Suspense Stories

Seeing Red-chapter 1

                             

             The flashy red sedan pulled smoothly into the parking lot of the Byers Hotel. The tall driver lowered his designer sunglasses as he gazed up at the towering skyscraper that would be accommodating him during his short business trip. He casually climbed out of the glittering convertible, his flawlessly shined, leather shoes glistening in the late afternoon sun that was reflecting off of the hotel's perfectly cleaned glass windows. You would never think this man was here on business, as he swaggered toward the hotel entrance. His casual, button-up shirt flapped in the wind, untucked from his belt with the top three buttons undone. His black jacket was draped lazily over his left arm, and his overnight bag was swung over his shoulder, the zipper halfway open. His slicked back platinum blonde hair unmoving in the strong breeze, the young man strolled quickly across the pavement, anxious to get inside. Upon reaching the entrance, the massive automatic doors slid to either side, and the twenty-nine year old entrepreneur gratefully stepped into the air-conditioned building. He strode past the bellhop and the sweeping mahogany staircase to the reception desk, where a middle-aged brunette was clacking away at her computer, clearly unimpressed at what was displayed on the screen. The man stood there, waiting for her to look up, but to no avail. Finally, he cleared his throat loudly, and the woman stopped typing to give him a disapproving glare. Her silver hoop earrings swung forward as she leaned toward him.
        "Can I help you, sir?"
     The man was quite taken aback by her bored, apathetic tone. Wasn't she aware of who he was? He stuttered, unsure what to say. He wiped his sweaty hands on his new jeans.
        " Uh, yeah, I have a reservation for a five night stay?" The woman sighed, and slowly turned her chair back to her computer.
       "Name," she stated in the monotone voice of a tired and cranky weekend employee. Her pale, gray eyes retained their blank expression. The man drew himself up to his full height, a stunning six feet and five inches, knowing the woman would change her tune in the next moment.
        "Robyn Wainwright, CEO of Wainwright Technologies," the man boasted, convinced this lowly secretary would start to show him a little more respect. Instead, the receptionist simply tapped a few keys, her face still void of emotion. The man was shocked. Nobody had ever acted this way toward him before. Especially receptionists currently typing on one of his name-brand keyboards.
    I designed that! The stupid crone should be at least intelligent enough to see the connection.
       He sulked silently, mentally composing the poor review he would leave on the hotel's website upon his return home. As he waited for her to finish, he let his eyes wander around the hotel's ground floor. Burgundy velvet carpeting, multiple landscape paintings covering forest-green wallpaper with lime colored stripes, a grandfather clock in the corner, about to chime five o'clock. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except.... He looked again. Yes, it was there. A door, colored pitch black, loomed over him to his right, placed about twenty feet away directly underneath a watercolor depiction of Paris in the spring, the picture frame a shimmering bronze. The color of the door was not what was strange about it, most upscale establishments in this part of the state painted their doors a glossy black. It's what was written on the door that intrigued the guest's mind. Engraved in the center of the door, on a shiny brass plaque, were two curvy golden numbers: 13.
That's odd, it is a normal hotel room door, but with two numbers instead of three.
Upon further inspection, he also noticed that this door did not offer a modern electronic card swipe like most places of lodging. Instead, an ornately decorated keyhole, large enough to see through, adorned the space above the gilded handle. His curiosity piqued, he strode blithely up to the door and moved his pale blue eye toward the inviting lock. To his surprise, he felt a rough hand on his shoulder yank him backwards, jerking his head away from the door and setting him off balance. The man whirled around to face the bellhop, a tall, hulking figure, standing at least a foot taller than himself. His hair was hidden by a black and gold cap that complimented his red uniform. The burly man wore a silver embossed name tag that read simply, William.
        "And what do you think you're doing, mister?" William growled at the smaller man, who was recovering his balance and wits from the startling encounter. However, the young CEO quickly rebounded from his earlier fear, and replaced his embarrassment with anger.
        " What should it matter to you? It's a free country after all! I could sue you if I sustain any injuries, how dare you assault me like that! Do you have any idea who I am?!"  He furiously gestured to his chest.William sneered.
       "I don't give a darn if you're my great-great-grandmother," he replied. The businessman deflated at the lack of interest these people were giving him. Why didn't anyone understand how important he was here? He dismissed this annoyance for now, anxious to find out the reason for the unwanted chiropractic job to which he was forcefully submitted. Rubbing his sore shoulder, he turned again to look at the door.
        "So, why can't I see inside?" He asked gingerly. William snorted.
      "Well, obviously it's someone's room, and I gotta protect it from creeps like you sticking your noses where they don't belong!" With that, the muscular bellhop strode back to his post next to the gleaming staircase, tossing some parting words over his shoulder.
     " Don't let me catch you doing that again, my job doubles as the head of hotel security!"
     The flashy entrepreneur stood by the door for a few more seconds, watching William glare in his direction. After a while, he sighed in defeat and went to finish the check-in process. He found the receptionist up and out of her chair, standing in front of her desk with a file folder in her hand.
     "If you're done snooping around, sir, I have had your information waiting for you for five minutes now," she said, sounding aggravated. "Robyn Wainwright, room 1108. Take the stairs or elevator to the eleventh floor, rooms 1100 through 1119 are on the left." She leaned closer to him, her breath strongly smelling like the Chapstick his grandmother always used, peppermint with a hint of lemon. "And I would advise you, sir, to stay out of the rooms that don't belong to you." She whispered softly in his ear.  Too unnerved by her dead, unfocused expression to reply, the founder of Wainwright Technologies gathered together his belongings, making a point to refuse any help from the bellhop, and struggled up the wide steps of the polished stairwell.

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        It was now nine o'clock. The business executive had been online for nearly three hours in his hotel room, sorting out a pressing issue via email with his second-in-command. His eyes exhausted from staring at his Wainwright Technologies laptop screen, he shut his computer and stood up from the violet plush chair that was placed by the only window in the room.
      What an ugly space.
     He turned off the overhead light and switched on the antique lamp on the nightstand next to the queen-sized bed. He flopped down on the royal blue velvet comforter, and picked up the remote to turn on the flatscreen television mounted on the salmon-colored wall. He hated salmon. Mindlessly flipping through channels, he found his mind drifting to the strange door downstairs.
      Why would a hotel have a room right inside the lobby?