ROOM 13 -(All Comments appreciated).
HOTEL FIGO - PRESENT DAY.
‘How may I help you sir?’ The middle aged man at the reception robotically questioned, for what must have been the millionth time in his career at the Hotel Figo.
‘I’m checking in.’ Mr Black told the receptionist as he put his suitcase on the green marble floor, and his driver’s licence from his wallet onto the counter-top.
‘Good sir,’ The receptionist took the ID in his hand, scanned the picture in a split second and said ‘I won’t be a minute checking your detail’s Mr Black, if you’ll bear with me.’
Mr Black watched the receptionist typing up his information into the computer which hid behind the counter - probably for security reasons, he thought.
‘There we are,’ The receptionist paused ‘Oh..’
‘What.’ Said Mr Black hoping that there was nothing wrong with his booking.
‘Nothing, room thirteen is it?’ The receptionist tried to disguise his horror - The room had been a murder scene less than a month ago.
‘Yes room thirteen.’ Mr Black looked at the receptionists face at the mere mention of room thirteen. It was the look of terror. ‘Can I ask why you hesitated when you were checking my information on the computer.’
‘Oh it was nothing sir. I was just surprised that there was a glitch in the computer program, they’re very reliable these day’s aren’t they sir.’
Mr Black wouldn’t know if they were reliable today or if they ever were in the past, because Mr Black had never used a computer before.
The receptionist appeared to go back to his robotic self.
Mr black said, ‘May I have my key please.’ He didn’t want to sound impatient or irritable with the receptionist, but he had been travelling all day and was looking forward to an early night and a refreshing sleep.
‘Of course sir, excuse my ignorance,’ The receptionist turned around to grab the key off the a board that held forty-nine keys - all but room thirteen were being used. ‘How did I expect you to get into room thirteen without the key to it’s door.’
Mr Black looked over the receptionists shoulder, and he visible saw the smaller and thinner man’s spine tremble as he touched the room thirteen key.
‘Here you go sir.’ Said the receptionist placing the key on the counter-top.
The key was like any other key; Silver metallic, pointy, with jagged edges up one side, except this one had an attached piece of white plastic with the number thirteen in black.
‘Looks like I got the last one.’ Said Mr Black.
‘It would appear so, sir.’
Mr black picked up the key off the counter-top, then with his other hand he lifted his lonely suitcase of the floor. ‘Lucky me.’ He said as he walked toward the stairs, to the first floor, and to where room number thirteen was.
The receptionist robotically droned to himself. ‘Yes, lucky you, sir.’
ROOM 13
HOTEL FIGO - THREE WEEKS AND FOUR DAY’S AGO.
‘The girl’s been saying some weird **** sergeant’ Said officer Pederson.
‘What exactly?’ Said Pederson’s superior, sergeant Manna.
‘Like the dude was floating in the air and choking.’
‘She must be delusional, but he does have large abrasions around the neck area. What else did she say.’ The sergeant was taking notes.
‘That he stabbed himself to the roof.’ Pederson himself couldn’t believe what he was saying to his commanding officer. He had never seen a murder scene quite like the one he and his superior were now looking at. Nothing came close to what was in this room; The dead mans naked body was pinned to the roof above the bloodied-bed with a machete spiked through his lower abdomen. Both the mans arms and legs flopped down like a rag doll, and his head pointed the way to hell. The over powering smell of blood infested Pederson‘s nose. He felt sick from the odour.
‘Nonsense. A person doesn’t just levitate around a room then pin themselves to a roof. And shall I tell you why.’ Sergeant Manna baited.
‘Because it’s impossible.’
‘Yes Pederson, because it’s impossible. It’s obviously a murder and not a suicide, and if the girl witnessed it we’ll need to snap her out of whatever mental hole she’s hiding in. We need to get her to talk, she‘s the only witness.’
‘Unless she did it.’ Pederson wished the words back into his mouth as soon as he’d said them aloud.
‘You really think that bag of bones could lift a man about twice her size, then with a free hand stab him with a machete hard enough to go into his abdomen, through the other side and into the ceiling.’
