Room 93 (FIRST DRAFT)

Present

I turn the car off and sit silently. My files are sprawled over the passenger seat with my camera on top. Coal black on top of the daunting amounts of paper work. Why did I have to be chosen for this. It's my sons birthday today and here I am, sitting in my car glaring at the masses of paperwork I need to fill out for the report of my interview with her. I look out the car window at the house of Elizabeth Moore. The house doesn't look that homely from the outside but who am I to judge. I let the car cool down before I open my door and step out. Sighing heavily I watch the willow tree that creaks out on the front yard of her house. Golden leaves dusting the dying lawn. A thin brown leaf broken of from one of the branches spirals around the yard and comes to a halt at my feet. I trap it beneath my heavy boot and impress it on the concrete.

The wind hits my back and makes my coat billow. I pull it tighter around my body, trying to strangle the chill out of me. The clouds are grey and threatening in the sky. It'll probably rain later and I don't want to get caught in it. I cross my fingers and pray that the interview with the old woman is finished and behind me in around half an hour so I can hopefully be long gone before the rain picks up. If I finish the paper work quickly perhaps I can be home in time for dinner with Alex. I can picture his unopened presents laying at the foot of his bed as he waits for me to come home to open them. I can't leave him waiting.

I walk around the side of the car and open the passenger door. The wind dies a little as I reach into the car and bring out my camera. I always bring it wherever I go and some creepy old lady isn't going to change that. She's already changed my routine enough - I haven't worked on a Saturday for almost ten years until my boss made me come here today. My frustration is only growing with that woman.

The house is made of a dark wood and looks ancient. It doesn't look like one of the most comforting places in the world, but I don't know anything about this woman, not really.

Her neighbour reported her late last year. She had been through some bad stuff as a kid and our newspaper has been writing about tragic stories so we were a good match. She has never spoken about her experiences before so no one knows why she locks herself up. She never socialises and never stays in one place. No one has really seen her for fifty years...

I walk down the stone path that leads to her house. The grass looks lush and green, unlike her house, and it is well cut. The door looms ahead of me. It looks stable but old. The oak wood looked as if it might once have been painted grey, but now the crusted paint has flaked off and only strips of it are left. You can see with your blind eye that it is older than most of the house. I peek in the window and see a fire place and a well lit living room. It all looks very modern compared to the falling down and broken house, and that surprises me. The windows are Victorian style and slide up and down. Each window has a window basket with a variety of flowers. The contrast between the decor and the actual house is unnerving.

I knock on the door my knuckles shaking in the cold of the morning. An unnatural chill hovers around the house. I can feel it weaving deep inside me. I suppress a shiver and tap my foot, waiting for her to open the door. Pots clatter in the house and I hear rushed footsteps. I wait as something behind the door clicks several times before the door swings open. A small, thin woman appears behind the door. Her file said that she turned 57 yesterday, but she looks at least decade older. I guess that stress has aged her. Her soft brown hair that was in her file photograph is grey and dull. She has more wrinkles than anyone of her age but she doesn't seem to mind. She looks like you could snap her in half with one hand and I am worried that the wind will blow her over because she is so thin.
"Hello, would you like to come in?" She says in a gentle, calm voice. She smiles at me but it somehow doesn't quite reach her eyes. I nod and follow her into the house.

My eyes are instantly drawn to the back of the door as we step in. The door has not one but ten locks. Each one is different but they all do the same job. They keep things out. I turn my camera on and take a photo of the door. The photo disturbs me. What could the woman be so frightened of?

I hurry through into the kitchen where Elizabeth is hunched and pouring boiling water into mugs. The kitchen is lighter and more open than I imagined. It has all then normal things a kitchen would have: an oven, a fridge, a dishwasher. I had been expecting some sort of slaughter house so I was taken completely by surprise.
'Do you want tea,' she asks,
'Yeah.' I sit down at a dining table and tap my fingers on the table. Ms. Moore comes and sits opposite me,
"Ma'am, I am Harry Newman, I'm here to talk to you about what happened to you when you vanished fifty years ago." She sighs as I speak and looks down into her mug like she expects to find answers inside it.
"Mr. Newman, do you believe in hell?" Her question astonishes me and I fumble for words.
"Strictly speaking, no." She nods,
"Then tell me: why did you come?" She cocks her head and I search through my list of answers to that question. She really doesn't want to speak about her experience...
"I am here for answers, nothing more, nothing less." She considers this before answering me,
"Mr. Newman, what would you say if I told you that I spent one month trapped in a room with nine people, and out of those nine, two escaped. Those two being me and a man called Eric Reed." I nod, encouraging her to go on.
"Tell me what happened." my voice echoes around the empty kitchen.
"Do you really want to know Mr. Newman?" I nod again and she sighs.
"I will start from the beginning."