I'm going to be late home. I'm being set back at least half an hour. I'm definitely not going to be able to find the time to add anymore to my book with so much actual work to do. Fuck this man. Absolutely fuck him. He's made me late and now my day is ruined. I hope you're happy, you fuck.

These were the thoughts of Michael Malone last Saturday at around 2.15pm. On his way home via the Number 8 bus (he had never bothered to learn to drive, never having the money to put into the lessons, car and insurance. Or at least, never wanting to spend so much on those things) an elderly man had fainted, hitting his head on the way down on a metal pole in place for safety reasons, creating a gaping gash in his head, becoming a newly opened passage for blood to start flowing on to his face and, to a lesser extent, the cold, hard floor of the moving vehicle . It was irony at its most brutal and harsh. Maybe it was due to the heat that day, as the sun powerfully and upliftingly showed England its warming rays, or maybe he had a long-running illness. Either way, Michael didn't care. All he wanted was to get home and continue writing his fantasy novel; he knew it was a lost cause, never to be shown to anyone but himself, yet he found happiness in the idea of selling his novel to the general public. Sure, it was a pretend notion that he accepted would never come about, but the self-betrayed illusion was enough to keep him writing. Having lost his wife after only a year of endless arguments, accusations and paranoia, adding minute details and progression to this book daily (or weekly if he convinced himself that he had lost that week's 'mojo') was the only thing he could do to take his mind off of both her and the seemingly never-ending mountain of work that continuously piled up on top of him.

You see, Michael was a journalist. Having excelled at both English Literature and Language through school, going on to get an A-Level in the subjects through college and finally obtaining himself a degree in Literature at university, it was deceptively easy to find himself a job writing articles for a magazine. But that was never what he wanted. He kept telling himself that this job was merely a placeholder for his dream career as a fantasy author, yet next Thursday would mark him having worked for the publication for seven years. Seven years doing a job that was merely a stop-gap. Or so that's what he told himself, regardless of the fact he knew he was lying - he was stuck doing a job that he hated, that he had no control over; he was given assignments and had to get all research and drafts complete by a deadline. It was an extremely far cry from the creative writing he so yearned to be doing. 

And now here he was, sat mere inches away from a man lying on the floor, heavily injured and possibly coming close to death; he was old and frail, possibly in his eighties, and an accident like this could easily spell the end for him. Yet all Michael could think about, as some kindly passengers of the bus had rushed forth to hold his head up, apply tissue and soothingly talk to him while waiting for the paramedics to arrive, was his book. His meaningless, self-obssessed book. His thoughts weren't on the safety of the gravely injured man, nor were they on his family that would so heavily be affected by the loss - he just wanted to get home and write more of his currently untitled project, and this deadly incident was no more than an inconvenience for him. Michael, as you may have realised, was not a nice man. While he portrayed a kindly, caring persona through his exterior, his thoughts were almost perpetually dedicated to no-one but himself. If someone else had an issue or problem, his immediate reaction would be to wonder how this negatively or, if he was lucky, positively had an effect on him. Selfish is undoubtedly the word you and I would use to describe him, though you'll find that people who have met him have not a bad thing to say about him. Apart from, of course, Mollie. A woman who he had felt genuine love for, he was sure of it, yet had made the fatal mistake of showing her the true Michael. 

Mollie and Michael met when he was already in a relationship; a woman named Bethany who he held no real affection for. There was almost nothing between them, though they both very much appreciated the comfort of a second half. That was, until he met Mollie. It didn't take them long for emotions to begin blooming between them. Frequently meeting (strangely, he spent alot more time with her than he did his actual girlfriend), the two of them became closer and closer, until eventually Michael found himself betraying his own morals, planted in the middle of a full-blown affair. He may not be thoughtful for others, and he may not do things with the most generous of motives, but adultery was something he very much felt strongly about. Yet Mollie was enough to change that.

After a year of sneaking around with another girl, he finally ended his relationship with Beth, going on to let the love between himself and Mollie fully blossom, until, almost a further year later, they found themselves to be arranging a wedding. This, however, would mark the point in which the relationship between them would quickly begin to plummet. Michael felt comfortable with her, in fact far too comfortable. Before long, he had all-out shown her the real person behind the friendly exterior, in turn causing her to open up further. It was at this point they found they had just a little too much in common; they were both exceptionally stubborn, argumentative and expected the very worst of one another. After struggling to make the marriage work for an entire year, they decided that it just wasn't, and went their separate ways, with Michael moving out and going on to find a small apartment and Mollie keeping the house they were both previously paying for. It had been six months on Sunday since they had made the unanimous decision of splitting up and, though they had never officially divorced, he knew she was now seeing another man named Craig Winslow. Naturally, he hated Craig. And, deep down, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he still loved Mollie with an undying passion.

Finally, the paramedics climbed into the stationary bus and began seeing to the man who was now drifting in and out of consciousness. Michael glanced down at his watch. 2.35pm. 

Absolutely ridiculous, he thought to himself, get the man off of this bus and let us all get home. My plans for writing are fucked now, need he waste any more of my time? There's no recreational time ahead of me now, buddy, you can go ahead and make a miraculous recovery. You've served your purpose, you've managed to shit all over my plans.

