The Black Letter

Chapter 2: The Black Letter of Doom

John couldn't shake the memory of that bright, sunny morning. The warmth had tempted him to stay in bed for another hour, and he would have, if not for the constant "tick-tock" of the antique alarm clock he'd picked up at a flea market. That annoying sound was the only thing that finally dragged him out of bed.

As usual, the first thing John did was turn on the TV. He had this habit of listening to the morning news, no matter how boring it might be. It was just something he had to do.

With the news droning in the background, John stepped out into his yard. The plants there didn't need much care, yet they thrived, filling the space with greenery.

At the edge of the yard sat a grayish-white mailbox, stuffed with bills, ads, and newspapers. Letters are a rarity these days, especially in the digital age. For John, finding a letter was like discovering an old relic, so he didn't expect much when he opened the mailbox—just the usual stack of bills and messy newspapers.

But this time, a letter slipped out from between the bills. Normally, receiving a letter wouldn't be a big deal, but this one was different. It was a standard-sized envelope, but its color was unsettling—a glossy black that sent a shiver down John's spine. He hated black, and this letter was as black as midnight.

John sighed, reluctantly picking up the letter and tucking it into the newspaper. This was his house, his yard, and the letter had come from his mailbox. He couldn't think of a reason to ignore it. It had to be meant for him.

After splashing cold water on his face, John grabbed a towel, dried off, and then stood in front of the mirror to comb his hair. He was proud of his thick, black curls—they added something special to his appearance. He took good care of them, making sure they were perfectly groomed. They were so black, almost shiny, a sign of his good health. He smiled at his reflection, but then his smile faded.

Black. Why did it always come back to black? He left the bathroom, and there it was—the letter, still sitting on the table by the door, standing out like a dark omen among the newspapers.

John hadn't opened it yet. A strange feeling told him that maybe it was better if he didn't. He grabbed his keys and hurried outside, pushing the door open.

As he did, a slight breeze stirred, barely noticeable.

The sunlight was harsh now, almost blinding. John got into his car, pulled down the sun visor, and reached into his jacket pocket for his sunglasses. He knew they were in there, ready to block out the glaring sun.

But when his hand reached into his pocket, it froze. What was that feeling...?

After a sharp screech of brakes, John pulled the car over to the side of the road. Quickly, he pulled out the object in his pocket. It was the black letter. But hadn't he left it on the table? How had it ended up in his pocket? A chill ran down his spine. His hand trembled, and the letter slipped onto the car seat.

John hesitated for a moment before picking it up. He knew he had to read it, even if it brought nothing but bad news.

The envelope was sealed with a deep red square stamp. John examined it closely. It was made up of four old English words, and John struggled to read them: "Pink Lotus Grand Hotel."

He laughed at himself for being so jumpy. It was just some hotel's weird promotional stunt. Strange, but definitely memorable.

Without further delay, John opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

The paper was old, slightly yellowed, with a small lotus flower in the bottom corner. The lines on the paper were printed in an old-fashioned style, and even the writing looked like it had been done with a quill. John couldn't help but admire the effort—this hotel really knew how to pull off a vintage vibe.

As the sun slipped behind two dark clouds, John began to read the letter carefully.

"Dear John,

The Pink Lotus Grand Hotel has reopened.

You are one of the six lucky people selected this year for a free stay.

At midnight on August 10th, a black car will pick you up at your doorstep.

Please be on time. We eagerly await your arrival."

The message was short, with no date and no frills, leaving no room for negotiation. John flipped the letter over, hoping to find some hidden clue, but the words were simple. It had to be another trick by some marketers. John sneered and prepared to toss the letter out the car window.

But just as he was about to throw it, he caught a whiff of something strange, something that smelled like... blood. His hand froze in mid-air. He brought the letter closer to his nose, and his eyes widened. Yes, it was definitely the smell of blood.

"Damn it, what kind of sick joke is this? Do they really expect me to go? Do they think I'll die if I don't show up? No way! I'm not going!" John hated being controlled, especially by threats. He crumpled the letter and envelope into a ball and threw it out the window. Then he stepped on the gas and sped away.

Suddenly, the sky darkened, and rain began to fall. The raindrops soaked the crumpled paper, which started to dissolve in the water. The faint smell of blood lingered in the air...

That night, John sat in front of his computer, immersed in work. He had so much to do that he didn't have time to think about anything else—until...

The alarm clock suddenly rang, its sharp sound piercing the quiet night. John nearly fell out of his chair. He didn't remember setting the alarm, especially not for midnight. Confused, he grabbed the clock and pressed the button to stop it.

Just then, the doorbell rang, and John looked up.

Who could it be at this hour? John opened the door, thinking that whoever it was must have something urgent.

But there was no one at the gate, only a pitch-black car. John couldn't tell what make or model it was—it was either too old or too strange. He figured it must have been modified in some way.

"Who's there?" John called out, his guard up.

No one answered, as if there was no one there.

Suddenly, John remembered the black letter...

August 10th—wasn't that today? And the black car...

John stood there in disbelief, unable to comprehend what was happening. Slowly, he walked toward the car. The windows were so heavily tinted that he couldn't see inside. John approached the driver's side, sure there had to be someone there and yanked on the car door.

It was locked. John couldn't open it. He let out a frustrated sigh, finding the whole situation absurd. He stepped back, and then reached for the rear door.

It opened. Cautiously, John poked his head inside. The light was dim, making it impossible to see the driver's face, but the back seat was empty. John got into the car and bluntly asked, "Who are you..." Before he could finish, the door slammed shut. Startled, John reached for the door handle, but it locked with a loud "clunk," and then the car sped away from his house.

At that moment, a sweet scent filled the air, drifting into John's nostrils. He felt dizzy, his body going limp, and he slumped against the back seat, falling into a deep, unconscious sleep.

The scent lingered, like a sudden bloom of roses.