Illusions

Robin and Lyla - tired from a long, exhausting day - stagger into a pleasant looking hotel with the intention of happily sleeping the night away. But all is not what it seems.

Illusions

Initial Story Plan - Ice-Hoshi

Writing - Bisskat

           

            The ink was viscous, black - lying on the page in a madman's scrawl of glistening, writhing letters - his normally precise signature grotesquely twisted. Robin hesitantly set down the pen, leaving a dark coppery smear upon the crisp white sheet, and stepped back while the receptionist withdrew the papers. An eerily wide grin perpetually creased her face as she worked - never faltering once, remaining a frightening constant. He found himself wishing he had chosen another hotel. As she turned her smile upon his daughter, she promptly exploded into rolling rivulets of salty tears, and Robin tightened his grip upon her hand in what he hoped was a comforting manner in an attempt to quell the child's terror.

            It was futile - for in his gut, the same wrenching anxiety had begun to squirm inside him the moment he stepped over the threshold. The hotel seemed innocent enough - from the synthetically grinning receptionist to the sliding elevator doors periodically spitting out humans - but an undertone of unease hummed, sending shivering bolts of fear racing down his spine every other second. Lyla clearly felt the same. She glanced up at him, eyes watery, hunting for reassurance - finding only conjured up comfort that was very obviously fake. She was hardly a dull child, missing little, and her eyes abruptly threatened to spill over once more.

            The receptionist - smiling, smiling, smiling - handed him a rusted key, tinkling softly. "Room 13," she said. "Have a nice stay!" Her eyes bored into his back most uncomfortably as he nodded, turned, and drew his daughter towards the absurdly tall elevator doors, gleaming softly in the lurid yellow lights. The up arrow shone red as he pushed it, and almost immediately the doors squealed open, revealing a claustrophobic room of cool metal and a shattered mirror that clearly no-one had got round to fixing.

           Once more, Robin regretted not choosing a more credible hotel - this one clearly remained off of review lists for a reason, but it had been so cheap... Besides, it was only for one night - then they would be off again, the brief vacation ending - and he could bring his daughter home. She had not enjoyed the weekend as much as he had hoped, spending the vast majority of the time glowering and sombrely inquiring as to when they could leave.

            The elevator music began to whimper out of the speakers. "Daddy?" A small voice mumbled. "Who's dog is that?"

            Robin knelt and wrapped an arm about her tiny shoulders, all clad in a pretty pink parka with a fuzzy hood. "What dog, sweetie?" He pointed teasingly to the dog snarling upon his arm, a tattoo lingering from his youth, wrapped about his wrist. "That one? He's mine. You named him, remember? What was it... Strawberry?" He smiled at her, thinking she was about to recommence the old game they used to play - naming his tattoos.

            "No!" She exclaimed, frustrated. "That doggie!" She thrust her hand out towards the far corner of the lift - empty, spider-web laced.

            "I don't see a doggie, honey. Are you sure you aren't just tired?"

            "No!"

            Robin frowned, and opened his mouth to respond - but was interrupted by the high-pitched pinging that heralded their arrival and the petering out of the cloyingly cheerful music. "Ah! Here we are!" He exclaimed, hauling himself to his feet and holding up the key. "Room 13."

            The pair emerged into a vast hallway, illuminated by proximity-triggered, humming lights that stuck out bulbously from the walls like the eyes of some ugly insect. The majority of the hall was shrouded in darkness, the fat light-bulbs lurking in the shadows, ready to ignite when the time came. The wallpaper was noticeably old-fashioned, roses and leaves blooming upon the creamy field in golden, spiralling whirls. Footsteps rebounding - one heavy, one a light pitter-patter - they set off down the hallway, eyes scanning for '13'. They didn't have to go far.

