by David Scott
“Thank goodness that racket is over.” Janey said to her husband, in the adjacent room.
“Really, why people think we all want to hear them at it is beyond me. And those shrieks. Oh, come on. That was really some of the worst acting I have ever heard. Thank goodness I couldn’t see what was going on, although the detailed descriptions unfortunately left little to my imagination. At least our neighbours have nothing to worry about from us, do they honey?”
Janey over-enthusiastically plumped her pillow, smiling to herself. A pillow that was full of dreams from the hundreds of people who had slept on it before her. She sat up, propping her heavy book, which was half-read, against her legs for support.
“That’s right honey.” John said, only partially listening to Janey, preferring the news report on their hotel television.
The programme was a one-off special on the efforts we all need to take to save our oceans from devastating pollutants. How marine life had so much plastic in them that they could be dangerous for human consumption. He worried that the fish he ate this evening might now be feeding a tumour in his stomach; the hypochondriac in him taking over.
The television had become a permanent fixture in their bedroom. After the end of an exhausting day, it was much easier to watch the box than make love.
Janey was not that interested in sex anymore anyway. It seemed that tormentor had lost its interest in her. And that was ok with Janey. Life seemed easier without it. No temptation or wandering eyes. No lustful fantasies or tempting affairs. It is easy to be bad but difficult to stay good.
Not that Janey had ever strayed, but she had thought about it often, and once nearly did. Still, the noise from the couple next door reminded her of some happy times, and she suddenly missed her carnal longings.
Now that they had stopped, she settled down and returned to her book, putting such thoughts out of her head. Scared that the giant within her might be re-awakened.
Janey was really enjoying her book, it was a self-published novel about a dystopian future where a new plague had returned to wreak havoc on society. Janey felt confident that she would survive in one of these apocalyptic scenarios. She almost wished for it to happen to prove the strength of her mettle.
Janey realised that she had read the same sentence about four times. She could not focus because of the constant energetic reporting coming from the screen. She looked up. More dead sea creatures coiled up in plastic. It was revolting, and she wished John would change the channel. Or, better still, switch it off altogether and go to sleep.
Janey sighed heavily, hoping that John would take the hint and, at least, turn down the volume. Of course, he didn’t. She turned her head and stared at him. He was still handsome, even though his hair was grey and thinning, his wrinkles were deepening and more pronounced, and hairs had started to grow vehemently in the most unusual places, creeping out of his ears and nose. It all added to his overall character, and she wouldn’t change anything about him.
John was the strong but silent type. He had always been there for her. Grasping Janey’s hand when their first born arrived, holding her defeated, shaking body when the second arrived far too early for this life, made all the arrangements when her father died and the bottom fell out of her world, and accompanied her on these weekly visits to see her mother who was fading before their eyes, losing the memories of her life to dementia. She thought on. Some noise could be forgiven.
Janey decided she might need one more trip to the bathroom to try to get her through the night undisturbed. She sat down on the toilet and waited. Looking around, Janey noticed names etched on all the shining porcelain bathroom furniture; it all sounded very fancy. A little came out. She wanted more, and pressed her stomach.
“Oh, come on. I know there is more in there.” She said to herself.
Looking up at the ceiling, she noticed some mould patches growing in the corners, and tutted disapprovingly.
There was a knock at the door. Typical, Janey thought to herself, whenever you go to the toilet or have a bath, someone always wants to come and clean your room or turndown your bed.
“John? John! Will you get that please?”
“Can’t you? I’ve got nothing on.” John called back to her.
“I’m on the toilet, John. Just pull on your pants, and see what they want. It’s probably just a final check that we don’t need anything else before bedtime.”
Janey made a mental note to complain to the manager about this tomorrow. They should not be knocking on your door at this time of night. She might well have been asleep.
Janey heard John stumbling around the room, heavy footed. Well, that will wake up the people in the room below us, she thought. The door clicked open, but Janey could hear no voices, no discussion. Perhaps John had needed to go out for something with them.
