Because this place was not empty.
Exactly what manner of things might be here he did not know - but he knew that Sloat had never dared to come in, and he guessed that no one else would, either. The air was heavy and unpleasant in his lungs, as if filled with a slow poison. He felt the strange levels and canted passageways and secret rooms and dead ends above him pressing down like the walls of a great and complex crypt. There was madness here, and walking death, and gibbering irrationality. Jack might not have had the words to express these things, but he felt them, all the same . . . he knew them for what they were. Just as he knew that all the Talismans in the cosmos could not protect him from those things. He had entered a strange, dancing ritual whose conclusion, he felt, was not at all pre-ordained.
He was on his own.
Something tickled against the back of his neck. Jack swept his hand at it and skittered to one side. Richard moaned thickly in his arms.
It was a large black spider hanging on a thread. Jack looked up and saw its web in one of the stilled overhead fans, tangled in a dirty snarl between the hardwood blades. The spider's body was bloated. Jack could see its eyes. He couldn't remember ever having seen a spider's eyes before. Jack began to edge around the hanging spider toward the tables. The spider turned at the end of its thread, following him.
'Fushing feef!' it suddenly squealed at him.
Jack screamed and clutched Richard against him with panicky, galvanic force. His scream echoed across the high-ceilinged dining room. Somewhere in the shadows beyond, there was a hollow metallic clank, and something laughed.
'Fushing feef, fushing FEEF!' the spider squealed, and then suddenly it scuttled back up into its web below the scrolled tin ceiling.
Heart thumping, Jack crossed the dining room and put Richard on one of the tables. The boy moaned again, very faintly. Jack could feel the twisted bumps under Richard's clothes.
'Got to leave you for a little while, buddy,' Jack said.
From the shadows high above: '. . . I'll take . . . take good . . . good care of him you fushing . . . fushing feef . . .' There was a dark, buzzing little giggle.
There was a pile of linen underneath the table where Jack had laid Richard down. The top two or three tablecloths were slimy with mildew, but halfway through the pile he found one that wasn't too bad. He spread it out and covered Richard with it to the neck. He started away.
The voice of the spider whispered thinly down from the angle of the fan-blades, down from a darkness that stank of decaying flies and silk-wrapped wasps. '. . . I'll take care of him, you fushing feef . . .'
Jack looked up, cold, but he couldn't see the spider. He could imagine those cold little eyes, but imagination was all it was. A tormenting, sickening picture came to him: that spider scuttling onto Richard's face, burrowing its way between Richard's slack lips and into Richard's mouth, crooning all the while fushing feef, fushing feef, fushing feef . . .
He thought of pulling the tablecloth up over Richard's mouth as well, and discovered he could not bring himself to turn Richard into something that would look so much like a corpse - it was almost like an invitation.
He went back to Richard and stood there, indecisive, knowing that his very indecision must make whatever forces there were here very happy indeed - anything to keep him away from the Talisman.
He reached into his pocket and came out with the large dark green marble. The magic mirror in the other world. Jack had no reason to believe it contained any special power against evil forces, but it came from the Territories . . . and, Blasted Lands aside, the Territories were innately good. And innate goodness, Jack reasoned, must have its own power over evil.
He folded the marble into Richard's hand. Richard's hand closed, then fell slowly open again as soon as Jack removed his own hand.
From somewhere overhead, the spider chuffed dirty laughter.
Jack bent low over Richard, trying to ignore the smell of disease - so like the smell of this place - and murmured, 'Hold it in your hand, Richie. Hold it tight, chum.'
'Don't . . . chum,' Richard muttered, but his hand closed weakly on the marble.
'Thanks, Richie-boy,' Jack said. He kissed Richard's cheek gently and then started across the dining room toward the closed double doors at the far end. It's like the Alhambra, he thought. Dining room giving on the gardens there, dining room giving on a deck over the water here. Double doors in both places, opening on the rest of the hotel.
As he crossed the room, he felt that dead hand pushing against him again - it was the hotel repelling him, trying to push him back out.
Forget it, Jack thought, and kept going.
The force seemed to fade almost at once.