Michael got home at 3.10pm, as opposed to the regular time of 2.35pm that he had become used to. Putting his two shopping bags on the side in the kitchen, he began to remove his long, black anorak coat, before hanging it up on the hook directly to the left as you enter the apartment. His usual routine would now lead him to sitting in the small living room, where he would spend thirty minutes (sometimes forty if the creative flow was particularly generous) typing out additions to his story on his typewriter. While he had embraced modern technology, using a computer for any work-related documents, he felt that there was no better way of getting the creative juices flowing than using the traditional method of writing. And yet, today, he wouldn't have time to do that. He had no option other than to get straight into his bedroom, which now served as a makeshift study, and begin writing the second draft of his current feature - 'Top Twenty Horror Movie Moments'.
As he sat down to look over the first draft, starting by making minor alterations and going on to re-work sections that he felt didn't work, the phone to his right erupted into an alarming ringing. This always seemed to happen; as soon as he started to get real work done, a distraction would present itself. Not always was this a bad thing. He picked up the black phone and put it to his right ear.

"Hello, Michael Malone."

"Hey, Mikey! I got a real solid story for ya to start reporting on straight away!" The voice was fast-paced and heavily laden with a Boston accent. Michael immediately knew it was his boss.

"That sounds great, Phillip, but I won't be able to start work on it for at least another two weeks. As you know, I'm currently writing that top twenty you gave me." Michael's voice was monotonous and unengaging. As soon as he realised who it was, he quickly lost interest in the conversation.

"That 'horror movie moments' guff? Come on, Mike, how long have you worked for the mag now? Nine years? You know as well as I-" He was interrupted by Michael's voice.

"Seven."

"Huh?"

"Seven years.  I've worked for Mad Mass Magazine for seven years."

"What did I say?"

"You said nine."

"Oh, right. Whatever, it doesn't matter either way. You know aswell as I do that that horror crap is just a filler feature. We were just using it to fill an additional four pages, it's unnecessary and hardly an engaging subject." Phillip's attitude towards Michael's work had always been this brazen and straight; he knew he was a fantastic journalist, yet never treated him as such. It was hard to earn a compliment from him.

"With all due respect, Phillip, I've been researching and writing this feature for the last two weeks. I don't plan to just drop it and move on to whatever else you've got in store for me."

"Whatever floats your boat. Keep it on the back-burner if you so wish, but this new article is gonna be your new primary focus and I'm certainly not budgin' on that one."

"Fine. Hang on a second." As he said this, Michael scrambled for a pen, not having to search extensively before happening upon one lying, lidless, on his desk. Grabbing an envelope containing some form of bill or another from the window sill, he placed it on the wooden surface, before placing his pen down on the top-left corner of the paper, "Right, go ahead."

"Did you hear about that case about four months ago?" There was a pause, as Michael expectantly waited for him to go on. He didn't.

"You're going to have to elaborate, Phillip. There's news reported daily."

"Hyport Hotel. A couple went missing. Ringin' any bells?" The now unfoundedly excited voice asked.

"Can't say it is. Give me the details."

"Four months ago, a married couple, Mr and Mrs Medli, stayed for a weekend at Hyport Hotel, just down the road from MMM HQ. The thing is, they were never seen again."

"What?! Phillip, this isn't a case for a journalist. This is something that should be dealt with by the police. I'm not the guy you're looking for."

"Just shut up for a second, Mikey. You see, the police investigated the hotel. Found absolutely no traces of the two. They then spoke to the couple who run the place, a Mr and Mrs Eaton. As far as they were concerned, the two seemed more than innocent. They had no idea what possibly could have happened and all of the guests whose time coincided with the missing couple's were interviewed and found to be clueless. No hints of any foul play, no suspicious acts and no sign of the missing two." He explained, revelling in the retelling of this most curious tale.

"There was no sign of bodies?"

"Nope, not at all. All of their stuff, their belongings, was still in place in the room. The people themselves, though. Gone."

"They probably snuck out or went missing on a night out. There are thousands of possibilities, Phil, this isn't an unanswerable mystery." Michael found himself, as much as he hated it, becoming intrigued and caught up in the assignment. So much so, his mind lost track of the fact that he was talking to a higher-up and referring to his boss as 'Phil' was simply unacceptable. However, Phillip was enjoying it just as much as he, not even noticing the unwelcome shortening of his namesake.

"Ah, that's where it truly gets interesting! Hyport have CCTV camera installed in the main hall. Having spooled through all footage, the last time they were seen was heading towards their room. They never came back through the hallway, leading to the only exit not alarmed when used by guests. Meaning, they never left. They just... vanished." He used a melodramatic emphasis on the word 'vanished'.

"Still hundreds of possible scenarios here, Phil. They could have climbed out of the window, for example."

"The room they were staying in was situated on the second floor of the building. On top of that, all windows in the hotel are glued shut for 'safety reasons'. A quick glance at the windows in their room will tell you that they have not been tampered with, still unopenable. Let yourself loose for a minute and admit that there is no possible answer to this scenario. It's crazy, it's the sort of thing you read about in some kinda fantasy novel!"

"And let me guess - you want me to research the people involved, the owners of the hotel and form some kind of unreliable yet convincing conclusion to this story?" Michael knew the routine all too well by now.

"Nah, not this time, Mikey. I've got quite a surprise for you in store, actually!"

"Oh God."

