Chapter 4: Two-Five-Three

“Two-five-three?” Spencer asked, rising from his seat at the front desk and hobbling into a back room. There was a massive rack of old keys hanging from a wooden board in there, and he began to search through them, adjusting his spectacles as he read off the floor numbers. “The same floor as your office, yes?”

“That’s right,” Ethan replied.

“Whatever do you want to get into that room for?” Spencer asked as he pulled down the correct key ring. “Most of the suites on that floor have been vacant for decades.”

“I’m just going to check something out,” he replied. “There’s a cold draft that comes in from under that door, I wanted to make sure that there wasn’t a broken window in there or something.”

“Very well,” the old man replied, handing him the key ring. It was surprisingly heavy, all made from iron, it seemed. “Just return it when you’re done.”

Ethan stood before the door outside his converted office, the correct key in hand, staring at the bronze room number as he tried to drum up the nerve to unlock it. Supposing he entered the room, and saw something horrifying or unexplainable, would it really be happening? Or would he just be standing in front of the door like a motionless mannequin again?

There was only one way to find out.

He reached down and inserted the key into the lock, hearing the mechanical clunk as he turned it. This floor had been practically untouched since the thirties, so he expected the interior of the room to resemble the hallway.

As he stepped inside, that same chill came over him again, like he was entering a walk-in freezer. It was so cold that he half expected his breath to mist, or for there to be frost on the walls, but everything seemed outwardly normal. It was about what he had anticipated, your average, nineteen-thirties era hotel room. It was laid out similarly to the one that the phantom woman had jumped from, albeit with different décor, and no television on the dresser.

Shivering, Ethan wandered about, inspecting the twin beds and the dresser. There was nothing here that stood out as unusual to him. There was indeed a window on the far wall that would have looked out over the city in ages past, but was now boarded up. There was no draft, so what was the source of the cold? A malfunctioning A/C unit, perhaps?

He decided to check the bathroom, opening the door and stepping through. There was little of note in here, just an old-fashioned bathtub, a porcelain sink, and a toilet. As his eyes scanned the room, he noticed something out of place, Ethan walking over to the sink. Beneath a dusty mirror in which he could barely make out his own reflection was a straight razor, sitting between the faucets. His blood ran cold as he recognized the wooden handle.

It was the one from his dream.

With trembling fingers, he reached down and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. The blade was coated in what looked like rust, but Ethan knew better.

“Am I really seeing this?” he muttered to himself.

“You don’t disappoint, house dick.”

Ethan froze, staring intently into the sink, too afraid to raise his eyes for fear of what he might see. The voice was coming from behind him, immediately recognizable, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting on the air.

“What is this?” he demanded, his mouth suddenly bone dry. He could feel eyes on his back, he knew instinctively that someone or something was standing just a few feet away, but he dared not look.

“It’s not about you seein’ us,” the voice continued, “it’s about us seein’ you. Oh, we all see you, like a candle in the dark. You got that glow, pal, brighter than the rest. You got the nerve to play house dick.”

“What are you talking about?” Ethan asked, a shiver running down his spine like icy fingers. “What do you mean by that? What’s a house dick?”

“A house dick,” the man replied, frustration creeping into his voice. “A hotel flatfoot, a P.I, you mug. I ain’t got all day, so listen good. We want to check out of this joint, but it won’t let us. You gotta fix it so’s we can leave.”

“Who are you?” Ethan asked.

“Who am I?” the stranger scoffed. “I’m the only guy who knows the scoop, the only patsy who’s in on the joke. Just when you think you’ve found an easy way out of the frying pan, bam, you’re dropped right into the fire. Some of ‘em get stuck in a loop, living out their despair over and over, like a clockwork toy. Me, I can appreciate a good pratfall, always did like a little Keaton.”

“What is it that you want from me?” Ethan continued, trying to control the wavering in his voice. “What is this ‘it’ that you keep referring to?”

“I ain’t got all the answers, that’s your job, shamus. I gotta bow out, so keep sniffin’.”

“Wait!” Ethan said, daring to look up for the first time. In the clouded mirror, he saw an indistinct reflection, the silhouette of a man wearing a newsboy cap. “Can’t you give me anything to go on?”

“Red eyes in the dark,” he replied. His voice seemed to grow distant, as though he was calling out from the far end of a long tunnel, his reflection fading like a wisp of smoke.

Ethan gave it a minute longer, leaning over the sink, feeling light-headed. This wasn’t a fucking hallucination or a dream, it was real, visceral. Unless he had developed full-blown schizophrenia overnight, there was no logical explanation for what was happening to him.

“Heavy metals in the water my ass,” he muttered to himself, “more like DMT.”

Whatever the man in the newsboy cap was, he was trying to get a message out, he wanted something. No, ‘they’ wanted something, something that only Ethan could give them.

Something was preventing them from ‘checking out’, as the man had said, stopping them from moving on. Was that it, then? Was he accepting the existence of ghosts? Maybe he really had gone fucking crazy...

Ethan turned around once he had steadied himself, and immediately let out a muffled exclamation of surprise and disgust, turning his head away from the old bathtub. It was full to the brim with water that was clouded with dark blood, crimson fingerprints trailing over its edge, staining the porcelain. He gave it a few more moments, waiting for his nausea to abate, then opened one eye hesitantly.

The tub was empty, returned to the state in which he had found it.

“Red eyes in the dark,” he muttered under his breath. What could it mean?

Night had fallen, and it was time to turn in. The events of the day had left Ethan exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but he wasn’t looking forward to sleeping within the walls of the building. Whatever was trapped in here alongside the man with the cap would no doubt be drawn to him, like moths to a flame. That said, it wasn’t as though he was any safer in his own apartment, not after the night terror that he’d had involving the bat creature.

Red eyes in the dark. The apparition’s last, fading words had stuck in his head. Was it a clue that could help him find a solution to their mutual problem, or was he describing ‘it’, the thing that was preventing them from checking out? The creature that Fairfax had reported seeing in the elevator shaft, the monster that had pursued Ethan in his nightmare, both of them had red eyes.

He had no idea where to start. The man in the cap spoke in what must be archaic slang, for the most part, layered on top of vague metaphors. Without direction, what was he supposed to do? Should he enlist the help of his colleagues, or would they immediately have him committed?