Smeared Souls and Screams In The Night

Sheets of rain cascaded against the walls of Warm Embraces Hotel, almost guaranteeing that no one would be visiting that night. Masaru had been alone for hours. The cleaner had come by to do a check, then vanished yet again. Supplies were stocked and tidied. Every room was ready. 109 was still unavailable, and its footage was still offline. Masaru dared to hope that time would move swiftly and he could escape to rush home.

He hoped Sayane would be back.

For now, he was trapped in his place of work.

Incessant inhales and exhales from the ducts blended with the rain. It felt like the hotel was waiting for something. Masaru’s eye had finally drifted back to its proper position, so he was able to attempt a distraction by reading a novel he’d recently bought at a secondhand store. Reading had never been easy with his eye constantly straining and sending daggers of pain into his sockets, but for that moment, he was okay.

But try as he might, his mind couldn’t focus.

He was concerned for Sayane, and this place made him feel like his soul was slipping slightly behind his body. Everything felt out of alignment and unpleasant. Even with his mask on, the scents of mildew and mold remained rampant.

The hidden camera screens flickered with the lights. Power trembled and blinked.

“Oh no,” Masaru inhaled as he braced for a power outage.

The screens all went black, then reactivated. 109’s screen stayed dark. The lights didn’t fail, and Masaru hoped it was just a simple interruption of power, from a tree branch touching a junction box or a line swaying too drastically.

One by one, the screens’ footage returned. Masaru found himself turning to watch the static videos play their reels of empty rooms. A single screen in the lower right caught his focus. He’d never noticed it before, but it was a view of his room.

Rolling closer allowed him a clearer view. Masaru wished he’d stayed further away. What he saw was an unsettling, smeared image. Every aspect of the footage was accurate when it came to the room. But he was a blur. Beyond a blur, he was an unshapen mass of black and blue pixels that shifted and lurched.

PickAtTheHealing

A feverish warmth moved through his throat as his brows raised. He rubbed his eyes to focus, then looked back once more. His visage was still inhuman and distorted, while everything else was still clear and accurate.

PICK

Masaru slowly turned to look for the camera. The footage gave hints as to where it should have been angled from. Rain intensified. Thunder rolled like drums.

He found the camera lens. It was small, and tucked away above the ledge of the nearby shelving unit. Masaru climbed onto his desk to reach. Strained fingers could barely touch its glassy covering. A tissue was retrieved from his coat pocket, and four frantic wipes swiped across the contours to make sure it was clean.

Then he lumbered back down to his chair with a groan and scooted back to the monitor.

Nothing had changed.

He was still a smear.

A wounded, haunted groan tore from his chest and died in his throat. Sweat gathered on his brow and palms as his head shook side to side in confused denial.

“No, something’s not right…” he pleaded.

Again he climbed the desk.

Again he wiped the lens.

Again, nothing changed.

chikkktccccccccchiiiiiiiiikkkkkttttttttchhhhiiiiiit

Grunts and pleas blended into a single cry of frustration. His skin began to itch. Neglected vertebrae bit at his back as his disks compressed on themselves. Numbness moved from his fingertips to his knuckles. The air conditioning began to whir with more ferocity. The hotel’s breathing quickened.

Then the front door creaked and opened.

Masaru froze mid-panic attack. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see whoever was coming in. It was shocking that any couple might be desperate enough to brave the storm, but he knew what sort of clientele to expect. Desperation would not be satiated by neglect.

His head buried itself in his palms as he tried to calm himself. For now, he would have to distract himself for at least an hour. If the videos were going to be playing, he didn’t want to watch. The last place he wanted to be was by those wretched screens. But there was nowhere to go. More vicious cycles of air roared overhead.

Seconds passed. Masaru listened and heard the front door was open. Sounds of torrential rain and thunder were echoing through the lobby. He needed to close the door, but he also wanted to make sure no one was in there nearby, lest he get punished for interrupting or being seen. So he gave it another minute. The monitor that played the lobby feed was in the lowest left corner. He knew that. After enough time had passed, he stole a quick glance at only that monitor.

Doing so gave him confirmation that no one was there.

When he exited his cubby, he glanced to both sides to make sure no one was lingering. Seeing he was alone, he softly made his way to the front door. Just as he reached for the handle, a strong gust blew it wide, slamming it across its hinges with an echoing thud. Masaru braced his footing and pushed it shut.

Once the door was sealed, the building returned to a somewhat quiet state.

The whimper echoed out before Masaru had time to move.

His skin turned frigid.

This wasn’t in his mind. Sensory feedback told him this sound was real, and it was in the building with him. If it was his guest, they did not sound well.

A gnawing, gaping drain pulled his insides against themselves as he listened, begging he’d only misheard a settling pop or a hissing pipe.

But then another whimper sounded.

It was lost, feminine, wounded, and enraged.

Another whimper bounced off the walls, this time louder and more sorrowful. It built into a cry.

Someone was weeping.

Tremors shook Masaru’s ribs and limbs as he tried to speak.

“H-hello?” he called out.

The sobs continued. More bitter mourning cried out from the hallway. Masaru inhaled and forced his legs to move towards the corridor. As he shuffled forward, he noticed that nearly all of the bulbs in the lobby chandelier had burned out in the power flicker, save for two. One bulb on each side of the hanging ornament was still shining out yellow and stale. Masaru knew it was the eyes. They were back, and they were watching.

His own eye began to drift, and his hand rose to press against his socket to brace for the incoming migraine. The building was panting now as the air conditioning strained in fury.

Sobs continued to beckon him forward towards whatever sorrow awaited. The bulbs shone out in silence as he passed beneath them, his heart throbbing in his throat. Now he could see the hallway.

It was dark as always, with only its faint red track lighting shining up from the baseboards.

At first, nothing felt out of the ordinary. He could hear that the sobs were coming from the corner, towards Room 109.

A woman was weeping in hateful, all-encompassing grief.

“H-H-Hello?” Masaru stammered in terror.

Then the gown moved.

He hadn’t seen it at first, but there at the corner’s base, a small bit of fabric had been visible. It slid away with a swift yank, and Masaru’s chest exploded in agony as terror and adrenaline ripped through every artery.

Before him, the eyes formed in true clarity.

They appeared in a millisecond, bobbing right in front of his face as they watched in ravenous hunger.

He fell back with a shout of absolute fear as the sobs built into screams.

Screams became wails.

Wails became screeches.

Sorrow and suffering sounded out in a suffocating song until Masaru couldn’t hear anything beyond their grief.

The eyes drifted from him and down the hall, following the lamentations.

Masaru wanted to flee, but a strange pull told him to go with the eyes. They were always warnings that something tragic was about to occur. Against his better judgment, he rose and stumbled down the hall, towards the eyes and the howling rage.