"I've booked you a room at Hyport Hotel from Monday to Sunday. You're goin' undercover, matey!" The enthusiasm and excitement in his voice was now at its peak.

"You are kidding..."

"And better yet, the room I've booked you is the very same room that Mr and Mrs Medli stayed in! Let's see if my very best journalist can't find us some answers to this unanswerable mystery!"

Any reviews are greatly appreciated. Updates every Sunday.

2: Chapter Two

Michael was a realist, very much grounded in what we know. He knew that everything had a natural, plausible answer, convinced that any mystery in the world was just waiting to be uncovered and solved through science. He was very much an Atheist, though never outright rejected the idea of a higher being. He just didn't conform to the idea of an omnipotent 'God'. That's why he was approaching this new assignment with caution; it was curious, seemingly impenetrable, and he knew that it would be near-impossible for him to solve a case that the police couldn't through staying only a week in the hotel with no authority or power. However, he was sure there was a reasonable explanation to this missing couple and he planned to gather any information he possibly could in order to write, at the very least, a comprehensive article that would grip readers of the magazine throughout its four-page spread.

They finished off the conversation and he sat back in the black leather desk chair he had bought only three months prior. Reaching into his right trouser pocket, he pulled out a pack of twenty Lambert & Butler cigarettes and placed one in his mouth. Before he met Mollie, Michael never used to smoke. He couldn't see any good reason to spend extortionate amounts of money on an unsociable, health-threatening addiction. Yet she, like so many other things about him, managed to quickly change that. He never really enjoyed the taste, nor did he get any form of 'buzz' from the act, but he certainly liked the notion of sitting out on the balcony of their house in the early morning, cigarettes in each of their mouths, talking about nothing of real importance: their plans for the day, last night's DVD, a failing article that he absolutely despised writing - the individual subjects never mattered really, but the cumulative experience, the time they spent together sitting and watching cars drive by, was one Michael very much appreciated and never wanted to forget. Maybe that's why he kept up the habit to this day. 

As he sat in his unflattering 'study', shrouded in the deadly smoke being emitted from the thin white cylinder he held between his right index finger and middle finger, he was suddenly hit by an exciting revelation; if he didn't have to start his research into this article until Monday, that gave him all of today and tomorrow to continue writing his currently untitled fantasy project. Deciding to firstly finish off the lit cigarette he now balanced between his lips, it wasn't long before he found himself using the computer to perform an act that he hated so much, yet simply could not stop doing. He found himself sitting on Mollie's Facebook, spooling through her recent stories. The first thing he noticed was the change of her profile picture. Sat on the couch he had bought for them when they first moved in, right arm outstretched, no doubt in order to take the photo, she happily smiled. By her side now sat Craig, arm around her waist, grinning gormlessly and, he could swear, smugly at the camera. Even though he sincerely and passionately hated him, Michael could easily see the attraction; he had a defined jawline, blindingly white teeth and a short, neat haircut. He was detestable.

You bastard, he thought to himself, you stupid, ugly fuck. Does it feel good to be sat beside my woman? Knowing you've stolen her from me? Enjoy being the fallback, mate.

He clicked on the chevron pointing right to see the next picture. There the two of them were again. Another click. Yet another. A third click. By this time he was getting into the pictures shortly following their final break-up. A picture of Mollie stood amongst a group of friends, no doubt taking a night out in order to keep her mind off of Michael. A close-up of Mollie's face, putting on what he was sure was a false smile. A picture of her kissing him on the cheek, as he smiled sincerely at the camera. Michael sat staring at this one for a while. He hated doing this to himself. 

You fucked up, Mikey. You lost her.

Composing himself, he clicked away from the picture and logged out of the social networking site, shutting down the computer and moving towards the depressingly compact living room. As much as he despised this self-inflicted mood, he surprisingly found that he always seemed to write at his best when he felt this way. Maybe it was the sense of escapism, writing a more ideal world, or maybe it was the fact that this allowed him to fully project emotion and feelings into the characters he was creating and leading. Either way, it was his most productive time for writing and, though he hated feeling as he did now, he revelled in the words he began to type. He was sure he was in the midst of writing Michael Malone's magnum opus; the first story that he would actually commit to and finish. It was going to exceed forty minutes today.

Sunday quickly passed and finally, Monday morning rolled around. He had spent his weekend alternating between watching television, reading back past articles (another act he hated, though felt necessary in order to grow and develop as a writer, despite the fact he was more than happy with his current ability) and adding to his novel. It was largely unproductive, from a profitable standpoint, and was almost purely procrastination, but he enjoyed this preciously extensive time he had been blessed with to write. He felt that he had been productive, despite having scrapped an entire chapter due to a 'stupid, juvenile and amateurish character development'. Oh, and of course the fact that this story, he was sure of it, was never to be seen by anyone's eyes but his own. As he threw on a white, pin-stripe shirt (leaving the top collar button undone, as per usual), a pair of black trousers and his smart black anorak, the phone began to ring. Rushing into the bedroom, buttoning up the coat, he grabbed the phone from the receiver.

"Yep, Michael Malone."

"Hey, Mikey, guess who!" The voice was familiar and instantly irritating.

"Hello, Phillip."

