Room 301 [Zarry]

welcome to Hollywood

The Hollywood sign comes into view, gentle breeze swaying the top of the palms. He smiles, feeling giddy but overwhelmed, heart doing backflips. This is it he thinks to himself. His big break is so close he itches, hope bottled up tight in his chest, guitar case in his car.

His green eyes are full of light, glimmering under the golden California sun. He smiles at every stranger, is met with cold stares or snickers. Everyone seems so...miserable. It puts a slight damper on his mood. He knows it's hard to make it out here, a lot of dreams start and end in Hollywood but staying positive can't hurt, right? Everything is so unfamiliar, the Hollywood foothills, the pink stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the endless bright blue sky.

How can a city bursting with so much action and bustling sidewalks feel so lifeless?

The sun starts to set on Hollywood Boulevard and people roam aimlessly. Squealing kids, tacky tourists and street performers are replaced with the homeless. A lingering crowd of teenagers are up to no good, lighting up a joint, laughter spilling from their lips.

Vivid pinks and bright orange turns to pitch black as the sun goes into hiding.

There's a slight chill to the wind. His eyes flick back up to the Hollywood sign but it seems off. It's different once the sun goes down, its slightly eerie glow sending shivers down his spine. Someone brushes past him, the cool air making his skin crawl.

Clad in all black, walking at a brisk pace. All he sees is his outline as the distance grows between them, the back of his head, dark messy hair.

He feels something strange inside his gut, his stomach clenches up as he instinctively reaches in his back pocket. A curled up scrap of paper, he unfolds it, tries to uncrinkle it, heart in his throat. His thoughts are so loud and the streets are suddenly so quiet.

A phone number.

He settles into his dingy room, tries to keep the frown off his face as reality slowly sinks in. It's a total shithole. He can hear faint music through the thin walls, presses his ear up to his headboard. It rattles slightly and he focuses, catches some of the lyrics.

'This could be heaven or this could be Hell'
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way

He hates Hotel California so much his blood runs cold.

The carpet is wet with a stain and he switches on the lamp on the dusty bedside table. It isn't red and he's somewhat relieved, thinks it's probably alcohol. The hairs on his arms prick, bristle as the room suddenly turns cold. He tries to adjust the heat, cursing under his breath at the broken thermostat.

When he moves away from the bed and over to the sliding door off the balcony, the temperature drops more. He thinks it isn't shut tightly but it's already completely closed.

The bathroom is slightly warmer but for some reason, he hates the mirror and his reflection staring back at him in the dark. He switches on the light, flooding the tiny room with harsh yellow light.

He just stands there, runs his hand down his face and tries to keep his composure. It isn't the fantasy he created in his head, it isn't the glamour and glitz. It's just...dead.

When that thought enters his head the cold finds him again. His fingertips are freezing, he shivers, arms wrapping tight around his waist.

Something grazes his leg and he screams, falls backwards, nearly hitting his head on the edge of the bathtub. He thinks of that scene, splitting his head open and dying his first night here, tries to remember how to breathe.

Dying. Death and dying. The inside of his mouth tastes bitter, he hurriedly leaves his room, slamming the door behind him, heart pounding as he gasps for air.

Room 301. He studies the door, feels something surge inside him, a fear so strong it makes his knees buckle. A woman fiddles with her key at the end of the hall, gives him a strange look.

"Is that your room," she asks, drawing near. Her winged eyeliner and silk nightgown feels nostalgic, like she's stuck in a different time. The hotel itself feels trapped in the past and it's driving him mad.

"Yeah," he whispers.

"They still give people 301? Needs updated," she laughs and it sounds brass, like an out of tune piano.

"Is that all you wanted to tell me," he inquires, chest in knots.

"Good luck," she replies flatly, stretching her lips into a tight line.

She quickly goes inside her room, leaves him abandoned in the hall under a flickering light. He remembers the cold stare of the concierge in the lobby, the whispers as he handed him his room card, the man with the ugly mustache, voice trembling "301, always vacant-"

He can't go back in there. He won't. Exhaustion sets in, tugs at his body, eyelids growing heavy and he's out in an instant.

Someone shakes him awake and his eyelids flutter open. He adjusts to his surroundings. A hallway. The woman from last night. A window at the end of the hall, swaying palm trees in the distance.

"You slept out here," she asks, concerned. "I would have let you stay the night."

"How is it haunted? What's the story?"

"There are a lot of rumors, the story has kind of evolved over time. I don't think it's a bad entity...I'm sure he gets lonely so he likes to mess around with guests. It's always playful."

"It's a child?"

"No, a man but he's never hurt anyone...at least that I know of. The story I heard was really sad. Something about overdosing and falling off the balcony...pretty tragic. They say he was a young musician, wanted to get into acting. Very talented," she smiles meekly. "It's a shame really."

"I don't think I can do it," I admit, vision blurred. My nails dig into my palms. "I'm an aspiring musician," my voice cracks.

"Weird coincidence," she says, face going pale. "Just be careful, don't let him lure you onto the balcony or anything, I think that's where his presence is the strongest and if you can't sleep leave a few knocks on my door. This damned city won't let me rest anyway," she sighs tiredly, gives her head a little shake.

"Uh thanks-"

"Lana," she smiles, shaking my hand.

"Harry," I exhale nervously. "Harry Styles."

The room is different in the morning, sunlight flooding through the curtains. I'm slightly less terrified but that isn't saying much.

I sit on the foot of the bed, dial the number on the crumpled sheet of paper.

The line is busy.

"Well," I mutter to myself.

A stranger's voice startles me, soft and sweet

My heart nearly stops

"Welcome to Hollywood Harry."