By Informity
A knock.
I shot up from my chair, turning my head toward the front entrance to the hotel. I could hear my heart thump loudly in my ears. I remained completely silent, slowly leaning toward the massive wooden doors and waiting intently.
Another knock.
I scrambled to get out of my chair, rushing over to the door. I knew better than to try opening it. The rational part of my brain screamed at me to sit still. It was desperation more than anything else that pushed me toward the hotel entrance. I threw myself at the door, grabbing at the iron padlock holding it shut. The serpentine chains around the handle rattled, but did not budge. I still heard the knocking on the other side of the door.
“I’m trying!” I shouted, frantically removing my backpack and yanking the crowbar out. I had attempted this before. It wasn’t going to work. I knew it wasn’t going to work. I stabbed at the chains with the crowbar, bending it in every direction as if my hands were on autopilot. I forced it between the padlock shackle and the body, prying at it. I swung it at the padlock like a bat. The knocking on the other side grew louder and more frequent, as if multiple people were all ramming their fists into the doors at the same time. I choked up as I repeatedly bashed the padlock with the crowbar. It flung out of my hands and clattered to the center of the lobby as I dropped to the floor. The doors practically shook with the strength of the knocks, filling the lobby with a barrage of noise.
“Stop! Stop this!” I begged, bringing my shaking hands to my ears. I cowered over, laying on my side and curling into a ball. The sound couldn’t be blocked even with my hands. In fact, the noise seemed to only grow louder the more I tried to muffle it. My vision blurred as my pounding heart joined the chorus of knocks, assaulting my ears and scarring my mind. I could have been screaming. I think I was screaming. I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear anything.
Then, just as it began, the noise stopped.
I waited, eyes closed. A few seconds passed. I opened one eye, then the other. I carefully uncovered my ears, moving into a sitting position. I glanced around the lobby. The chandelier flickered for a moment, then returned to normal. I braced myself on the doors, sliding up into a standing position and grabbing my backpack. I moved toward the middle of the room and picked up the crowbar, stuffing it in the opening. I glanced back at the door.
‘Fuck you, hotel.’
Somehow, I knew it was laughing at me.
I didn’t know how long I had been trapped inside the hotel. I awoke in the lobby one day, and have been wandering its confines ever since. I couldn’t remember my name, nor my age, nor my birthday. It was as if my entire past had been eliminated. I existed in this hotel and this hotel only. However, I knew that made little sense. If I knew I didn’t have those things, how did I know they even existed?
The hotel was relatively fancy for a prison complex. At least, I figured it was some type of prison complex. I developed plenty of theories on the nature behind it, going from alien abduction to some sort of convoluted purgatory. I doubted it was the latter. I certainly hoped so. My theorizing guided me more toward the alien hypothesis. It was as if everything constructed around me served to invoke familiarity within me of my surroundings, but often didn’t get it quite right.
For instance: the lobby.
The lobby was never the same structurally each time I entered it. Sometimes the doorways would move. I often saw similar patterns, such as a third hallway that opened up on the occasion that proceeded directly to the kitchen. Making a map of the hotel was futile. The halls and rooms moved freely, so there was no telling what position was the true one. The one thing I did know was that, eventually, all hallways led back to the lobby.
I hated the lobby the most.
The centerpiece to the lobby had to be the grand chandelier that hung over it. Its diameter was nearly the length of my entire body, and it hung around fifteen feet up in the air. However, the chandelier had problems all of its own. It had what I liked to call “gravitational ineptitude”. For instance, the chandelier would occasionally be found hanging from the floor. Upon pushing it the chandelier would sway like it would if it were hanging, but it seemed to be pulled toward the ceiling. Other times, the chandelier would be sticking out of the wall on either side of the room. The strangest occurance of it moving around had to be when it was found attached upside-down to the service desk. Unlike the hallways, however, the chandelier didn’t seem to have any particular pattern to it.
I proceeded toward the service desk, sliding over the top and landing on the other side. I made a point to slam my fist onto the wooden surface. The action didn’t serve any particular purpose other than to vent my frustration with the dreaded place. I should have expected the hotel to do something as cruel as that. It was hardly the first time. The hotel must have taken some sort of sick pleasure in tormenting me while I was trapped inside it. My brain told me it wasn’t worth the effort. Even without the knocking to prompt action I’d never been able to get the damn lock off the front door. Why would that specific instance make it any different? As I scanned the desk I noticed the bell was missing. Usually it sat on the corner. Where could it have gone? I looked up, then jumped backward as a shiny object clattered to the floor.
Ding!
Ah.
There it was.
I checked the shelves behind the desk for any mail to add to my backpack. The mail operated in a relatively normal way. Or, it would have if someone actually delivered it. Rather, the mail just seemed to appear. I never found any mail addressed to me. A majority of the time, the names on the envelopes consisted of the most generic names someone could possibly think up: names like John Smith or Mary Jane. The contents of the letters were always simple—bills or notes from the hotel management. Only once did I ever find a letter from a family member for someone named Philip. The only thing it read was “please come home”. The letters were all pointless in my opinion. The hotel was completely isolated save for myself. Who were they being delivered to? I once tried spying on the lobby to see if somehow, someone was collecting these letters. I never saw anything. The hotel saw right through me. Sometimes, I’d fall asleep on my own accord. Other times, it was as if a thick fog overcame my vision. Nonetheless, as soon as I awoke, the mail would be gone.
I stuffed every folded paper and envelope I could find into my backpack, zipping it closed as best as I could. Without further haste, I headed for the kitchen.
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