Don't Scream 2 Page 14
"Get out!" he rasped. "Get out before it's too late!"
"What–"
"Find a door! A window! Anything! And get out!"
The door slammed in my face.
Confused, and slightly disturbed, I continued down the hallway. The lights dimmed nearly to the point of extinguishing, flickering softly in their glass bulbs. Over and over I lost my bearings, unable to determine which direction I was going. For what felt like an eternity, I felt my way along the walls, desperately trying to find my way, until finally I arrived at the stairs. Then I began the long, hard climb to the eighth floor.
With every step, the man's words echoed in my mind. Get out. Get out. What did he mean by that?
And the figure in the hallway... I'd been ghost hunting for five years, and I'd never seen something like that. Standard fare included glowing orbs, odd tapping sounds, shadowy figures in the corner of my eye. Things that could, technically, be explained away by logic.
This couldn't.
By the time I got to the top, I was panting, and sweat clung to my shirt. I pulled the door open with a groan, and walked down the hallway.
The hallway was dark. Just like the third floor.
It must be some sort of hotel-wide power problem, I told myself. That actually made me feel better. Maybe everything that happened – the elevator buttons, the dim lights – was due to an electrical issue. It was an old hotel, after all.
Maybe, in all the confusion, I'd imagined the shadows. And the old man was just some lunatic.
I walked down the hallway, my shoes thumping conspicuously against the carpet. The silence was ominous, though not unexpected. After all, I reasoned, everyone was sleeping at this hour.
I arrived at room 812 and inserted my key card into the door. The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open.
The room was pitch-black, even though I was sure we'd kept every light on when we left.
"Annabelle?" I called. "Darren? You here? We need to talk!"
Silence.
I walked down the short hallway, into the main room–and froze in my tracks.
Frigid air rushed in through the open window. On the windowsill, surrounded by billowing curtains, there stood a feminine figure, facing away from me, wearing a white wedding dress.
"Hey!" I called out to her. "What are you doing in our roo–"
The words were barely out of my mouth when she pitched forward. I heard the soft rustle of fabric and the whistling wind as she plummeted towards the ground.
Then, with the sickening crack of flesh against pavement, everything went still.
Nausea washed over me. I fought the urge to vomit.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Annabelle, my fingers nervously slipping over the screen, and was met with a busy signal. Same for Darren, and for the police. Each and every time, I failed to get through. Then my eyes fell on the hotel phone.
I ran over to it and dialed 'zero' for the front desk. It rang. A moment later, a man's voice answered.
"Hello?"
It all came rushing out. "Oh, thank God! Listen, I need your help! I just saw this woman–she jumped–and I can't find my friends, and–"
"Come to the front desk," he responded in a slow drawl.
Then the line went dead.
I stared into the abyss of the desolate room. Then I got up, averted my gaze from the window, and walked back down all eight flights of stairs.
When I finally wandered into the lobby, I found it deserted. The only faces I encountered were decorative and inanimate. The Alex Johnson Hotel had no less than six faces, wearing feathered headdresses, carved into the beams of the hotel. When I looked up, I could swear I saw a flash of darkness in the balcony overhead. In an instant, however, it was gone.
I ran toward the front desk. "Is anyone here?!" I shouted.
"Hello!" a voice called out of the darkness.
A man bustled out of the back. Portly, middle-aged, with a carefully curled mustache and a pair of round glasses. "What may I help you with?" he asked, lips curling into a smile.
"I just called from upstairs. Someone just jumped from the eighth floor win—"
"Not to worry," he said, cutting me off. His eyes locked on mine. "She does that every night."
"I'm sorry, but... what?" I responded incredulously.
"My dear boy, if you haven't noticed... you're not in South Dakota anymore."
I looked around. "That's ridiculous! Of course I am. This is the Alex Johnson Hotel. What are you talking about?"