"Don't forget, today's the day you get on over to Hyport! If you solve this one, we're gonna have one of the biggest exclusive articles in the history of Double M Magazines! On top of that, Mikey Mike, you're gonna be world-famous! The fella who solved the unsolvable case!" Enthusiasm and excitement were ripe and blatant in his speech.

"Calm down, Phillip. This isn't some melodramatic mystery film. Chances are, if the police couldn't get any leads, I'm certainly not going to be able to. I'll go, I'll try my hardest to get some information, but you know full well I won't be the guy who solves this one. I'm sure the two of them will turn up in due time." The realist in Michael was now brightly on display; it was too early to be excited about this.

"Oh, shut up! You've as good a chance as any! If no-one thinks you're official, no-one will be hidin' anything from ya, am I right?"

"That logic makes literally not a single bit of sense. I'm gonna go and sign into the hotel. I'll speak to you later." With that, he hung up, placing the phone back down in its stand. With his attention now returning to getting dressed, he finished buttoning up his coat and headed towards the door. However, he was quickly stopped from leaving by the sound of a ringing phone. 

"God damn it, Phil." He headed back into the bedroom and picked up the phone once again, "Yeah, I'm just leaving now. I said I'll call you later, I've got your number." There was a silence.

"Hello?" Further silence, "Phillip, I can't hear you if this is you. I'm leaving for Hyport now, I'll call you in about an hour, okay?" Suddenly, a reply came back through to him.

"Don't." The voice was muffled and quiet. It wasn't his boss.

"What?" Another pause, "Don't what? Who is this?" 

"Don't go to Hyport." 

"Who is this?" Michael repeated the question. This time, though, he was met with the response of the other end hanging up. He dialed the numbers '1471', a number used to immediately call the person whoever last rang. Waiting for a short while, he finally heard three disparate notes, going up in pitch, followed by the voice of a well-spoken automated lady.

"I'm sorry, but the number you have dialed has not been recognised." This repeated multiple times, before he eventually placed the phone back down. 

"What was that about?" He asked under his breath. However, not being one to invest in superstition, he quickly brushed the strange call off his shoulder and headed out of the bedroom towards the door leading out of the apartment. He would return to collect his suitcase a little later.

It was 10.30am when Michael arrived outside Hyport Hotel. It had only taken him a mere twenty minutes to walk there, located just five minutes away from Mad Mass Magazine HQ, he was more than familiar with the journey. As he looked on at the building stood in front of him, he was surprised to see just how run-down and decrepit the place looked. The already bland beige paint on the outside walls had long ago started peeling away, the metal sign outside had fallen victim to vandalism, now reading 'HyporN Hotel' and the plants, mostly sunflowers, that sat in straight rows of three either side of the entrance had all but died, drooping sorrowfully and uninvitingly in their respective cracked and muddy flowerpots. The placard to the right of the front door read '3-Star Hotel', though Michael was convinced the owners had either made that themselves or bribed the inspector. This place was the lowest of the low.

Entering the hotel and walking straight towards the front desk, he was greeted by a woman who looked in her mid-thirties, sporting a red shirt and a bright green apron. Her hair was a chestnut brown, complimenting perfectly her hazelnut eyes. Her joyous, beaming smile was disarmingly pleasant, and Michael immediately felt warmed.

"Welcome to Hyport Hotel! Are you looking to book a room, or have you one reserved?" She asked, never losing the, frankly, beautiful grin.

"I've got a room reserved for me. The na-" He was interrupted.

"Fantastic. And what's your name?" 

"It's Malone." He responded, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. He despised being interrupted.

"Right, bare with me a second!" With that, she walked a few steps over to the desktop computer and began typing in the letters M-A-L-O-N-E. As she pressed 'enter', a look of confusion sprouted on her face.

"Ah, how interesting! It would appear we have two Malone's staying here tonight! What a most bizarre coincidence! Could you give me your first name, please?" 
Michael was taken aback for a second. He didn't have any siblings, and his mother and father had died when he was sixteen and twenty two respectively. It must have just been a highly unlikely coincidence.

"Uh yeah, sure. It's Michael Malone." As he said this, she began typing again, hitting 'enter' seven keys later. 

"Oh, here you are! Michael Malone, Room 231. Would I be correct in saying you're here from today through to Sunday?" She asked sincerely. 

"Yeah, that's right."

"May I be so nosey as to ask what has caused you to stay four nights in London? Having yourself a holiday? Visiting loved ones? Here on work?" He was surprised by the intrusion of privacy, though wanted nothing less than to make a scene.

"Work." His response was quick and blunt.

"And what is it you do?" She enquired further. It was at this point Michael began to feel a little uneasy. Why did she want to know so much about him? Why did it concern her? He was hesitant, but finally he decided to give her a straight reply.

"I'm a journalist. I write various types of articles for a magazine." Her face suddenly dropped. It wasn't a drastically obvious change of mood, and nor was it enough to make him feel unwelcome, though her previously beaming smile was now transformed into a courteous grin. 

"Oh." She replied, grabbing a key labeled 'Room 231' from one of tens of hooks each holding keys behind her and turning to hand it over to him, "Well, as I said, you'll be staying in Room 231 on the second floor. You'll find the stairs leading up through the corridor to my left on your right. Have a pleasant stay, and I'm sure I'll be seeing more of you throughout the week." The smile from before unexpectedly returned to her face. Taking the key from her offering hand, he made his way through the door to his right, heading up a set of metallic stairs lit up by a set of alien-like green lights lining the walls. Already, Michael was feeling a strange atmosphere in this place. Why was the fact that he was a journalist an unwelcome one? Who was this second Malone? Who had called him earlier? He was certain this was going to be an interesting week.

