his eyes already focused inward. I could see the weight of the moment pressing down on him, and I knew he was under immense pressure. Lev opened aggressively, trying to force tactical complications, but in his hunger for the win, he over-committed his defenses early. I waited for and then exploited his one pressure-induced mistake on move seventeen. I executed a precise, brutal sequence that leveraged his over-extended position.

The path to the win was a long, cold forced variation, and Lev had to play it out. The game ran for over four hours, a grueling public defeat of the reigning champion. Finally, Lev Alburt resigned. The result was non-negotiable, and the Title was sealed. I had won the 1985 US Chess Championship with 11 points out of a possible 13. The room erupted with sound. The clicking of the chess clocks was instantly swallowed by the roar of applause and the violent strobe of camera flashes.

The intensity of the final moments of the tournament—the four-hour silence of Lev Alburt being maneuvered to resignation—had given way to a chaotic flood of human reaction. I stood, offering Lev my hand.

"Good game," I said, ensuring my voice carried the simple, professional respect required of a champion. Lev's grip was firm, but his eyes were a complex mix of crushing defeat and respect for the clinical brutality of the loss. He had pushed me, but I had not cracked. Matt and security moved instantly, clearing a path through the sudden density of photographers and reporters who had been waiting for the final result.

"Dr Cook! A word!"

"Nine years old! How do you feel?"

"Are you heading to the next World Championship qualifier?" I ignored them all. My security detail formed an impenetrable wedge, but before they could fully extract me from the playing hall, a large, powerful presence broke through the perimeter. It was Boris Kogan. He didn't speak a word of Russian or Ukrainian. He didn't need to. He simply roared a cheer that echoed off the high ceiling, grabbed me around the chest and lifted me clean off the ground in a fierce, celebratory bear hug.

I was dangling six feet in the air, my small body completely engulfed in the tweed-jacketed strength of the veteran master.

"Molodyets! Molodyets!" he boomed, spinning me once before setting me down gently, his eyes wide with a combination of pride and relief that his friend had succeeded. It was a purely emotional, unscripted moment that momentarily froze the cameras and the journalists, but left me full of laughter. Before the media could react, Boris clapped me on the shoulder, gave me a heavy nod of respect and turned to face the media crowd, acting as an impromptu human shield. Matt took my arm.

"Let's go, John." We retreated to the relative sanity of the dining room, where the other players were already gathered. Lev Alburt approached me first, not with the look of an opponent, but of a peer who had just been defeated by a superior calculation.

"Dr Cook," he said, extending his hand again.

"Your play… it is something new. You deserved this title. I am honored to pass it to you."

"Thank you, Lev," I replied.

"I appreciate the challenge. You made me work for every minute." Kamran Shirazi and the other members of the evening music group came over, offering quiet, genuine congratulations. Kamran, ever reserved, simply said, "Your patience is a lesson to us all, Doctor. I look forward to the music tonight." This was the reward: the acceptance of the masters, the acknowledgment that my game was not a fluke of youth, but an act of complete intellectual supremacy. The music that night was joyful.

Even the Americans joined as the Russians showed them how to perform their traditional dances as I played the rapid beat to a closed audience of only my fellow players.