Story: The Hotel

The Hotel

The elevator doors opened, the mirrored image of his own face parting in two and departing to be replaced by a long, carpeted hallway. He glanced at the small, pixelated number in the display screen above the control panel–the 23rd floor–and gingerly stepped over the threshold.

With a piercing chime and an almost inaudible whir the doors began to close. He turned his head just in time to see his image come together again, with only a small seam in the middle: a tall, stooped man in black, cleanshaven, with a scarred lip and a rather worried expression. He smiled, as if to himself–and looked, to himself, all the stranger.

With no warning, a scream sounded behind him–muffled and almost indistinguishable from the background hum of the air-conditioner, but loud enough that he spun around at once. 

The hallway stretched in front of him, with no one in sight.

He stood there for a minute, studying the scene, as if waiting for something or someone to emerge. 

The carpet was gray but patterned with odd bars of brown and tan, scattered in a strict but haphazard-looking pattern, all pointing in the same direction. The walls were papered in gray with similar patterns of bronze bars, but connected and at right angles, forming odd, swastika-like formations in and around the white featureless doors, set in patterns of three and two on alternating sides of the corridor, each with its own bronze and black number plate. The ceiling was large white panels patterned with small flecks like birdseed; small, compact lights, bulbs enclosed in four-cornered black metal cages filled in with panes of clouded glass, were positioned every ten feet along it, each one casting a faint pool of light onto the floor below. 

After more than a minute, the scream had not been repeated; and he began walking, slowly at first, tentatively, his stride lengthening, growing firmer with each step. He did not look either to the right or the left until he came to a crossroads of sorts, where one path branched out from the main hallway to the left at a perpendicular angle. After a momentary hesitation, he took the path, passing around a squared bend as he did so; fifty feet more, and he reached a T in the corridor, the blank wall ahead of him looming over a single table, green formica, on which was set an angular bronze lamp with a subtly patterned tan hood set over it. The lamp was off.

He looked at the lamp, and his face clouded; he ran one thin hand up and down his face, wiping away sweat; then, with the same hand, reached out and switched the lamp on.

The moment the light went on, another scream sounded; identical in tone, still muffled, but louder, as though some obstacle had been removed. He spun around, looking in every direction; but there was still no one to be seen, only the corridors stretching away in three directions. 

Abruptly, he spoke, slowly but without hesitation and in a loud voice as at a public meeting. “Floor 23. Room 47.” 

He shook his head, clearing it, and ran his hand over his face again. Then, for the first time, his eyes jumped to the numbers of the doors around him, scanning rapidly across them. 82. 84. 85…

After a momentary calculation, he turned and continued down the left arm of the T, walking more quickly now, the slender feet in his long, shining black dress shoes making no sound on the carpeted floor. His eyes now were fixed on the numbers of the doors, turning from one side of the corridor to the other, eagerly drinking in each one as it came, counting down… 76 75 74 73 72 71 70 69 68 67 66 65 64 63 62 61 60 59 58 57 56 55 54 53 52 51 50 49 48 

He stopped abruptly, staring at a door precisely the same as all others, but surmounted with a bronzed plate on which black metallic letters proclaimed, in angular block letters: 47.

He stood there by the door for almost a minute, sweat pouring down his thin, angular face to pool unconsciously on the lapel of his black jacket. He did not wipe it away now; but after one more hesitation he pressed a hand into his left hip pocket and slowly pulled out a black handgun. He switched off the safety deliberately, put it in his left hand, then drew the hand behind his own back. Then, with his right hand, he knocked, five times, in sequence, with identically-timed gaps in between. 

As soon as the fifth knock had sounded, the door opened inwards, slowly and jerkily.

Nothing could be seen of the room beyond save darkness and the faint glimmer of the wall to the left of the door, wallpapered identically to the corridor outside. 

A woman was standing just behind the door, tall, with a pale thin face and black hair; her eyes were black also, with large pupils that seemed to drink in the light. She was dressed in a tight black dress cut very short to show her legs, with long, thin straps that displayed her shoulders, back, and the space between her breasts. 

He flinched and took a step backwards; but she looked into his face without hesitation. He opened his mouth to speak, but she had spoken first, her face clouding over as she did so with unmistakable anger.

“Idiot. This is the wrong floor.” With a click like a gunshot, the door swung shut.

The elevator doors opened, the mirrored image of his own face parting in two and departing to be replaced by a long, carpeted hallway. He glanced at the small, pixelated number in the display screen above the control panel–the 31st floor–and gingerly stepped over the threshold.