Any reviews are greatly appreciated. Updates every Sunday.

3: Chapter Three

As he entered the room he would be spending the next six nights in, Michael was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness and tidiness of it all. The sheets were sitting nicely on the bed, with a blanket folded neatly lying atop the covers. On top of the bedside cabinet was a plain white porcelain vase for flowers, though housing none. The walls were a bright, breezy blue and the carpet was a dark red, completely unstained. Or at least, if there were any stains the nature of the dark colour single-handedly covered them up. In fact, the only real ugliness polluting this otherwise pleasant room was the view from the single window sitting in the centre of the wall opposite the door. The sight was that of multiple tall, brick buildings adjacent to the hotel. One of them, he was sure he remembered being told, used to be a factory, but was shut down due to mistreatment of workers. He assumed that was the one with some windows boarded up, others simply holding on to smashed panes of glass. It was a less than appealing 'view'.

He had decided that his first move would be to perform an overall scan of the room; look for any sort of signs of struggle, hidden messages from the couple, evidence of somebody unwelcome having entered during their stay, etc. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a small notepad, spending little time flipping it open to an empty page. Then, from his right trouser pocket he pulled out a ball-point pen, removing the lid and placing it on the back of the cylindrical stationery. He began to survey the room.

First, he examined the latch and bolt on the room's door. There was no sign of damage, and the metal was slightly rusted; these weren't new replacements. He quickly made a note and moved over to the window. Placing his pad down on the bed, he tried to wrench it open, though to no avail. As Phillip had previously mentioned, this window was glued shut, there was absolutely no leaving through it. He picked up his pad once more and made a quick note. On the wall to the left of the window Michael noticed a reasonably long, curved scratch, having scraped some of the paint from the wall. It was the first piece of information that could be linked with the case in hand. He then went over to the en-suite bathroom, where he found, rather disappointingly at this point, nothing of interest. Finally, he finished off his checks with a quick look under the bed; nothing under there bar an unused chamber pot. He rose to his knees and slumped back on the bed. With his hands on his head, he returned to his thoughts.

What are you doing, Michael? You're not a detective, you're not part of the police force. You have no business to be doing this sort of snooping, this sort of fruitless, childish 'investigating'. Let alone, no ability! This is stupid. When I call Phillip later, I'm going to just tell him. Tell him this assignment isn't what I'm used to nor am I comfortable with. Frankly, it's a waste of my time, when I could be writing articles that will actually be published.

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted, once again, by the sound of a phone ringing. He sat up and looked to the left of the bed, where a white old-fashioned telephone stood proudly atop a reasonably wide chest of drawers.

Who the Hell is that? He thought to himself, Bar room service, nobody knows I'm here. Nobody has this number...

He stood and walked slowly and cautiously towards the still-ringing telephone. It was preposterous; it's not as if the phone could have leapt out and attacked him and he knew this full well. Yet, for some unknown reason, he still found himself edging painfully slowly closer to it. Why this hesitation? It was most likely somebody from downstairs. With this re-assuring thought in mind, he reached down, picked up the receiver and held it to his right ear.

"Michael Malone, Room 231." He stated, feigning a sense of confidence and bravado.

"Hello, it's Rachel." There was a pause. He didn't recognise the name, nor the voice. And why was she calling this number? The woman continued, "Rachel from downstairs. You bumped into me earlier on your way to the stairway and I said some rude things. I just wanted to apologise. I was out of order, a simple bump didn't make the things I was saying okay." Michael was confused. These events she was recalling hadn't happened, not as far as he was concerned, anyway.

"Uh, sorry... Rachel. I think you've got the wrong number. There are two Malone's staying here, maybe you're thinking of the other one." His response was honest and sincere.

"I just don't want there to be any bad ground. I know we're both staying here for the next few nights and I think it would be terrible for there to be an undesirable atmosphere between us whenever we should come into contact with one another. Why don't you come on over to my room and we can talk about it?" She was insistent and convicted to her story.

"Like I said, you must be thinking of the other man here with my surname. You'll have to go down to the front desk and ask her yourself for his room number, as I have no clue what it is. Sorry I couldn't be more help, Rachel." As he went to hang up the phone, he heard the voice continue.

"No no no no no! I knew you'd say that! I knew you'd react like this! How many times do I have to say sorry for it to mean anything to you?!  Listen, you're welcome to do what you want, but just know that I am more than happy to talk to you about what has happened! The room number's 248 if you do decide to come by. I'll be in all day and I hope to see you later. Goodbye for now." With that, Michael heard the endless, monotonous sound of the phone having been hung up. He followed suit and placed the receiver back down. He stood for a short while, wondering what exactly that conversation was about.

Who the fuck is Rachel? And why wouldn't she listen to me? There's no doubt about it, she thought she was talking to the other Malone. I should probably swing by her room and tell her that she had the wrong number. Maybe she'll actually listen to me when face to face. But first, I'll give Phil a ring. I've been here all of twenty minutes and already I'm fed up.

