Shake Rattle and Roll

EPISODE 12: (Overtime)

James had been a security guard at the old Montgomery Hotel for nearly two years, and he had seen it all—or so he thought. The hotel, established in the early 1900s, had a glorious past, filled with tales of glamour and intrigue. Now, however, it stood as a shadow of its former self, the walls weathered and the once-stately furniture draped in dust. It was the kind of place most wouldn't dare stay, especially on a night like this when a storm brewed outside, lashing the windows with sheets of rain.

As he made his rounds, the creaking of the wooden floors echoed like whispers in the empty corridors. The hotel had an uncanny way of making sounds amplify in the stillness. James wore his walkie-talkie at his side, the only lifeline in the vast, ghostly silence that seemed to cloak the building.

“Just another Friday night,” he muttered to himself, keeping his flashlight beam steady as he swept it across the faded paintings lining the walls. Each figure seemed to watch him with hollow eyes, a reminder of the countless stories trapped within this dilapidated structure.

It was close to midnight when he reached the fifth floor, the air growing heavier with each step he took. Room 13. The number alone stirred something in him—a childhood superstition that had clung to him even as an adult. A shiver ran down his spine as he approached the door, painted a dull, peeling white. The hallway flickered with the dim light of an aged bulb overhead, casting shadows that danced like phantoms on the walls.

He paused outside Room 13, suddenly aware of the stillness. And then, the stillness was shattered.

A scream—sharp and piercing—echoed from within Room 13, reverberating through the corridors like a siren's call. It was a sound filled with terror, raw and desperate. James’s heart raced in his chest as he stepped back, his breath hitching in his throat. A fight-or-flight response kicked in, and he clutched his flashlight tighter, its beam trembling as he attempted to process what he had just heard.

“Hello? Is everything alright?” he called, attempting to sound more confident than he felt. His voice wavered, the word “alright” felt like a pathetic joke in the face of what he had just heard.

There was no reply. The silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating, until it was punctuated by a series of low, whispered words that threaded their way through the door like smoke. James leaned closer, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Help me… Stay away…,” the whisper warned, barely audible, yet unmistakably panicked.

A decision had to be made—a duty to protect battling against a primal urge to run. He raised his walkie-talkie, fingers trembling over the button. “Control, this is James on the fifth floor. I heard a scream coming from Room 13. Requesting immediate backup.”

No response.

The crackle of the radio echoed lifelessly in his ears. He pressed the button again, but only static greeted him. The temperature in the hallway dropped suddenly, and he exhaled a misty breath.

**Not now. Not like this.**

Deciding he couldn't wait any longer, James took a breath to steady himself and approached the door. He reached for the handle, but before he could turn it, the door creaked open slightly, as if inviting him inside. A cold draft spilled out, brushing against his face, sending another wave of unease coursing through him.

“Please… help…” The voice came again, more urgent now. James's heart raced. Something was very wrong.

With a burst of determination, he swung the door open and stepped inside. The room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly shut. Using his flashlight, he illuminated the space: a messy, unkempt bed, an overturned chair, and—