Bare Her Soul (James Patrick March x reader )

One

"Please. Please don-"

James March stuffed the cloth into the old man's mouth in one quick movement, reducing his wails to a muffled gag. His black eyes were distracted, fixed on a point in the distance, on nothing.

Blood spoiled his usually pristine dress shirt. The lifeless body of his first kill was still impaled on the wooden wall-mount in front of where he stood, in his 'black closet'. The two most recent guests had put up quite the fight and, as a consequence, his immaculate hair was now tousled from its slick back style and flecked with coagulated blood. He'd be sure to kill the second man a lot slower for that.

Except he'd been torn from the euphoric high of his wrath, halted to a standstill, by you.

That moment when you walked through the doors of his building, the blinding sunlight cast around your face, lighting you up like a star in the entranceway. With balmy afternoon air rolling off your heels, you moved softly towards the lobby. Every movement you made seemed to sooth the jagged edges of the hotel Cortez.

James could see you only in his minds-eye of course, his physical body remained in room seventy-eight, with the wrist-bound man trembling at his feet. He was unsure why his omniscience of the hotel - born with his death in the very building he'd created - chose to show him you. Still, he watched you on the dark inner-side of his eyelids, an objective replica of the real thing.

The hammer in his hand hung low next to his thigh now as he waited, patient and intrigued.

He saw you dance your suitcase up to the reception and stop at the desk.

"Hi, I have a room booking under the name Y/N, Y/L/N." you spoke to Iris. Your voice a warm melody in the otherwise silent reception area.

That's when James really saw you. But as your naïve, artless smile crystallised, you vanished suddenly from his sight.

"Hmm" he hummed.

The desperate whimpers your entrance had made him deaf to began luring his attention back to the pleasures at hand.

James turned slowly to face the poor man and licked his lips "it's your lucky day, old chap."

The man's shuddering stare rose to his captor's, a pleading question in them. James lifted the hammer high above his head.

"I'll make this quick."

<>

You set your bags down on the floor of room sixty-seven.

"Thanks-" you started, but when you turned around, Iris was gone.

Well, that's a woman who hates her job.

Now that you were alone, you had a proper look around the space you had resigned yourself to for the next four-weeks. The walls were decorated in maroon tiles and the carpet was a combination of black, red and golden-yellow shapes. The nineteen-twenties narrative ran through every piece of furniture, right down to the ornate door handle.

Until now, you'd never have pictured yourself staying somewhere so archaic. You were young, and ignorant of the time period from which the hotel was inspired. But the elegant design of the lobby, paired with the warm hues of the rooms, felt like a nod to the romanticism that had been absent in your life recently.

You had come to Los Angeles on a whim. You needed to get away from home for a while, some space in a new city to figure out what you wanted. For you, home was a small town in the South, you couldn't go anywhere without seeing at least one person you knew, or had grown up alongside. Luke - your now ex boyfriend- was one of them.

Your shoulders slumped at the thought of him. You cared about his feelings, it loathed you to hurt them, but not enough to make you stay. You'd met at your church, when you were both children. Every Sunday since you could remember you'd sang there together. His family were venerable members of the congregation, and your parents had been pushing the two of you together for the better part of your adolescence.

Luke was a kind-hearted and beautiful boy. He sang with an angelic voice that melted the hearts of most girls in the congregation. But he wasn't exciting. You wondered if there was something wrong with you not to like him. On paper, Luke was a perfect match - your male counterpart. But even as you pressed your lips together for the very first time, you felt nothing. Life would be easy with Luke, so why were you so unsatisfied?

Your parents were furious to hear you had broken things off with him - you suspected your mother had already drafted wedding plans. Two daughters marrying good, homely church men and raising nuclear families was the achievement she'd always imagined for herself.

"Look at your sister, she married Mark from the congregation, and look how settled she is? Beautiful house, baby on the way..." your mother urged.

No need to tell her that your sister - Cara - had cheated twice since she'd married her childhood sweetheart...

"Every person is a child of God, if you can't grow to love this boy then you're not loving God" your father tried.

That was the last straw for you. You would never be able to discover who you were or what you wanted with your parents breathing shame down your neck, or your friends in the community looking at you like you were an alien for not fawning over the boy.

Which is ultimately why you'd come here. You wouldn't call it 'running away' exactly, but you certainly needed the change of scenery. With years of doctrine and tradition rammed down your throat, this trip was long overdue.

You didn't have a lot to unpack, only two days ago had you made this decision - you booked your flight ten minutes later, and this hotel ten minutes after that.

Admittedly, you'd always been a bit-hot headed, and as you sat on your double mattress, time finally began to slow down. What would you do with your newfound freedom? It was your first solo trip, and sitting in this vast hotel, in this huge city, you felt quite alone now.

You checked the clock on the wall – five-o'clock, and sent your parents a quick text to let them know you'd checked in. You'd collected a brochure at the airport and decided to journal some plans bright and early tomorrow morning, when you were hopefully less jet lagged and a little more hopeful about your impromptu adventure.

It was far colder in the hotel than outside, you changed into a pair of white jeans and your teal cable-knit sweater. You'd spotted a bar on your way in and, though it looked as lonely as you were beginning to feel, you decided to kill the time there for the evening.

You unraveled your hair from the tight, dutch braids your mother had wound, and left for the bar.