            "The first door? That makes no sense..." Robin mused, pausing, one foot poised to continue walking. Lyla gazed up at the gilded letters with wide, curious eyes - still tinged by anxiety. The feeling of disconcertedness intensified - coiling and uncoiling in his stomach, his heart rate speeding up slightly. Ridiculous. He was a grown man. Some dingy hotel shouldn't faze him.

           He went to slip the keys in the lock, but then a sequence of uncannily familiar numbers glinted at the corner of his vision, calling to him. He turned. On the next door, too - a number thirteen. The pace of his heart quickened, his brow furrowed, and without saying a word he set off once again down the hall, looking left and right, left and right, left and right. 13. The number glittered mockingly at him. 13 and 13, 13 and 13, 13 and 13. "What the hell..."

            Dragging a reluctant, now sleepy little girl along with him, he strode down the hallway. One and three, everywhere. Golden letters upon a plush purple door. The same, the same, the same. One by one, behind him, the lights guttered out, until he was standing, breathing heavily, clutching an alarmed Lyla, in an enclosed slice of light. Darkness hovered upon the edge of his vision, thick and unyielding, encroaching upon his fragile window of brightness, and the lights continued to hum. A never-ending drone. Robin took a deep breath, and composed himself for his daughter. He was being idiotic, obviously - the beating of his heart that had slowly expanded into a general cold feeling, freezing in his chest, was just him overreacting. Maybe there was a good reason that they were all number 13 - he thought - but he could bring none to mind that weren't outright ludicrous. He considered going back down to reception and demanding to know why, why, why, but one look at the heavy-lidded, drowsy, uncertain eyes of his daughter destroyed that option. She needed sleep, or crankiness would soon follow - besides, it could wait until morning.

            He fished the keys from his pocket and began to struggle with the lock, feigning a cheerful glance at the weary little girl struggling to remain upright. "Ah!" he said, too loudly, with too much vigour. "Finally found the right door!"

            The door clicked in resigned acceptance, and he shoved it open, slinging his rucksack onto the red carpet and slapping on the lights. Wallpapered walls, textured ceiling festooned by hanging cobwebs and shambling spiders, small flat-screen TV, a pair of narrow beds newly made. A twin bed-room - just as he had ordered. He was fast becoming near as sleepy as his young daughter, thus he did not dwell on the bizarreness of the entire situation, instead merely plucking toothbrushes and toothpaste from his rucksack and herding Lyla into the bathroom.

            Which, in fact, wasn't a bathroom.

            The 'bathroom' door - what he assumed had to be a bathroom door due to the fact that it was the only door in the entire room, save for the one they entered by - opened onto another hallway. The lights were a violent green. Neon tubing snaked where wall and ceiling met, trailing down the hallway, boundless.

            "Daddy? Where are we?" Lyla demanded, glaring up at Robin. "Wanna go to bed."

            "Me too, sweetie. You just, go back through there. I'll be back in a minute - why don't you change into your PJs? Clean your teeth?" He offered her the toothpaste and toothbrushes.

            With a look so poisonous it can only be accomplished by bone-tired eight year olds - silently begrudging her father for not only towing her off onto a failure of a holiday in an attempt to bond with her, but also for depriving her of sleep when she most desires it  - Lyla extricated her hand from Robin's and sullenly snatched the brush and toothpaste from his extended hand, returning to the bedroom. Robin exhaled sharply and glanced around, determined to find out what the hell was going on. Was it a bad trip? A nightmare? It was all becoming a little too much for him, and as the cold fear gave way to indignation, he began to stride down the corridor with purposeful strides. All he had wanted was somewhere to sleep, somewhere safe and comfortable and not insane to rest the night with his daughter. He had doubted he had either of those things - recalling to mind the images of the spiders scrambling over the walls and hanging from the ceilings.

            So deep in furious thought, he almost didn't notice when the humming stopped.

            The humming of the lights, the unvarying drone that he had become accustomed to had suddenly stopped. The silence was eerie. He stopped in his tracks. A lance of fear plunged into his stomach. The lights remained on - but silent. Oh, so very silent. His breathing was a sawing pant - in, out, in, out.