“John. John? Who was it?”
The bathroom door handle turned. Janey stood up quickly, pulling up her underwear to maintain her privacy. Even though it was John, she didn’t want him to see her naked or struggling to pull up her knickers.
“John, wait.” She said urgently, “I told you, I am on the toilet. You can’t come in yet.”
Janey watched in disbelief as the lock slowly turned, manipulated from the other side of the door. An easy manoeuvre.
The door was flung open, narrowly missing Janey. She had barely a second to register the figure standing before her. Tall, cloaked in dark clothing, red eyes burning her face. A masked monster, hooked nose pointing towards her.
What was happening? Her brain could not take it in. She was terrified. In shock. Emotions mixed within her mind, stalling her reaction.
It moved towards her. She opened her mouth to cry out. Smoke suddenly seeped out of its large nostril holes. Janey gasped, sucking in the poison, and started to choke. Janey desperately tried to breathe, heaving in and out, but she could not take in any air. She slumped heavily on to the tiled floor. It was cold. She was cold.
A final word, said with so many feelings and meanings attached to it, “John.”
Pulcinella turned to leave, walking past the man lying on the bed in a pool of blood. It closed the door gently behind it.
Pulcinella had decided that shocking and gassing the sleeping inhabitants would be the best method tonight; quick and silent. But its plans were thwarted, as more people were awake than it had predicted, and the purge was taking much longer as a result. Pulcinella calculated that a quicker pace was needed, and recalibrated the scenario.
The analysis suggested that there should be no knocking on doors, no soundings or pre-emptive viewings, just go straight in to the rooms, kill by whatever means necessary, and get out.
Two bickering sisters in the next room quickly found their trivial argument cut short. Left holding one another, and wishing they had been kinder.
A showering insurance broker had his tuneless singing stopped by a spear ripping through the plastic shower curtain, plunging deep into his chest. Suddenly forgetting the new car which he had been thinking about, as red waters funnelled down the greedy plughole.
A joyous preacher left early for his eternal heaven, wondering where his god was as the pain from the slicing blade tore away his faith.
Tourists dreaming of their next holiday, while still on the current one, lost their opportunity to see any more of their bucket list sights, as the toxic gases guided them to their last journey.
This was faster. Pulcinella was back on schedule. It approached room 1524.
Lucy had never liked hotels. She did not like sleeping where the hundreds had been before her, leaving skin, saliva and excrement. Avoided cups and glasses sipped by the masses, or left rim-down on some dirty shelf. Feared the readily accessible door between her and the outside world, worrying that someone might enter at any time. That a bellboy would come in, or the room was mistakenly double booked and another tourist would slouch in, to invade her privacy, or worse, a failure to tip could result in some sort of grisly revenge.
Lucy cou
ld also not sleep if there was any light in the room. At home, her bedroom was a dark cavern with blackout blinds and curtains, with all sources of lights banished. In a hotel room, she had to try to remove any trace of light; clock LEDs and flashing smoke alarms were a particular annoyance. She was convinced that she could see them, even with her eyes closed, and they kept her awake.
There was no hotel room in the world that she knew of that could address all of these issues. So, as usual, Lucy pulled off the bedding, and had taken it into the bathroom, together with any spare pillows or extra blankets. She made a kind of nest on the floor.
She liked bathrooms. There were no lights, and she could lock herself in. It was the only way she could get any sleep in a hotel. The additional barrier at least providing her with some extra time in case of a room invasion.
The bathroom in the Northern was larger than most of the hotels Lucy had visited recently, so there was actually space enough to stretch out her tired limbs, rather than being forced to curl up into unnatural shapes and positions to fit in.
Lucy covered herself in the blankets, and rested her head on a pillow, which was propped up against the wash basin’s stand. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Her maniacal mind wouldn’t allow it and, instead of concentrating on fluffy animals jumping over wooden fences, she started to dwell on tomorrow’s interview.
