The Hotel Cortez - Do Not Disturb

Chapter 4

I got up out of bed, pulling on some jeans and my usual leather jacket. I never really changed my look. I didn't really care.
I put some fingerless gloves on and walked out of my room. Winter was now in full swing. The biting cold filled every room. There was no escape.
I stormed down the hallways, into the elevator. This time, I was going to get some goddamn answers.
I stormed up to the bar, seeing Liz Sally and Iris all sat there. Perfect.
"I want answers." I spoke harshly.
"Oh she lives! I'd offer you a drink but that didn't go down so well last time." Liz replied.
"I wanna know why weird shit keeps happening here. I wanna know what happened to my leg. I wanna know who this boss you're all protecting is and what you're hiding from me. I wanna know who that 1920s dude was from before I fell and I want to know ever little fucking secret you guys are keeping from me. And I want to know now."
"Have you ever heard of James Patrick March?" Iris questioned, her eyes narrowing at me from behind her huge glasses.
"The name rings a bell." I sighed, tired of the foreplay.
"He built this hotel almost 100 years ago" Sally chipped in.
"He was an oil man and made his fortune at a young age. But he was new money. After being, effectively exiled, he moved out to Los Angeles where he built this hotel. The hotel was to be a shining monument to his wealth... But also had much darker intentions hidden behind the surface. It was the perfectly designed murder house. There were chutes for body disposal, doors with brick walls behind them, corridors with dead ends and nowhere to run to. Mr March built this hotel to satisfy his unusual hobby. He was a serial killer. They say that he forced his wife to watch his brutal murders, but no one knows." Iris began
"Pfft yeah, okay. Firstly, I'm sure he would've been caught. Secondly, I don't see what this bullshit horror story has to do with ANY of my questions." I interrupted.
"In the late 20s, however," Iris continued, ignoring my interruption. "Someone turned him in. Before the police could catch him, he and his loyal minion - Ms Evers - killed themselves." She finished.
"And that room, room 64, that was his office. That's where he died" Sally chipped in once more.
"And that answers my questions, how? Some dude died in my room nearly 100 years ago. Wonderful. Good for him. I'm not sure if you quite grasp the concept of being dead." I tapped my foot, impatiently. This was frustrating. All I wanted was answers. Why were they being so cryptic? Like all of the time! It's not like I'm a cop, I just don't like being left in the dark.

"No honey, clearly you don't quite grasp the concept of being dead." Liz smiled as her and Iris walked off.
Sally crawled closer to me and leaned into my ear "You're not ready for answers" she whispered.
Next thing I knew, she was gone, and I was alone once more.
I made my way up to room 64. All this bullshit was driving me crazy. Was it so much to ask for something NORMAL to happen?!
I sighed, leaning against the door. I slid down the door and fell to the ground. Honestly, why do I even bother?
The sound of the elevator made my eyes flash open. I looked toward it, seeing a woman. She was as pale as me (if that was even possible) with long blonde hair. She was stunning. In fact, it was like looking into the eyes of a goddess. She looked back at me with a smile as the elevator went down. Who on earth was that? Why did I feel so drawn to her?

I opened up my door and fell inside my room. My head resting on the carpeted floor. I honestly didn't give a shit anymore. At this point, I could sleep anywhere.
Why did this entire hotel feel so fucking strange?
At this point, I just wanted to be alone. I sat in bed, researching the history of Cortez for hours. Stories of people disappearing and never leaving. Tales of John Lowe, the ten commandments killer. Supposedly he once lived in my room too... I guess it has a history of homicidal maniacs.
While scrolling through I clicked on an article. There it was, as clear as day. James Patrick March, 1926. And a picture. It was him. It was the guy I saw before I passed out...
But how?
Was this me finally losing my shit?

When I kill... It's out of anger. My blood boils, I've only just begun learning how to control it. When these people kill.... They do it because they like it.
Mine is a crime of passion. Theirs is premeditated.
I slammed my laptop shut. This was just getting crazier and crazier. When I heard the people next door... "Having fun" I just wanted to bash their faces in. I threw my boot at the wall, chipping it slightly.
"I don't give a bag of dicks what kinky shit you're into, just do it quietly." I mumbled under my breath.

The night was long. All night I heard noises, saw things out of the corner of my eye. I felt like someone was there.... Watching... Waiting. It was difficult to sleep but I had nothing better to do.
When I woke up, I was on the floor. I had bruises on my ribs and my body ached. I felt like I'd been hit by a fucking car. There's no way this happened by just falling out of bed. I looked in the mirror to see cuts on my cheeks and a freshly stitched cut on my arm.
What the fuck?
If I ask, they'll probably just say I fell anyway. I had to know what was going on.
I had to know.