And Here, There Be Demons (The Horror Hall IV)
You open the door to find yourself standing in the center of a very fancy hotel lobby.
Just ahead of you, there's the front desk, complete with a bell and a shuffle of papers, a wall of tiny numbered mailboxes, and a wall of small hooks for room keys.
To the left, there is the entrance to the bar with a full array of alcoholic beverages sitting before a mirrored wall, a dance floor, and a piano.
To the right, there is a grand staircase leading up to the rooms above. Just below it is a doorway leading back to the kitchens and dining room
Except, there is no bellhop at the front desk, no bartender at the bar, no guests retreating to their rooms, nor cooks in the kitchen. Although there is an ash tray sitting on the front desk - a small wisp of smoke lifting from the end of a cigarette stained with a rather pretty shade of rouge - there isn't a living soul anywhere in this place.
This feeling should be familiar, shouldn't it? The feeling of being watched. Being hunted. Veterans of the dressing room should know what may be in store.
... don't try to go back the way you came.
Because the door you walked through won't budge.
[[Warning: It is very likely that threads in this post will contain graphic violence and a general assortment of nasty things. Read at your risk. Because of this, filling this out is most appreciative.]]
Just ahead of you, there's the front desk, complete with a bell and a shuffle of papers, a wall of tiny numbered mailboxes, and a wall of small hooks for room keys.
To the left, there is the entrance to the bar with a full array of alcoholic beverages sitting before a mirrored wall, a dance floor, and a piano.
To the right, there is a grand staircase leading up to the rooms above. Just below it is a doorway leading back to the kitchens and dining room
Except, there is no bellhop at the front desk, no bartender at the bar, no guests retreating to their rooms, nor cooks in the kitchen. Although there is an ash tray sitting on the front desk - a small wisp of smoke lifting from the end of a cigarette stained with a rather pretty shade of rouge - there isn't a living soul anywhere in this place.
This feeling should be familiar, shouldn't it? The feeling of being watched. Being hunted. Veterans of the dressing room should know what may be in store.
... don't try to go back the way you came.
Because the door you walked through won't budge.
[[Warning: It is very likely that threads in this post will contain graphic violence and a general assortment of nasty things. Read at your risk. Because of this, filling this out is most appreciative.]]