‘Not when you put it like that sergeant, no.’ Pederson’s face was scarlet.
‘There’s no way that girl committed this atrocity.’ Sergeant Manna said, admonishing his colleague further.
Not letting his foolishness get in the way, Pederson spoke up. ‘I almost forgot, when I got here I spoke to one of the paramedics who was first on the scene, and he told me that the girl was rocking back and forth, hugging her knees, saying “Black.. black.. black..” over and over again to herself. What do you make of it?’
‘Shock I suspect. But we won’t find out until we get her away from here and to a place where she feels safe.’ Sergeant Manna looked at what he’d written into his notepad.
Witness - white female.
Delusional - due to shock? - mental trauma?
Paramedic reportedly heard the witness saying - ‘Black’ repeatedly. - She hasn’t spoken since.
HOTEL FIGO - PRESENT DAY.
Mr Black opened the door to room 13. To his left there was a large mahogany wardrobe, a bed sat in the middle of the room, a night-table to its left, which had an old style dial phone and a sterile white lamp that was turned off sitting atop it. The bathroom was at the other side of the queen sized bed.
He walked over to the bed, putting his suitcase on it. He unclasped then unzipped the wide mouth of the suitcase, then flipping the unzipped top lip of the suitcase to reveal three days worth of clothes and toiletries; anti-dandruff shampoo, dry and damaged hair conditioner, toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste - He wouldn’t be in town long enough to use up the hotels small customary bar of soap.
He hung up his carefully packed clothes; shirts, trousers, socks, underwear and put his black faux leather shoes under the foot of the bed.
After he had emptied the suitcase and propped it up against the wardrobe he went to the bathroom to freshen-up.
A sudden stark chill pricked the nape of his neck as he walked through the cool door of the bathroom. He felt his hair receding, his stubble hide, his palms prickle with sweat. He moved over to where the sink was, turned on the hot tap and splashed his face and neck ferociously with clean clear water.
He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink, focusing on the water that he had splashed onto his face and neck which raced down the sharp contours of his skin covered skull. Two warm drops rested in the deep dark corners of his eyes.
Wiping away the mock tears with one of the sea-blue Hotel Figo towels, the chill that icily ran down his body as he entered the bathroom was beginning to dissipate as he wiped his face and neck dry.
He folded the damp towel back onto the metal rack which was fixed waist-high to the wall between him and the bath. He looked and listened to the running tap, both his hands resting on the sides of the sink.
Mr Black turned the hot tap off when steam started coming from the sink, deciding to look in silence at himself in the mirror instead. Lifting his head up to look at himself in the mirror, he saw a young girl standing behind him with her mouth agape silently screaming in a disturbed pose, where it looked like her eyes too were screaming at him.
He tried not to panic, to look at this rationally, so he slowly moved his head and body around toward the disturbed female figure that the mirror said stood behind him. He kept his eyes on her disturbing mirror image until he had no choice but to quickly confront the screaming figure.
He knew that she wouldn’t be standing behind him, that he’d see the blue painted wall that matched the blue towels and nothing more. She was behind him when he looked in the mirror because she was standing wide eyed and mutely screaming in front of him now.
Again; he felt his hair receding, his stubble hide, his palms prickle with sweat. This time it was much worse, much.. much worse.
She bore into him with her screaming eyes, but she didn’t move, she was a life-size picture. He none the less was frightened to move, and couldn’t rationalise what was happening.
They stood: Him: Struck with fear and trepidation. She: the screaming three-dimensional picture.
He decided against his better judgement to put out a hand and dispel the madness that ran feverishly through his mind. He moved his right arm shakily and slowly out toward the mute screaming figure before him. Sweat ran down the sides of his temples as his hand reached ever closer. His hand was a short shaky inch from the still figure. Snap. Her teeth loudly snapped together, the bathroom door slammed shut, as did his head as he jerked backwards into the mirror, with a pained scream that came from his mouth, not hers. He instinctively closed his eyes on impact, opening them again, to an empty room.
MANNA’S NOTEPAD.
The witness had one piece of identification on her person - a driver’s license.
Name: Audrey Feldman.
Age: 22.