Lucy wondered how she could possibly perform well seeing as how she had no genuine interest in the role. None of her previous interviews for similar jobs had gone well. She was convinced that she must be generally unlikeable. Or maybe it was the way she looked or the clothes she wore. Perhaps she was just naturally incapable of being put on the spot, and answering questions.
Lucy was becoming increasingly anxious. At this rate, she would have to rely on family handouts for the rest of her life. Having wealthy parents certainly helped from a financial point of view but this did not make her happy. She often thought that the cash was a convenient substitute for any meaningful affection.
Perhaps that was why Lucy had failed to fit in with society, and couldn’t get a job. Being brought up by emotionless, perfunctory parents was it any wonder that she struggled to converse with normal people? If money is your god then you sacrifice your soul.
Lucy thought of running away from it all. Maybe she could find herself by doing some voluntary work; escape to a third-world country to help those in need. Strip everything away to see what was at her core. But then the thought of overseas travel scared her. Having to rely on a gravity-defying machine in unpredictable gales, or drifting afloat on an oversized construct in stormy seas, was not for her. And then there was the harmful heat and toxic serpents which awaited inexperienced strangers, to burn them with skin cancer or lick them with a toxic kiss.
No, better to get a job, Lucy thought to herself. Advertising looked interesting enough. Well, at least it looked appealing from the television shows that she had watched. Lucy also figured she would be good at coming up with ideas to coax money out of the vulnerable public. She had been doing this long enough to her parents.
Unfortunately, actually securing an internship was proving much more problematic than it seemed to be for her role-model fictitious friends, although Lucy appreciated that they were scripted to succeed.
Still for someone with Lucy’s high academics, applying for an internship seemed demeaning. Surely someone would recognise her talent or, at least, potential and offer her a starring role in this show. Lucy remembered the applause from her school days, and expected the same from life. But everyone is a principal in the show of their own life, and Lucy was nothing special.
Lucy heard a noise. It sounded like her door was opening. She was very tired, and suspected her mind was playing tricks on her again. She had stopped taking pills to stop the bad thoughts, as they prevented her from having an authentic existence.
Another sound, coming from outside the door. Lucy was sure she heard footsteps. It was happening. The thing she feared most of all. There was an intruder in her room. Someone had come for her. To take her or hurt her. Lucy was terrified.
Lucy tried to remain calm. She had rehearsed this moment in her head over and over again. Had seen it, almost lived it. Somehow seemed to know this would happen. And it was. At least this was some sort of validation that she wasn’t crazy.
Lucy reached for her personal alarm and pepper spray, which she took everywhere with her. But what if this was not an invader? It could be room service or housekeeping, and she could cause them serious harm if she went out and tried to repel them like a fly. Her alarm was also top of the range, and would emit a signal so loud that it would probably awaken half of the hotel. No, she had to remain calm and act responsibly. It was likely nothing.
Lucy stood up as quietly as she could, and leant her head against the door. She listened but could hear nothing. Her heart slowed. It was going to be alright. And then Lucy felt an excruciating pain in the side of her temple, as steel pierced forcefully through wood and skull. She fell to the floor, and on to her personal alarm. The siren screamed out for help.
Pulcinella forced the door open, and stamped out the sound. It knew this noise would have been heard, and was likely to attract attention. It scanned with its sensors, and detected that most of those left alive on the floor were rousing.
Pulcinella strode quickly outside of the room and set off the fire alarm system. This was enough for the remaining guests to start fleeing. One by one, Pulcinella swiftly executed them in a flurry of steel and silenced bullets, as they left their rooms, running for their lives.
It drew up a message in blood on the corridor wall:
“There is no fire.
Humanity has lost its passion.
Burn brightly now
before your cold end.”