"It certainly looks like the Alex Johnson Hotel, doesn't it?" he said, casting an adoring glance at the ceiling. "Ah, yes. The attention to detail is remarkable. We have Agneta to thank for that. Lovely woman. Have you met her yet?"
"Listen. You tell me what the hell is going on right now! I just saw a woman jump from an eight-story window. And this crazy guy on the third floor told me to get out. And when I try to call my friends, I just get a busy signal!"
"Of course, my boy. If it'll make you feel better, allow me to explain." He leaned over the front desk, his mouth stretching into a smile. It was only then that I realized there was something wrong with his face. His eyes protruded too far from their sockets, and his lips were so thin, they were barely visible.
"The lift that brought you here," he said, gesturing to the elevator, "travels beyond the veil."
"Are you saying I'm... dead?"
"No, no. Well, not exactly. But if you don't find your way back soon, you'll find escape quite impossible, and you may as well be."
"How do I get back? I need to get to Annabelle and Darren–"
He cut me off with a peal of laughter. Shivers crept down my spine. "Why so much concern for them?"
"They're my business partners, my friends. My..." The words caught in my throat. "My teammates."
"Are you certain of that?"
I nodded.
"They lied to you."
I balked. "What would you know? I've never met you before in my life. Besides, you're just a... front desk clerk."
"On the contrary, my boy, I know many things." His eyes twinkled, and he leaned forward. A musty, rotten smell came off him, and I cringed. "When you were ten years old, for example, you stole a pack of gum from a shop on 4th Avenue. When you were 18, you were heartbroken when you walked in on your girlfriend–"
"How do you know about that?!" I demanded.
"I have my ways, Kyle. And I'm certain you weren't pulled from the lift by some supernatural force." His bulbous eyes stared me down. His lips curled into an insidious smile. "You were pushed."
My mind raced. I tried to think back to exactly what had happened when I fell onto the third floor. I couldn't recall. One minute, I'd been standing in the elevator. The next, I'd been thrown to the ground.
"It's the human condition, you know. Greed. What did your companions stand to gain by pushing you? Control of the business. Under new management, they can run things how they see fit."
Rage burned within me. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew he was right.
"How do I get back?"
The clerk grinned rapturously, revealing rows of yellowed teeth. "Oh, I'm afraid it's too late for that now."
I turned around. Dark silhouettes filled the lobby. Just like the ones I'd seen on the third floor. Their crimson eyes flashed as they stepped toward me.
"It's been a while since we've had a newcomer," the man behind the desk said, practically salivating in his excitement.
At that moment, against all odds, above the fear and terror, an unexpected courage surged within me.
It's me against this world, I realized. I wasn't going to go out like a coward. Not now, not ever.
I watched the shapes swirl and advance in my direction. Across the dust-covered floors and faded carpet, they came, the very foundation of the hotel quaking beneath their feet. Meanwhile, shadows coalesced on the balconies overhead, watching hungrily.
I was completely surrounded.
I sprinted to the stairwe
ll. The shadows pursued me with superhuman speed, spiraling around the staircase.
In an effort to lose them, I exited on the third floor and dashed toward the elevator, hoping to reach it before they realized I was no longer on the stairs – but to no avail. The ominous static sound returned. As I ran down the hall, each door I passed swung open with an ear-splitting creak, and the buzzing intensified. Innumerable shadows emerged on both sides, blotting out what little light was available. Their red eyes flared in the darkness.
I came to a halt at the end of the hallway. The shadows swarmed and quickened their pace. Once again, there was no call button on the elevator, but I didn't care. I wedged my fingers between the doors and pushed with all my might.
With a grunt, I forced them open and squeezed into the elevator. As the cacophonous wail of the wraiths reached their crescendo, I pressed the button for the eighth floor. With a shriek, the doors came to a close, mere moments before a horde of outstretched arms arrived.
With a shudder and a groan, the elevator reluctantly ascended. With each second, the din of the screaming specters lessened, until at last they were little more than a gust of wind in the distance. I took a deep breath and did my best to calm down.
