Tales from the Overlook

Broken Sleep

The very first thought that entered Jack Torrance's head when he was forced from his welcomed sleep was a particular stream of profanities that would have likely caused even the most seasoned of sailors to blush and divert their eyes. The second was that he was sure that he had shut each and every window in the whole damned hotel himself, and that there was absolutely no reason for there to be a shutter banging in the wind so loudly that it would force him to wake up and comprehend the fact that he was definitely hearing the sound of an open window from the empty room beside them.
He assumed that the latch must have been faulty and so it popped back open following a particularly ferocious gust of wind at some point during the night, or perhaps Danny - the damned worthless pup should know better than to break into the goddamed guest rooms, how many times does he have to tell the kid to take his damned medicine and keep out of his business? - had gone exploring and wanted to see the view from the room next to them, or perhaps Wendy - what did the nosy bitch want in there? Was she trying to find something else to blame on him so she could ruin him and steal his son from him again? Must feel pretty damned stupid when she didn't find anything to make excuses about! - had been trying to lend a hand and happened to bump the latch in the process. 

Sitting himself up with the intention of shutting the window again before crawling back to bed, his plans were cut short before he could even manage the first step. In an instant he was hit with a wave of very specific nausea that he had not felt in a good few months. Somehow he had managed to find himself hungover in a building that did not even have a single drop of - good, sweet medicine - alcohol anywhere at all.
Sure, might have had a dream that night where he had been given all the drink he needed in the hotel's bar, a party of faceless - was there anything under the masks? Or was it all smooth like the surface of a mirror? - guests twirling about to their debaucherous hearts' content. Sure, he had a dream - was it a dream? Or was it the only real thing in the whole wide world? - but dreams are dreams and reality was reality, so there was no way he could get drunk on dreams.

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he begrudgingly hauled himself up to his feet, the cold of the world around him seeping through the carpet and providing no protection as he moved. He had years of practice acting sober and clear of mind. He had pulled up to work still drunk or with a raging hangover hammering in his skull and he was not discovered or suspected nearly as often as he had thought he might be.
A pitiful whine escaped his lips, rolling uncomfortably over his still slightly numb lips, one hand distractedly finding itself intertwined in his hair, as if he was trying to lessen the pain in his head - why, Jacky-boy, it almost feels like you've been hit over the head with a roque mallet! Whattdya reckon that'd feel like? Wanna find out? Wanna see what it does, Jacky Jack? Wanna see their goddamned heads cracked open like an egg to see what it's like? - if he just tugged it out. This worked about as well as he had expected it would, this being not at all despite all hopes, and so he made a mental note to grab some medicine - oh, you'll give them their medicine, won't you? - if he didn't feel better by the time he got up proper later on.

Drifting like a man in a daze, he wandered out of the bedroom, letting his attention briefly drift to the room his son had claimed to make sure that he did not wake the boy - he could always make it so that the boy never woke again, but no, he was too much of a coward - as he trudged on past. The air was nippy in the hallway, the greater heating at that moment being too busy warming the other side of the hotel until he made his way down to the boiler later on, and he was left wishing that he had the good sense to grab his dressing gown from the hook before setting out, but he only ever did have the good sense to think of practical solutions well after it would have been any use to him.
The door to the room he was going to was locked, but he wouldn't be surprised if it had just been relocked after whoever had been in there - oh and they thought he wouldn't find out! Trying to keep secrets! Trying to turn against him! Trying to destroy him! - had finished up what they were doing. That was easily rectified as he had the caretaker's master keys, and so he let himself in. For a moment he considered knocking, feeling oddly intrusive, but pushed this thought out of his mind with the claim that he was being ridiculous.

The window was shut.

Jack knew that the sound had come from that room, and yet there was nothing in the room that was capable of making sounds. The window was shut, the latch done up tight, and everything was as still and untouched as it was the day he had gone in to lock the windows himself.

Had he been in a more coherent frame of mind, the man would have thought to investigate, taken the time to ponder the bizarreness of the situation, and see if there was anywhere else he could look for explanation. Jack was, however, hungover and feeling particularly crusty, and so he simply decided that it was just a part of his dream that he tricked himself into thinking was real and turned and headed back to bed.