Free Holes for Faces by Ramsey Campbell

pinch her features small and sharp. She kept up her frown as Todd crossed the lobby, which was lit to some extent by a few bulbs of the dusty chandelier. More than just her attitude reminded him of someone else, so that he blurted “Excuse me, did you have a mother?”
    She pursed her lips so hard that the surrounding skin turned grey along with them. “I beg your pardon,” she said while doing nothing of the kind.
    Her voice was hoarse and blurred, like a smoker’s who was also somewhat drunk. “Sorry,” Todd said and risked a laugh, only to wish he’d kept it to himself. “Does it run in the family, I meant to say.”
    “I’m  sure I don’t know what you mean.”
    “What you do. Admitting. Admission.” Todd’s words seemed to be straying out of his control, an unwelcome reminder of his age. “What I’m trying to say,” he said, “was she a receptionist? The one in the practice by the park round the corner.”
    “That’s a graveyard, not a park.”
    He could only assume she had somewhere else in mind. “Anyway,” he said, “can I have my room?”
    “Have you booked?”
    “I rang,” Todd said and wondered if the woman who’d taken the call had been her in a more hospitable mood. “Jacob Todd.”
    “Todd.” His uncle used to greet him with a cry of “Now it’s all jake,” but Todd felt as if the receptionist had dropped his name with a dull thud. She dragged a ledger bound in black from under the counter and plucked at the pages before repeating “Todd” like an accusation. He might have thought the pages at the back were loose with age until he realised they were registration forms, one of which she laid before him on the counter. “Fill yourself in,” she said.
    Discolouration had lent the form a dark border. The print was both small and smudged, and squinting at it only left Todd more frustrated with the task it set him. “Who needs all this?”
    The receptionist raised her spectacles to train her gaze on him. Her fingertips looked as earthy as the edges of the form. “You might be taken ill,” she said.
    “Suppose I am, who’ll want all this information?”
    “The authorities,” she said and stared unblinkingly at him.
    The solitary writing instrument on the counter was a ballpoint splintered like a bone and bandaged with sticky plastic tape. As Todd strove to fit his details into narrow boxes on the form, the inky tip stumbled about like a senile limb. Last name, first name, address, date of birth, place of birth… “What’s your business in our town?” the receptionist said.
    “A funeral.”
    “You’ll be just round the corner.”
    Even if that was indeed a graveyard, it needn’t be the only one in town. Christ the Redeemer hadn’t appeared to be anywhere near the hotel. Todd could go for a walk and find his way to the church once he’d checked into his room. Profession, driving licence number, car registration number, telephone number, email… “Will you be taking the dinner?” the receptionist said.
    Todd was distracted by someone’s attempts to enter the hotel or even to locate the handle of the door. He turned to see that the door was shaking just with rain, which was surging across the moor. “When do you need to know?” he said.
    “As soon as you like.” This plainly meant as soon as she did. “Cook wants to get away.”
    Perhaps at least the meal would be up to the standard Todd remembered, and he could save his walk in case the rain ceased. “Put me down, then,” he said.
    The receptionist vanished like a shadow into a small office behind the counter. Presumably the dim light from the lobby was all she required, for Todd heard the rattle of a telephone receiver. “One for dinner,” she said, and somewhere in the building a distant version of her voice joined in. Another hollow rattle was succeeded by a metallic one, and she reappeared with a key attached to a tarnished baton. “Are you written up yet?” she said.
    Towards the bottom of the form