This Village Life investigative report demonstrates that evil has influenced our youth, turning them into demented zombies that lurk in dark cellar corners beneath Town Center and await victims of some bizarre blood sport. This matter should be of the gravest concern to all families.
El Dorado Hills Chamber of Commerce President/CEO Debbie Manning seemed delighted when a new, albeit modest, hotel opened in El Dorado Hills Town Center earlier this month. She’s kept a low profile since the “H4H Hotel” ribbon cutting. In fact she hasn’t been seen.
Recent events suggest that all manner of malfeasance transpires within the hotel confines.
H4H Enterprises operates the hotel with what seems to be a couple hundred mostly underage youth. Calls to their headquarters have gone unanswered.
Warning: What follows may be disturbing to younger readers or those squeamish around denizens of the underworld, ghastly clowns or oozing severed appendages.
Posing as a potential client, Village Life toured the facility with several children from the nearby White Rock Village Apartments, which completed the ruse that we sought a location for a children’s party.
The hotel lighting was terrible. The staff we met were pale and disheveled.
Upon entrance a kindly, purple-haired, wand-wielding faery named Donna, who appeared to be a character in a punk rock Peter Pan video, greeted us.
Donna said something about her wand holding a thousand trapped ghosts. Right.
She went on to sprinkle “faery dust” about us, which may have been a mild hallucinogen because what followed was either a bizarre hallucination or a macabre crime scene.
This “good witch” chanted “Ghosts, goblins and witches, don’t be shy. You must say bye bye. U-verse beats Direct TV.” All very odd.
She escorted us to a rickety elevator which clearly hadn’t been subject to the proper inspections. It started up, faltered and promptly crashed to the basement. Did you know Town Center had a basement?
We fled the elevator into a subterranean, tacky-chic hotel lobby that must have been furnished from Park Village garage sales. We were greeted by a doorman who hadn’t been to the lake this summer. Behind the registration desk hung two framed photographs, a little girl and boy named Bridget and Cameron. A grim and oddly aggressive reception clerk explained that the pair lived in White Rock Village many years ago and never grew up.
Their mother’s avarice had sent her into the arms of a Serrano bachelor, abandoning them to the streets and alleys of Town Center, where they lived off the $2 Tuesday specials at Nugget and scraps from the Bistro 33 dumpster. We would meet young Cameron and his sister later, in circumstances even more bizarre.
“Check-ins only, no check outs,” said the troubled clerk. This seemed odd, but I assured the children he was referring to the video check out feature now offered by most hotels, and took the occasion to warn them about mini-bar abuse. “You think they won’t miss that little jar of cashews but there it is, a $14 charge on your bill at checkout.”
I asked about the coffee shop, and he pointed the way to a dining room of sorts. While the children were distracted I approached a server, but before I could ask about the menu she raised a casserole lid to reveal a severed and writhing human head on a platter that looked like the missing chamber president.
I asked the server to replaced the lid and show us out.
The self guided tour continued down a dark hallway, past a room containing a little girl with a big knife. She said her name was Carol Anne, and she seemed to communicate with a black and white television tuned to pure static. When one of the children asked her if she got MTV she muttered something about a “life force” and poltergeist. All very strange.
Snakes and spiders hung from the ceiling. Chains rattled in the opposite corner. Several of us thought we felt something in our hair. With gooseflesh rising, we pushed through thick cobwebs.
A determined ballerina beckoned us to enter what appeared to be an elaborate rehearsal studio. For a moment I thought we’d stumbled into a group of thespians, that all the strange things we’d witnessed had been sets in some dark theatrical production. It made sense. They were actors carrying their goth-inspired characters too far.
Or perhaps the circus was in town.
As we approached the tiny dancer we were set upon by a most demonic clown. I fear “Carver” will haunt the dreams of the children, as well as those of their leader, forevermore. As we dodged the demented clown’s advances a wall appeared to close in on us, almost breathing, a phenomenon I’d seen in the 1963 horror film “The Haunting.”
Before I could conjecture about whether or not the faery’s dust was responsible for the architectural anomaly, we stumbled into something so dreadfully gory that I’m hesitant to describe it in this family publication.
Oh what the heck.
We entered what appeared to be a busy kitchen. But again, all was not right.
A crazed butcher labored at a large roast. But upon closer examination it became clear that what he cleaved was a severed human leg. Other body parts were strewn around his butcher block. A head emerged from a sink, spun around, eyes flashing, and then retreated into the dish water. A partially frozen body, awaiting its fate, wriggled in an open freezer.
Before we could take all this in, objects that shuffled around the periphery of our vision suddenly appeared — nightmarish denizens of the dark, creepers, spooks. They tormented us and ordered us to leave. We happily complied.
One of the children screamed. I found him pointing to an open hearth which appeared to contain someone, or some thing, burning alive. A ghoulish laborer shoveled extraneous body parts onto the blaze.
Behind us a loud buzzing accompanied the smell of burning flesh. We spun to see some poor soul jolted in a primitive electric chair. Wires led to a metal hat that resembled a salad bowl delivering lethal voltage to the poor soul, smoldering his cerebellum, cremating his cranium … you get the picture.
I gathered the children and fled to an enclosed garden where we were greeted by Cameron, the boy from the photo. He begged sorrowfully for us to help him find his lost sister.
Thinking of the chopping block, freezer and hearth, I was about to inform him that this must surely be the worst place in El Dorado Hills — perhaps the entire county — to lose a sibling.
We finally found our way out, and tried in vain to locate a deputy sheriff.
The children, weeping uncontrollably by this point, returned to their parents with vouchers for counseling.
Village Life is not sure what these creatures are doing in Town Center or where they came from. On behalf of an outraged community we demand an explanation of these sordid activities, and invite all concerned citizens to descend on the Town Center Amphitheater with pitchforks and torches.