With that, he reached down into his left pocket and pulled out his iPhone 4. Bringing it up to his chest level, he slid the unlock bar from left to right and proceeded to find 'Phillip ICE' in his phonebook. Pressing down on the 'call' button, he held it to his right ear. After a brief period of ringing, he picked up.

"Yo, Mikey! How are things? Any sign of that couple yet?" His greeting line was instant and seemed rehearsed. He had been expecting this call.

"No, Phillip. I'm actually just calling to say that I think I'm done. I can't be fucked to be playing detective in this stupid creepy-ass hotel. I'm gonna go home and continue writing that top twenty list - at least that's an article people will find remotely interesting." Michael's tone matched his words; he sounded harsh and blunt. He felt, in order to be taken seriously, he had to be assertive.

"First of all, please keep in mind that I'm your boss, Michael. I don't expect you to be swearing at me down the phone, let alone disobeying my orders. This is one massive scoop, and I'm sure you can find something of interesting in there somewhere. Just stay there one night and see how things turn out. I'm sure you'll be surprised just how much unravels in front of you."

"What if I say no? I don't have to stay in this sh-" He stopped himself from swearing yet again, "God awful hotel, wasting my time." While he was now making a conscious effort to keep a level of control over his language, his tone remained challenging and brash.

"And what if I told you I would fire you for not following orders from your boss? Michael, wake up. I speak to you informally because I've come to know you pretty damn well over the years, but I think you're starting to forget that that's exactly what I am; your boss. I want you to stay in Hyport for a single night and report back to me tomorrow morning. If nothing of interest has happened, you can go home. How does that sound?" His words seemed like they should have provoked Michael, yet he somehow felt that Phillip was being fair; offering a decent trade-off.

"Okay, that's fine." Regardless, he still wanted to maintain a tough exterior, "I'll stay the night. Goodbye, Phillip." And with that, he pushed 'End call'.
Two hours passed, time which Michael spent having a shower firstly, before sitting on the bed watching generic documentaries on the tiny, out-dated television that sat opposite. Eventually, he decided he had to get out of that horrible room and what better excuse could he provide himself with other than to go and collect his pre-packed belongings from his home? But first, he was going to stop by Room 248 and have a chat with this 'Rachel' who had called him earlier in the morning.

Leaving his hotel room, he followed the door numbers on the right-hand side of the corridor. 240, 242, 244, 246 and finally 248. He knocked five times on the hard, wooden door and awaited a response. He heard rustling and the sound of a heavy object of some sort being knocked to the floor from within, but no voice. He waited patiently for a minute, before knocking once more. No sound this time. After another thirty second wait:

"Hi, Rachel? It's Mr Malone from Room 231, you called me earlier?" He was loudly projecting his words, yet keeping a soft tone present in his voice. He wanted her to hear him through this door, yet he didn't want to come off as unfriendly, "I don't know if you're in there, if you're embarrassed about what happened or what, but I just wanted to say that you haven't done anything wrong to me at all. As I was saying earlier, there's another man staying here tonight with the same surname as me, it's possible you're thinking of him. In fact, I'm just heading out now, if you want I could get his room number from the receptionist and tell you it when I get back?"

More silence. She wasn't replying to him, yet he knew she was in there. Having heard the sound of something falling down previously, he could now hear a general sound of fidgeting inside. He waited for a following minute before finally making the decision to leave; he headed back down the corridor the way he had come, down the set of black metallic stairs and out past the receptionist, who watched him walk by with that same beaming smile from when he had first entered. He would normally find this twenty minute walk home and back to be an unwieldy inconvenience, though the two and a half hours he had spent in this hotel had given his mind more than enough to mull over during the walk. In fact, he was certain it was too much to cover in the forty minute total journey. But his first thought was that of this highly mysterious Rachel. Who was she, and why did she refuse to answer him when he knocked after having so insistently invited him to her room?
 
Eventually, he made it back to his apartment, having come to the conclusion that she was just too embarrassed by the day's earlier events - of which he had no part in - and as such wouldn't answer the door to who she assumed she had wronged. He tapped in the four-digit code that sealed the glass door on the ground floor, walked up two flights of stairs and approached his door, key in hand, ready to enter and grab his things. 

I'm going to need a good stiff drink to see me through tonight. A couple hours here and I'll head back to that shitty hotel. I swear to -

However, he once again found his thoughts to be interrupted. This time not by a ringing telephone but instead a subtle yet alarming shock to the system. When you expect something to happen and it happens, you think nothing of it. You get on with the task at hand and carry on with your day. However, when your trusted, reliable process is interrupted or inexplicably changed, your mind finds it difficult to comprehend this and deal with it correctly. Michael expected to place his key in the door's lock, twist it and push through into his apartment. What he didn't expect was for the door to be pushed open as he placed the key in the lock; the door was already open. Either somebody was in the room or had been recently. He was absolutely certain he had locked the door as he left for the hotel. Hesitantly and cautiously, he gently pushed the door open, so as not to alarm whatever intruder was possibly inside. 

