The Backrooms: Descent into Madness (REWRITE IN PROGRESS)

Chapter I - Why?

The overwhelming scent of copper and brine flooded my lungs as I awoke on the damp carpet of a hotel hallway. My limbs burned with the sensation of abrasions, and my mind felt distant and warped as if I had been left to the mercies of a vortex. I lifted my face from the muggy flooring and my eyes widened, searching for pieces to the puzzle I found myself in. I had no recollection of how I came to be in this place or how long I had been unconscious, but a discomfort in my throat quickly distracted me. While reaching toward my neck to examine the source, red, warm liquid spilled into my palm.  My neck flared in pain, as if outraged I would touch it under the circumstances. I ripped my hand away and convulsed in pain, trying to curse in reflex. A strangled gasp is all that I managed. I looked at my hand and saw that it was covered from one edge of the palm to the other in blood. Panic began to set in as I looked around frantically. To my left was one of the many identical doors in the hallway, numbered "1730." I quickly pushed the door open, leaving a bloody handprint on its surface, and looked around. I gathered quickly enough that it was a typical hotel room, and found the door to the room's bathroom.

I slid the door open frantically and looked at the mirror hanging on the far wall. My ears began to ring as I stared at my reflection, unable to believe what I saw. A massive gash sliced across my neck from left to right, and blood seeped from the wound like a gentle stream. I held my hand to the wound in panic, grasping tight to stem the blood. I hacked up coughs, placebo from seeing the wound, which resulted in me dyeing the sink red with mortal ichor. I tried to yell, to speak, to whisper. Only a strained groan left my bloody lips. Strangely, I didn't feel faint. I felt completely and totally alive. The pain in my neck didn't grow, in fact, it was slowly fading away. I rose from the basin of the sink after my coughing fit, and looked at the wound again. What I witnessed defied all explanations. The wound was already beginning to scab over, and my flesh began to knit together at the thin ends of the gash. I watched in absolute awe as the wound slowly, but neatly, healed over in about a minute. I stared at the scar left behind for a long time, unable to believe what I had just seen. I splashed water on my neck and scrubbed off the leftover blood, revealing the dark patch of skin where the gash had been. It was unbelievable.

I tried again to speak, but only a hollow whisper of air with no clear diction pierced the otherwise quiet ambiance. I began to think that this was all a dream, I couldn't even recall where I had been before this or what happened to my neck. All I could recall was my name and one other name. Morgan. I looked into the mirror and tried again to speak, to say my name. When I met the same results, I began to breathe shakily. My palms began to sweat as I registered the gravity of my mute condition. The loss of hearing returned to me as I began to have a panic attack, staring at my hand above the basin. In a desperate attempt to calm myself, I cocked my fist back and slammed it into the mirror. The glass shattered and the mirror fractured leaving only a broken reflection. I pulled my fist back and washed my now bloody knuckles in the basin, careful to pluck the pieces of glass out of my ruptured skin. Once again, as if by some magic, my knuckles scabbed over and healed. Strangely, they recovered even faster than my neck did in only about five seconds. I calmed my nerves after the shock of the punch and left the bathroom before something else could set me off.

I took a better look around the hotel room and noticed something very odd. This hotel room reminded me heavily of some memory below a frozen lake of difficulty that kept me from remembering. The sheets were stirred up and in a mess. A small beach ball lay on the floor, and an empty six-pack of Miller Light was on the table. The room provoked some anxiety from me, causing my heart rate to quicken. I thought I was just being a pussy, until some flash of memory returned to me. A man's voice, drunkenly slurring in a cry of rage. The voice and the tone accompanying it didn't match. I loved the voice, I wanted a hug from whoever spoke with it, but the tone sent shivers up my spine and brought tears to my eyes. I walked to the curtain of the room and peeled it back, only to reveal an identical room on the other side of the glass. The only difference was that this room was kept well, and clean. I felt some sort of urge to leave, as if something evil was in the room, as I sprinted out of the unkempt room and back into the hallway.

A dry, age-old red smear stained the carpet. Only, it wasn't age-old. It was my blood. I looked down at the red stain for a brief moment, before the feeling of dread crept back in and I sprinted away from the room. I ran down hall after hall, taking turns without thought as if some monster was chasing me. When I looked back, only the empty hallway stared back. Another memory flashed through my head. Me and my brother playing tag in the halls, exploring some familiar hotel, looking out at some body of water, and smiled together. I couldn't remember his name.

Fatigue began to set into my body as I registered how long I had run for. Hours? How many hours was irrelevant. I opened the door to a hotel room and stumbled through the door, closing it behind me. I felt compelled to check every nook and cranny, inspecting it all carefully, before locking the door and the bathroom door. I felt a strange peace sweep over me as an invisible hand glided over my back, reassuringly rubbing the center between my shoulder blades. I crawled into the bed closest to the door and turned out the lamps. As soon as darkness cloaked the room, a static sound filled the room. I was startled so badly that I flipped out of bed and turned around to face the source. Two white beady eyes and a smile stared back at me.