Her prints have been checked on the PD’s database - There were no matches.
This concluded that she had no previous arrests.
The name: Audrey Feldman. may be a pseudonym. But it is the name we are using.
Audrey’s picture was released to the public via the national and local news broadcasters.
We have yet to receive any information from the public about Audrey Feldman.
She has been in a catatonic state since witnessing the Hotel Figo murder, and is currently being taken care of at Craven Psychiatric Hospital.
PHONE CALL - PREVIOUS DAY.
Sergeant Manna phoned the Craven Psychiatric Hospital.
‘How is she. Still catatonic?’ Asked Manna. The sergeant had phoned so often that he now dropped all formalities when he recognised the myriad of voices he’d become accustom to while collating information. So far it had been fruitless.
‘One of the night nurses thought that she heard her making noises in the night.’ Dr. Michael Parks replied.
‘Did she speak?’ Manna’s eagerness showed.
‘Well the weird thing is, that when the nurse looked into the room through the glass in the door, Audrey fell silent. Even stranger, the nurse said that Audrey was turned away from the door when she looked in.’
‘How do you suppose she figured out the nurse was looking into the room?’ Manna’s interest grew, because it was the first time that Audrey had made a peep since the hotel murder.
‘I suspect the girl heard the nurses footsteps as she approached the door.’ Dr. Parks logically answered.
Manna was not superstitious in anyway buy he nonetheless crossed his fingers as he asked the next question. ‘Didn’t the nurse pick up.. a name, a word, anything?’
‘The nurse on duty said if Audrey were talking to herself, that she couldn‘t decipher the words into anything meaningful, at least not English.’
‘We need to monitor Audrey’s room Dr. Park. Would it be possible to fix a sound recording device?’
‘You of all people understand the legalities involved with fitting such a device.’
‘I don’t think we have any other choice Dr.’ Manna’s frustration sapped his energy as he spoke. ‘A man was murdered, and his killer is still out there. We need to do this, I don’t think there’s any other way to further the investigation.’ Manna’s eyes pricked with tears. ‘This mans death can’t have been in vain. There have been too many unsolved murders in my career.’
‘I’ll see what I can do sergeant.’
‘Thank you.’ Manna put down the phone, then blotted his eyes with his sleeve.
HOTEL FIGO - PRESENT DAY.
The mirror was cracked, smack bang in the middle. He cursed himself. Not only for his foolishness at projecting realistic phantoms from his mind. He was more upset, no it was more than being merely upset, it was anger, genuine anger that boiled through him as he looked at the damaged mirror.
His body and mind have always been intertwined with docility, (it must have been all the fluoride in the water he drank, that kept him so lethargic) but he has never been a go-getter as the say, no he’s more of a Got-to-get-or-die-from-hunger type.
He hated that he had to move and go to another city and get new contacts for his business that pointedly wasn’t flourishing. He was at a lose end; single, alone, relatively friendless. He had friends sure, but they were all friends he’d made at school, (All had families) and he guessed he just wasn‘t the familial type. He hadn’t made any friends since school, just work contacts - people he would phone for orders, not to go out and socialise with - he supposed that he lost whatever it was that friend-makers had, he was unmistakably socially inept.
The mirror glared, triumphantly in front of him; A piece of eye here, a piece of skin there, a furrowed brow and a face so angry it could have cracked the mirror without the aide of the back of his head, which was now bruised. He deliberated what he should do: To tell or not to tell, that was the ponderous question. His anger was so high, that his attitude was now polar opposite from what his lazy boned body was used to. So he said to himself **** IT, **** IT, **** IT, until it was building up in him so that he said it aloud, shouting it at himself in the mirror, ‘**** IT! **** IT! **** IT!’, his anger grew as he shouted louder in the closed bathroom at himself in the broken mirror, ‘**** YOU! **** YOU! **** YOU! **** YOU! **** YOU!’ He didn’t realised what he’d been saying until his nose pressed hard against the mirror. His heavy breathing had fogged up his reflection in the mirror. He stopped abruptly, moved back from the mirror, watching the fogged up mirror clear to reveal his pitiful self again. And he was shamed by his reflective self.