My relief was short-lived.
A moment later, the floor shook beneath my feet. I grabbed the railing, as my heart skipped a beat and threatened to evacuate my body. The lights began to flicker. The buttons flashed in a strange, syncopated rhythm.
And then the elevator stopped completely.
Dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I'm going to be stuck here. Forever. I ran to the doors and pounded on them, as the lights oscillated madly. "Let me out!" I screamed. "Let... me... out!"
Hissing whispers filled the elevator. At first, they were scattered and unintelligible. But then they snapped together, forming one voice.
"Exchange," they said in unison. "We require an exchange."
"Whatever you want!" I screamed. "Anything but me! Just name it!"
"Two," the voices hissed through the static. "We demand two in your stead."
"Yes, yes, fine! Just, please–let me go!"
The elevator trembled.
And then it plummeted.
I screamed the whole way down. I didn't stop until the elevator made impact and the crushing pain consumed me, and everything went black.
***
My eyes fluttered open.
I was lying on something soft. Up above me, light shone from an outdated fixture on the ceiling.
Where am I? I wondered.
I sat up and glanced around. The hallway, the armchair, the bed... I was back in room 812. And across the room, looking out the window, were Annabelle and Darren. Hatred burned within me at the sight of them.
"This must've been the last thing the lady in white saw before she jumped," Annabelle was saying, holding her camcorder. The window was open, and a cool breeze blew inside. They were oblivious to my presence.
"Or, was pushed," Darren corrected her.
Silently, I rose from the bed and approached the window. The spirits had demanded an exchange, two in my place. The choice was clear. Darren and Annabelle wouldn't get away with what they'd done.
They'd get what they deserved.
Smiling ear-to-ear, I made my approach. Distracted as they were, my former friends never saw or heard me coming.
Without hesitation, I shoved both of them out the window. Their screams echoed for a second or two before the unforgiving pavement put an end to that.With a smirk, I considered the irony of the situation. Darren and Annabelle would finally get proof of the afterlife—just not in the way they expected.
I walked back over to the bed, picked up the hotel phone, and dialed the front desk. "Hello?" I said, in the most-convincing panicked tone I could muster. "My friends–they just had a terrible accident. They were leaning out of the window, filming, and lost their balance–and–oh my god!" I faked choking sobs. "I think they're dead! Oh my god, they're dead!"
I hung up the phone.
The wintry air swept across my face, as I imagined the whereabouts of the two who had tried to take everything from me.
I grinned.
If room 812 wasn't haunted before... it certainly was now.
TWO PINK LINES
I am not pregnant.
I know I'm not. I just had my period a week ago. I have no morning sickness, no growing bump, nothing at all.
But my husband insists that I am.
Last night, we were sitting in the family room after dinner. I was sipping a glass of expensive red wine, when he suddenly turned to me and shouted: "What are you doing?"
"Drinking wine?"
"What? You're going to hurt the baby!"
Then he walked over—and snatched the glass out of my hands.
"Hey!"
"You know you shouldn't be drinking while pregnant."
"What?! I'm not pregnant." I reached for the glass; he yanked it out of my reach.
"Elisabeth. Please. You're going to hurt the baby." He ran over to the sink, dumped out the wine, and set the empty glass on the counter with an angry clink. Then he ran over and pressed a hand to my forehead. "You feel hot. I should call the doctor."
"Michael—"
He ran out of the room.
This must be some crazy prank, I thought. Well, whatever it is—it's not very funny. Within a few minutes, Michael came back, and pressed the phone to my ear.
"Elisabeth?"
Dr. Jones's voice came over the line. My primary care physician.
I stared up at Michael. Seriously? I mouthed at him. I was sure Dr. Jones doesn't appreciate late-night calls about... whatever this nonsense was.
"Uh, yes, it's me," I said, uneasily.
"Michael tells me you drank wine tonight. You know that can cause fetal alcohol syndrome."