            The lights changed colour - green to red. Crimson poured from the few closest to him - his own private section of illumination. The darkness shifted and the shadows danced, squirming like dying insects, twisting and scattering and dancing - bizarrely reminding him of his signature, scratched jerkily across the page, so unlike him to be so careless, so messy.

            He still paused, looking around. The thirteens gleamed. Why had nothing changed? Surely this hallway had to lead somewhere. He was beginning to regret coming along - what could possibly have possessed him? He was leaving Lyla alone for far too long, as well - who knows what could have happened?

            Then the eyes opened.

            He blinked fast - but nothing changed. Not an illusion not an illusion not an illusion the eyes blinked back at him, ponderous, deliberate. Rolling in their sockets to look at him. The entire hall was flooded with light - every eye twisting to stare, stare, stare. The cold feeling spread, expanding in his chest and invading his throat and arms and his fingers began to prick with pins and needles and then mouths grinned upon the walls, smiling and smiling with full lips and pointed teeth. What was happening? What was happening? Robin couldn't think straight, his entire mind slowly fixated onto one sole purpose.

            Get out.

            He fled. The eyes followed him and the walls were smeared with blood, hands grasping and groping and then the mouths began to wail with Lyla's voice. Whimpering and crying, the mouths twisted and sneered and imitated his daughter's voice, gasping in terror. With a surge of determination he ran faster, and then the door was suddenly looming ahead of him - with startling suddenness - and he screamed a warning.

            And his scream joined Lyla's, on the other end of the door, wavering and frantic and so very real. He slammed into the barrier, suddenly stuck, locked, and the scream grew louder and more desperate and then stopped. He tasted blood in his mouth. His hands ached from banging upon the door. The hands whispered around his feet, brushing tentatively at the hem of his jeans and stroking his boot with careful fingers. The eyes watched, blinking, pupils dilating and shrinking and dilating and shrinking. Mouths grinned.

            The door fell inwards, and he staggered away from the horrors that lay behind the supposed bathroom door.

            "Lyla?" His voice was hoarse. "Lyla?"

            "Yes, Daddy?"

            He leaned upon his knees, breathing deeply. "Oh god, Lyla, we have to leave."

            Her tone grew petulant as she looked up at him, crescents of toothpaste staining the corner of her mouth.  "But Dad. I'm tired!"

            Robin wasn't paying attention. He grabbed her hand and - ignoring her yelp of protest and insisting that she run, threw the door wide and began - once again - to flee. He plunged down the corridor, the lights struggling to keep up with him, and almost ran directly into the elevator. He swung left to take the stairs, moving as quickly as he could, one hand trailing along the banister, pretending not to hear Lyla's whining protests, ruthlessly hauling her alongside him at a punishing pace, running and running. He saw shadows shift and detach and watch their flight; he saw lights flicker and cracks race across their surface; he saw the roses on the wallpaper turn to faces contorted in anguish - he ignored it all, just kept moving - gotta get out gotta get out gotta get out--

           They burst into reception. A couple stood slouching at the counter, talking to the smiling receptionist - still grinning. Only, the grin was cut into her face. He ran and the night air swallowed him, cold and so very very comforting and he finally, finally halted, lungs screaming and icy with pain. He breathed in, and out. Breathe in, out. Breathe in, out. Steady now. You made it, he thought, with exhilaration. But to where?

            He glanced over to comfort Lyla - for she was worryingly limp in his hand, and uncharacteristically quiet--

            He gazed stupidly at the rucksack.

            Overhead, the stars smouldered.

               

             

            

Author's Note

ending is kind of fast and crappy but i tried. critiques welcome and happily accepted! :,)

Reviews

[scribbler]

Wow! I loved your story! You seem like such an advanced writer. So tell me do you think you are going to write more about this because I want to know more.

[bisskat]

Aaaaa thank you so much!! I really appreciate that! I might add more later :,D