As he finally had the door fully open, he was assaulted by a surge of emotions. Part anger, part fear and part utter confusion. The place was trashed. Just from the entrance, he could see his clothes strewn across the floor. The visible drawers from where he was stood had been brashly pulled open, some even sitting on the floor amidst the outfits.  As he entered, he noticed his typewriter had been knocked down from its place atop the small sideboard in the living room, his novel's pages also now finding a home on the floor. Who had done this? And why? He called out, naively hoping for a response of some sort. If the intruder was still here, Michael wanted some answers.

"Hello?!" He yelled out, waiting a short while for a reply.

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4: Chapter Four

As he waited patiently for the police to arrive - they said they would be there within the next twenty minutes - Michael decided to start tidying up the apartment. He knew full well that this would count as tampering with the scene at hand, with a strong possibility of making some of the evidence more difficult, if not impossible, to uncover but he absolutely hated the idea of a group of policemen spooling through his belongings; making silent judgments on his clothing, carelessly discarding items of sentiment, reading his novel. Oh God, the thought of them reading through his novel, laughing at the amateur narrative, the primitive character development, relentlessly mocking the wholly unconvincing world he had created. To say he was insecure about his creative writing was an understatement.

Having confirmed the perpetrator was no longer in his home, he headed straight for the living room, where he began to pick up the scattered pages of his novel. As he placed one of the sheets next to the typewriter he had previously put back upon the sideboard, he noticed something strange. A black line scribbled on the front of Page 19, next to the word 'rainforest'. The mark had obviously been made by a black ball-point pen. Flipping the sheet over, he was greeted with a largely untidy note, scrawled on the slightly crumpled paper.

'You know what I want, you bastard! I'm coming back tomorrow and if you don't have it ready, I'll fucking kill you!'

He didn't recognise the handwriting at all, and these accusations of 'knowing what they wanted' were entirely untrue. Michael was clueless, trying his very hardest to think of anybody he may have recently wronged, something he may not have returned to somebody... but he could think of nothing; he could see no way in which he may have provoked this attack, this breech of privacy. It was then that he was hit by a bout of confusion- 

How could- 

However, the thought was quickly interrupted by a series of three heavy knocks at his door. Though he was sure it was the police finally turning up, Michael was hesitant. What if it was the very same person who had wrecked his apartment, having seen him return home, coming back to confront him face to face? Then again, the door wasn't locked; whether he opened it to them or not, this person was coming in. Making a quick judgment, he decided the best course of action would be to portray a false sense of confidence; to open the door with a harsh, threatening demeanour. As he began to slowly edge towards the door, he was quickly brought to a halt by the sound of a voice calling through.

"Hello, Mr Malone? Sergeant Riley here, with my partner Detective King. Are you in there?" The voice seemed to be mimicking his own from earlier that day; it was loud enough to hear through the door, though the tone was friendly and welcoming. He felt his shoulders droop a little as he breathed a sigh of relief and walked towards the voice, opening the door and letting them both in.

"Hi, thanks for coming. I've uh... I've done a little bit of tidying myself. I figured I would have to get it all cleaned up eventually, so why wait, right?" Michael had never been one to feel intimidated by almost anybody, and the police force were certainly no different. While he could definitely appreciate the effort they would have put in in order to gain that sense of higher authority they all hold so dearly, he never spoke to them any differently than how he would any person on the street. As long as he had done nothing wrong, he felt no need to act nervously around them.

"Right. You do realise that you having done that could potentially make it harder for us to find out who it was who ransacked your apartment. It would have been preferable had you left everything in place." Already the first policeman, Sergeant Riley, was acting in a condescending manner. Utilising the fact that he had more power in order to treat Michael like a child. And he hated it.

"Yeah, I get that. I just thought it would be to my advantage if I got a bit of the inevitable tidying done earlier, make it easier for myself and get it out of the way."

"Well, regardless, it would have been far better for both of us, in the long run, had you left everything in place. But that doesn't matter, what's done is done." The policeman had had the last word on the matter, and that only irritated him further. Why was he being so confrontational when Michael had been a victim of burglary? He continued, "While you were tidying, did you notice anything in particular had gone missing? Or even better, did the person leave anything of theirs behind?" 

"What do you mean? Like what? Had they taken their shoes off upon entry then forgotten them on the way back out? That's a stupid question."

"Mr Malone, I realise that you're shaken up by all this, but there's no reason to be facetious. You'd be surprised at how many cases are solved through the criminal simply being careless and leaving something behind at the scene of the crime: used cigarettes, gum they were chewing, a snapped piece of equipment. While it may sound 'stupid', it's something that happens far more frequently than you'd think." Michael began to wonder if he was misreading the situation. Was he being the confrontational one? Eventually, he lifted the paper he was holding.

"I found this note written on the back of -" He stopped himself, before allowing himself a short pause to restart the sentence, "I found this note in the living room amongst my work and clothes. I don't recognise the handwriting and I can't think of anyone with a vendetta against me." He handed over to Riley the sheet with the crudely written message on it. The tall, skinny police officer stood looking at it for a short while, before eventually passing it to his partner who was stood directly behind him. Michael was certain this 'Detective King' would later read the opposite side, much to his amusement. Yeah, then he'd show it to all of his friends back at the station. They'd have a great time, laughing their heads off. Laughing their heads off at Michael's expense. 

"I do want that back, you know. It has some important work on the other side."

"Yeah, you'll get it back. Now, you say you definitely don't recognise the writing?" His concentration had shifted now from the scene at hand, with his focus lying solely on the despicable notion of them reading that single page. Nobody was ever going to see it, not until it was perfect at least. Riley spoke once again.

