This has been inspired by @Greta_Gaul_Wood, who came up with the lovely idea. This one's for you, Greta.
-Some information has been made up.
Cats
He lay his bag on the shag carpet as he worked the key to his door. He'd been to this hotel in the past and knew just how finicky everything was. Didn't bother him; he was in no hurry. Being the bassist for AC/DC, one might think otherwise.
Stepping into his room, Cliff tossed his bag to the side with the notion of, 'I'll pick it up later.' The trip from Carson City was rough; a real highway to hell as Bon would call it. The heat was pressurized, the traffic was frustrating, and the two boyish founders of the band complaining only made matters worse. A single second to sit down was all he could ask for, even if it meant being a bit messy.
The man took a good look around the room once he was settled on the couch. Try hard works of art covered the walls, each of them portraying the same message: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. A nice crack ran through the front door like a canyon that Paul McCartney himself couldn't fill, and the ceiling fan above him swung loosely. The sweat on his arms tempted him to turn it on, but the volume of the squeaking was enough to leave it alone.
The couch he was sitting on was torn and stained, springs announcing their visability by sight or unfortunate seating. Cliff didn't seem to care as he reclined the length of it, pure exhaustion the cover of his apathy. Rehearsal was in a few hours, the man could stand a good chunk of it sleeping.
Rehearsal wasn't the highlight of anybody's day. Though it paved the concrete path for the real show later, which couldn't be met with success if rehearsal was skipped. The band was on a rough edge with that lately. They had been getting careless, letting their talent take over their performance instead of practice. When one note was mistakenly played for another, all of them would stumble; like the whole tower collapsing when the bottom is chipped. Malcolm made sure nothing like that happened again.
The bassist also remembered from his last visit here how lonely it was. The hotel was built where the casinos and restaurants weren't. Tourists for the city wouldn't dream of staying there, but a band stopping for a concert might change their mind. The night was quiet aside from the distant ambiance. A poor engine would drive by, make a u-turn and drive by again. The roads were full of circles and dead ends. Cliff didn't mind the quiet. It was different than his usual day of rowdy mates and screaming crowds. A good different.
His eyes opened to a small sound in the back of the hotel room. Quickly he glanced at the clock to see he had almost dozed off; a minute had passed. He supposed he was more tired than he thought. A second attempt had been interrupted as well, and a third was pointless as the sound grew more constant. Dragging himself off the couch, he made his way to the kitchen for a long glass of water. His hand grasped the cup from the cupboard when the noise resounded behind him, resulting in broken shards on the floor. "What on earth..." he muttered glancing around him. As he bent over to pick up the pieces (an idea he would soon regret), an eerie scraping sound emitted behind a door on the far wall. The glass pieces were stained red as the bassist cut himself, not paying attention to his activities and instead cringing from the scratching. He didn't remember this hotel being haunted, but perhaps his bad luck got the best of him.
The cut needed a bit of medical attention, or at least some tap water from a bathroom faucet. Unfortunately for Cliff, the bathroom was the room where the scratching came from. Facing the unknown cause of his confusion and slight terror was not how he wanted to die, but neither was bleeding everywhere, so he took his chances with the noise. Slowly and quietly, the door was opened. Nothing popped out at him, and a couple glances around the room assured him that he was overreacting.