"Dr. Jones, I'm not pregnant."
"Right. And I'm not a doctor!" he replied, sarcastically. "Now, a fever isn't good, either. If your temperature goes above 99.5F, give me a call, okay?"
I glanced at Michael. He was staring down at me, with an expression on his face that was a mixture of concern and judgement. "Uh, okay, Dr. Jones."
"Thank you, Elisabeth."
The call ended.
"So you heard it from the doctor himself," Michael said, taking his phone back from me. "No wine. If the fever gets worse, we call him. Okay?"
"Michael... I'm not pregnant." I stood up. "I don't know why you, and Dr. Jones, think I am. I'm not. I just had my period a week ago—"
"You had bleeding? That could be very, very dangerous for the baby! Why didn't you tell me?!"
I stood up and got in his face. "What is wrong with you? I. Am. Not. Pregnant!"
"Elisabeth—" he walked towards me, and gently pressed his hands on my belly— "the stress isn't good for her."
"Her?!"
"The baby."
"There. Is. No. Baby!"
"Okay. Elisabeth. Look. You're clearly having some sort of..." I knew the words 'mental breakdown' were probably on his tongue, but instead, he said "problem. But here, I'll show you."
He disappeared upstairs for a few minutes. When he came back, he was holding a pregnancy test. He pushed it into my hands.
"Go ahead and see for yourself."
"Fine."
I closed the door, locked it, and strode over to the toilet. I ripped open the foil packaging, pulled the cap off, and held it under the stream of urine.
1... 2... 3...
I set my phone timer to count the minutes until the results were ready. Then I closed my eyes. This is so stupid. I'm not pregnant. I couldn't even remember the last time Michael and I had unprotected sex.
I frowned. Why would we even be using protection if I'm pregnant? Another thing that made no sense. This is all some weird joke. It has to be...
Beep. Beep. Beep. The timer was done.
I opened my eyes. With trembling hands, I brought the test up to my face.
Two pink lines.
Positive.
The strength drained from my legs. My heart pounded in my chest, and the room began to spin. Pregnant.
"Michael," I stuttered, handing him the test. My hands subconsciously drifted to my belly. I held them there firmly. Is there really a baby in there? "You're right. I'm pregnant. But I... I was bleeding. Just a few days ago."
"We need to call Dr. Jones. Right now. The baby could be..." He didn't finish the sentence, grabbing his phone from the nightstand.
"But if I tested positive, don't we know that the baby—"
"No. HCG levels can stay elevated even after... the miscarriage." He pressed the phone to his ear.
I crumpled on the bed and began to cry.
What the hell is going on?!
Michael and I had been married for three years—and before this moment, every day of it had been bliss. He was always kind, thoughtful. He bought us a beautiful, 5000-square-foot mansion here in the countryside. He even cooked me dinner some nights after work—pastas, pies, pastries. Then he'd tuck me in and let me fall asleep while he did the dishes.
Now, it felt like all of that was crumbling down.
***
"See that? That's the baby."
Dr. Jones pointed to the screen, as he pressed the probe to my belly. "You didn't miscarry. She—or he—is okay."
I stared at the screen in disbelief.
"How... how far along am I?"
"About six weeks."
"Six weeks?!" I sat up on the table. Glanced from Michael to Dr. Jones. "I don't... even remember finding out that I was pregnant. Or telling you. Or Michael."
He ignored my comment. "Bleeding can be a bad sign. I'm going to prescribe one month of bedrest to reduce the chances of miscarriage."
"Bedrest?!"
Before Dr. Jones could reply, Michael wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Let's go home. We'll get you a nice snack and some good TV, okay?"
I nodded.
But my entire body felt numb.
Michael took me back home. He set me up in one of our many guest bedrooms with snacks, water, and even one of our flat-screen TVs. After he connected it, he fiddled with something on top of the nightstand.
"What's that?" I asked. His body blocked my view.