𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥

Chapter 2: A Favor

Seven o'clock. End of shift. Wren left her post without a word to her two replacements. She wordlessly drifted past the two of them like a ghost, the day had hollowed her out, all that was left was a shambling husk. The walking dead.

As soon as her room's door shut she slunk out of her clothes like a snake shedding its skin. She slithered into bed, slipped under her sheets, and wrapped herself in a warm cocoon of blankets. She could feel the pull of sleep at her eyelids, it was stronger than the growling she could feel in her stomach.

There will be time to eat later, but for now sleep. Only sleep.

Before Wren could fully sink into the inky abyss of slumber, just before she could even dip her toes in it, a sudden clunk and rattle emanating from the air vent above her bed stole it from her.

It sounded like a series of mechanical components of some kind had come loose inside the ventilation shaft. She could hear the loose bits of metal jostling loose as the vent hummed with artificially warmed air. It reminded Wren of the times she had left loose change or keys on top of a running dryer.

Sleep would never come now. Not with this jangling mess of noise spilling over top of her.
Wren reluctantly emerged from her blanket enclosure, swung her legs over the side of the bed, grabbed the phone's receiver, and dialed zero.

The phone only rang once before an oddly cheerful woman answered "Grand Pelletier Hotel, this is Sarah, how may I help you?" Her voice bobbled and bounced from one syllable to the next.

"Hey, Sarah, it's Wren. Can you connect me to maintenance?"

"Sure! Just one second." She chirped.

Baby, I'm Yours by Barbara Lewis began to play through the receiver. Even through the hiss and cracking of the telephone line, Wren could make out nearly every lyric.

Each song on the hold music playlist was personally selected by Nathaniel Pelletier himself, according to the Grand Pelletier Hotel employee handbook.
Before the song could reach the chorus it cut out and was replaced with the sound of someone clearing phlegm from the back of their throat.

"Maintenance..." the man clears his throat once again into the phone's microphone, for some reason these sounds had no problem coming through the static with little to no distortion or interference "... This is Merl, what can I do for you?"

What parent looks down at their newborn child and calls them "Merl"? A cruel one probably.

"Hi, this is Wren, I'm in room one-o-seven and there's this, um... rattling sound coming from the vent above my bed."

"You're the-"

Merl interrupted himself with a sudden fit of coughing, the suddenness of it made Wren jump a bit. Through every wet hacks and rasping wheezes he never once turned from the phone, Wren could hear everything in crystal clear detail. She  imagined wet yellow spittle escaping through browned tobacco stained teeth and blacked gums, and a pair blood shot, watery  and sunken eyes protruding from two sockets surrounded by jaundiced skin. She imagined a tapestry of self abuse stitched together via cigarettes where a face should have been.

When the fit was over, Wren could hear him spit a large quantity of mucus into, what sound sounded like, a plastic bag lined waste basket.

Merl cleared his throat and began to speak again "You're the third person to call about that. We already have a maintenance worker trying to figure it out."

"Do you know how long it'll be unt-"

Wren was cutoff by the sound of Merl hanging up his phone.

Fuck you too, Merl.