With a piercing chime and an almost inaudible whir the doors began to close. He turned his head just in time to see his image come together again, with only a small seam in the middle: a tall, stooped man in black, cleanshaven, with a scarred lip and a rather worried expression. He smiled, as if to himself–and looked, to himself, all the stranger.

With no warning, a scream sounded behind him–muffled and almost indistinguishable from the background hum of the air-conditioner, but loud enough that he spun around at once. 

The hallway stretched in front of him, with no one in sight.

He stood there for a minute, studying the scene, as if waiting for something or someone to emerge. 

The carpet was gray but patterned with odd bars of brown and tan, scattered in a strict but haphazard-looking pattern, all pointing in the same direction. The walls were papered in gray with similar patterns of bronze bars, but connected and at right angles, forming odd, swastika-like formations in and around the white featureless doors, set in patterns of three and two on alternating sides of the corridor, each with its own bronze and black number plate. The ceiling was large white panels patterned with small flecks like birdseed; small, compact lights, bulbs enclosed in four-cornered black metal cages filled in with panes of clouded glass, were positioned every ten feet along it, each one casting a faint pool of light onto the floor below. 

After more than a minute, the scream had not been repeated; and he began walking, slowly at first, tentatively, his stride lengthening, growing firmer with each step. He did not look either to the right or the left until he came to a crossroads of sorts, where one path branched out from the main hallway to the left at a perpendicular angle. After a momentary hesitation, he took the path, passing around a squared bend as he did so; fifty feet more, and he reached a T in the corridor, the blank wall ahead of him looming over a single table, green formica, on which was set an angular bronze lamp with a subtly patterned tan hood set over it. The lamp was off.

He looked at the lamp, and his face clouded; he ran one thin hand up and down his face, wiping away sweat; then, with the same hand, reached out and switched the lamp on.

The moment the light went on, another scream sounded; identical in tone, still muffled, but louder, as though some obstacle had been removed. He spun around, looking in every direction; but there was still no one to be seen, only the corridors stretching away in three directions. 

Abruptly, he spoke, slowly but without hesitation and in a loud voice as at a public meeting. “Floor 31. Room 47.” 

He shook his head, clearing it, and ran his hand over his face again. Then, for the first time, his eyes jumped to the numbers of the doors around him, scanning rapidly across them. 82. 84. 85…

After a momentary calculation, he turned and continued down the left arm of the T, walking more quickly now, the slender feet in his long, shining black dress shoes making no sound on the carpeted floor. His eyes now were fixed on the numbers of the doors, turning from one side of the corridor to the other, eagerly drinking in each one as it came, counting down… 76 75 74 73 72 71 70 69 68 67 66 65 64 63 62 61 60 59 58 57 56 55 54 53 52 51 50 49 48 

He stopped abruptly, staring at a door precisely the same as all others, but surmounted with a bronzed plate on which black metallic letters proclaimed, in angular block letters: 47.

He stood there by the door for almost a minute, sweat pouring down his thin, angular face to pool unconsciously on the lapel of his black jacket. He did not wipe it away now; but after one more hesitation he pressed a hand into his left hip pocket and slowly pulled out a black handgun. He switched off the safety deliberately, put it in his left hand, then drew the hand behind his own back. Then, with his right hand, he knocked, five times, in sequence, with identically-timed gaps in between. 

As soon as the fifth knock had sounded, the door opened inwards, slowly and jerkily.

Nothing could be seen of the room beyond save darkness and the faint glimmer of the wall to the left of the door, wallpapered identically to the corridor outside. 

A woman was standing just behind the door, tall, with a pale thin face and black hair; her eyes were black also, with large pupils that seemed to drink in the light. She was dressed in a tight black dress cut very short to show her legs, with long, thin straps that displayed her shoulders, back, and the space between her breasts. 

He flinched and took a step backwards; but she looked into his face without hesitation. He opened his mouth to speak, but she had spoken first, her face clouding over as she did so with unmistakable anger.

“Idiot. This is the wrong floor.” With a click like a gunshot, the door swung shut.

The elevator doors opened, the mirrored image of his own face parting in two and departing to be replaced by a long, carpeted hallway. He glanced at the small, pixelated number in the display screen above the control panel–the 31st floor–and gingerly stepped over the threshold.