Pulcinella
Pulcinella then hurriedly exited down the fire escape stairs, losing itself in the crowd of half-asleep, addled guests. Another successful night.
TEN
Luke stood outside the grand entrance to the Northern Hotel. He slowly moved his head upwards, as he counted the floors. When he reached the fifteenth, he thought of the sights which awaited him. More murderous mayhem.
Luke wasn’t sure how much more he could take. It was really starting to have a detrimental effect on his psyche. He found himself having nightmares of being chased by a faceless devil, being caught and cut up, before waking suddenly, drenched in sweat. It was abnormal for someone to see such horrors, so perhaps this was a normal response. Still, Luke had expected himself to cope better than this.
Hundreds of passers-by walked on the pavement adjacent to the hotel, all of them unaware of the ghastly acts that had recently taken place just above their heads, so close to their footfall. They walked quickly past the hotel, heads-down, as though sensing something was wrong within. In fact, this was just a typical sight in this district, where time was the most precious commodity, and any distraction was to be avoided.
Luke momentarily wished that he could share in their blissful ignorance of the killings. That he had never been asked to help with this case. Thoughts came into his mind of the families that would soon receive the worst possible news, that their loved one was dead. Not only dead but brutally killed. He doubted himself. Maybe someone else would have done better. Someone with more experience might have already stopped Pulcinella, and prevented this mindless violence. Perhaps it would be better if he stepped aside and let someone else help Dan.
Luke forced himself to stop thinking like this. It was self-indulgent and would take him nowhere. Dan had asked him to be involved; he must be strong and supportive. That is what Dan needed from him and that is what he would do. Luke steeled himself. He would stand by Dan every step of the way. He could cope with seeing the mutilations both in reality and in bad dreams. This had to stop. This was exactly his reason for joining the FBI. To make the world a safer and better place; a naive sounding thought probably shared with millions of other people but Luke genuinely wanted to do s
omething good with his life; he could think of no better way than protecting the country he loved, and keeping people safe.
Luke felt a hand on his shoulder. A warm touch. He turned around to see Dan looking back at him. Any lingering negative thoughts suddenly disappeared, with Dan’s presence warding them away. Dan didn’t say anything but was clearly searching Luke’s face to see how he was bearing up. Luke relaxed his muscles and put on his best confident, calm face, “Let’s do this, Dan.”
Dan nodded, “Have you been in yet, Luke?”
“No, not yet,” Luke replied, “I thought that I should probably wait for you. The officer on the door told me that the forensic team is already on site.”
Luke looked back up to the top floor and, as if on cue, a bright flash illuminated one of the large, bedroom windows. The careful documentation of the crime scene was clearly well underway.
“Shall we go in then?” Dan asked, as though they had a choice in the matter. Luke nodded, and they walked forward together towards the revolving door.
The old, wooden door had been well oiled, and moved rather too quickly as Luke pushed it firmly, almost catching Dan as he walked out of the other side. It continued to revolve behind them, ushering in the cold air, as they stared around the large, rectangular lobby area. The floor was decked with chestnut stained planks of wood. Antique paintings hung on the wall in gilded frames, as the immortalised, wealthy subjects looked down with unflinching stares and unchanging smiles. Over-sized chandeliers dangled from the lofty ceilings, with shimmering crystals casting dancing rainbows on the white walls. Green leather, wing-back chairs, pinned with copper studs, rested their ornate limbs on crimson carpets. It was all designed to give an air of old-fashioned opulence. Luke hated the false vulgarity of it all.
Groups of officers huddled together at various places, animated in conversation, but all guests had been evacuated. They had been informed that there was an emergency situation but, of course, had not been told the true reason for their departure, which would have been inappropriate. Luke visualised some bespectacled manager ordering them out, “We need you to leave because a maniac has slaughtered all of the residents on the fifteenth floor, madam, and he might still be in the building.” No, sometimes the truth must be withheld for the greater good.