With a piercing chime and an almost inaudible whir the doors began to close. He turned his head just in time to see his image come together again, with only a small seam in the middle: a tall, stooped man in black, cleanshaven, with a scarred lip and a rather worried expression. He smiled, as if to himself–and looked, to himself, all the stranger.

With no warning, a scream sounded behind him–muffled and almost indistinguishable from the background hum of the air-conditioner, but loud enough that he spun around at once. 

The hallway stretched in front of him, with no one in sight.

He stood there for a minute, studying the scene, as if waiting for something or someone to emerge. 

The carpet was gray but patterned with odd bars of brown and tan, scattered in a strict but haphazard-looking pattern, all pointing in the same direction. The walls were papered in gray with similar patterns of bronze bars, but connected and at right angles, forming odd, swastika-like formations in and around the white featureless doors, set in patterns of three and two on alternating sides of the corridor, each with its own bronze and black number plate. The ceiling was large white panels patterned with small flecks like birdseed; small, compact lights, bulbs enclosed in four-cornered black metal cages filled in with panes of clouded glass, were positioned every ten feet along it, each one casting a faint pool of light onto the floor below. 

After more than a minute, the scream had not been repeated; and he began walking, slowly at first, tentatively, his stride lengthening, growing firmer with each step. He did not look either to the right or the left until he came to a crossroads of sorts, where one path branched out from the main hallway to the left at a perpendicular angle. After a momentary hesitation, he took the path, passing around a squared bend as he did so; fifty feet more, and he reached a T in the corridor, the blank wall ahead of him looming over a single table, green formica, on which was set an angular bronze lamp with a subtly patterned tan hood set over it. The lamp was off.

He stared at this lamp, and his face clouded; he ran one thin hand up and down his face, wiping away sweat; he extended his hand toward the lamp slowly, but paused with his finger an inch away from the button.

Abruptly, he spoke, slowly but without hesitation and in a loud voice as at a public meeting. “Floor 47. Number 23.” 

He shook his head, clearing it, and ran his hand over his face again. Then, for the first time, his eyes searched for the numbers of the doors around him, scanning desperately across them. 82. 84. 85…

After a momentary calculation, he turned slowly and continued down the left arm of the T, walking more quickly now, the slender feet in his long, shining black dress shoes making no sound on the carpeted floor. His eyes now, though, were fixed on the numbers of the doors as they passed, turning from one side of the corridor to the other, eagerly drinking in each one as it came, counting down… 76 75 74 73 72 71 70 69 68 67 66 65 64 63 62 61 60 59 58 57 56 55 54 53 52 51 50 49 48 47 46 45 44 43 42 41 40 39 38 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24

He stopped abruptly, staring at the door, precisely the same as all others, but surmounted with a bronzed plate on which red plastic letters proclaimed, in a rounded, cursive script: 23.

He stood there by the door for almost a minute, sweat pouring slowly down his thin, angular face to pool unconsciously on the lapel of his black jacket. He did not wipe it away now; but after one more hesitation he pressed a hand into his left pocket and, slowly, removed a black handgun. He switched off the safety automatically, put it in his left hand, and then pulled this hand behind his own back. Then, with his right hand, he knocked, seven times, with identical gaps in between. 

As soon as the seventh knock had sounded, the door opened smoothly inwards.

Nothing could be seen of the room beyond the wall to the left of the door, wallpapered in red with a pattern of flames. Just inside it stood a tall, stooped man all in black, with a thin face, cleanshaven, but with a scar on his lip, leaning slightly forward with his right hand held behind his back. Behind him the shoulders of a woman with black hair could barely be seen, her shoulders bare, smiling with a pale hand on his left arm.

For a moment, the two men looked each other slowly up and down without surprise. The man in the room spoke: “I got here first.”

The man in the corridor shrugged. “I remember.”

He brought his left hand around, but the man in the room had already raised his own gun and fired. He screamed–the same scream–loud and long and oddly muffled–as he fell, his suited body making no noise as it crumpled onto the carpeted floor.

The man in the room glanced down at the body for a moment, then quickly shut the door. The woman’s hand was still on his arm, but for more than a minute he continued to stare at the closed door.

Finally, he spoke, though whether to the woman or himself it was impossible to tell. “What floor is this?”

The woman did not respond, but her hand stroked his arm and with the same gesture released it. He turned around, but she had already disappeared into the interior of the room, shrouded in darkness.

After one final hesitation, he took a step forward. As he did so, a knock sounded at the door.