"Michael?" His voice wasn't friendly or inviting, but rather stern. He craned his neck slightly in order to catch Michael's attention again. There was a short pause as the officer's previous sentence repeated in Michael's head.

"Sorry, uh no. Not at all." 

"And do you know of anybody who would want to hurt you? Steal anything from here? Anything you owe anybody?" Michael was astounded by the policeman's complete and utter lack of attention.

"Look, I already told you, it would help if you were listening to me. I have absolutely no idea who it could be. I don't know anybody who would want anything from this place. It's a complete mystery to me." He was becoming irritated. His apartment had been burgled and the last thing he needed right now was an incompetent officer at the helm of the investigation, "I guess all I can do is wait it out until tomorrow and see first-hand who this asshole is."

"Right, and where are you staying tonight?" Sergeant Riley was no longer looking at Michael, his head arching downards, instead focusing now on his notepad he had pulled out moments earlier.

"What?" It was with this bemused response that the officer looked back up at him.

"Well, it would be for the best if you were to sleep somewhere else tonight. The message written on that sheet you handed us was quite clearly a threat. It would be better if you could stay somewhere else for the night while me and my partner survey the apartment from our car. Is there anywhere you could stay, or is it mandatory you're here?" While he hated the idea of going back to the hotel and essentially ignoring the issue at home, he knew his job could quite possibly be on the line if he chose to lie to them and spend the night in his own apartment. After a short pause for thought, he spoke up.

"I've got a room booked at a hotel just down the road. I can stay there for tonight and come back tomorrow."

"That's great. May I uh... may I ask why you've got a room booked there when you have a perfectly good home here, though? Do you live here with a partner?" His tone of voice conveyed a genuine sense of intrigue.

"No, it's just me here. I'm staying at the hotel for a piece I'm writing at the minute. Hopefully it'll be no longer than a night." 

"Ah, so you're a journalist?" By this point both officers had begun to walk around the apartment, lightly studying the mess that lay all around them.

"Yeah, I uh... I write articles for Mad Mass Magazine. It's not ideal, but it's a job." Riley let out a short chuckle.

"I think my wife buys that magazine, y'know?"

"Then your wife's an idiot." Immediately he regretted saying that. The policeman stopped and turned to look at Michael. 

"Is that so?" 

"I just mean that the magazine's a load of crap. It's nearly all filler. She'd be saving you both money if she stopped picking it up." There was a moment of silence, before the officer turned back around and knelt down, putting a pair of Michael's jeans to the side.

"Well, we're going to continue searching for any evidence here. You're free to do whatever you want." 

"As long as I can take my work with me and an outfit for tomorrow, I'll happily head back to the hotel, keep out of your hair." The officer complied, and with that Michael gathered the sheets of paper with his novel written on them - very few still remained on the floor - a shirt and a pair of jeans, as his belongings he had packed from earlier that day had also fallen victim to the burglar. He packed the things into a Tesco carrier bag - he kept a rather large amount of them in a slightly bigger plastic bag hung in his kitchen - before leaving. As long as there was no way the police officers could read his fantasy novel, he had no quarrels with them inspecting the apartment. Afterall, he had nothing to hide.

He arrived back at the hotel, plastic bag in hand, at around 2.10pm that afternoon. As he entered through to the hallway, the first thing he noticed was the receptionist sat at the desk adjacent to the entrance. No longer was it the pleasant young girl with a beautiful smile and inviting face, in her place a far older lady. Her brown hair was short and plagued by streaks of grey, her appearance far less pleasing to the eye; she was alot more plump and the thin lips on her wrinkled face were arched into a constant neutral frown. As he walked past her, down towards the stairway leading up to his room, a thought popped into his head. He moved back a short distance and turned to her.

"I was just wondering what room a uh..." He stopped himself short, as his words seemed to be having absolutely no effect on her.  She continued to look downwards at a clipboard that held a series of sheets. The top one seemed to be a list of all the current guests staying at the hotel. Was she hard of hearing or just being ignorant?

"Excuse me?" He stated, trying to catch her attention. She looked up slowly, putting no effort into disguising her lack of care.

"Yes?" Her voice was husky and slow, and perfectly matched her face.

"I was just wondering whether or not it would be possible to find out what room number a Mr Malone is staying in." Giving no response, she swiveled on her chair and began typing into the computer. After a moment's wait, she spoke up.

"Michael?" Her eyes did not leave the monitor.

"No, there's another Malone here, I'm looking for that one."

"Sorry, sir, but you're mistaken. There's only one Malone showing up on here." 

"What? The other woman who was here earlier told me there were two people with that surname staying in this hotel tonight." While this seemed questionable to him, his rationality dictated that it was most likely just a mix-up.

"Ah, you're probably talking about Ellie. She's new here, she probably got confused. The system we use is rather hard to get your head around, it was nothing more than a mistake. Sorry about that." As she said this, she swiveled back in her chair, her attention returning once again to the paper. She picked up a pen and began making notes on it.

"Right. Well, thank you." She didn't bring her focus away from the sheet, nor did she acknowledge him vocally. 

Entering Room 231, he threw the plastic bag containing his clothes and novel into the corner, before collapsing down on to the hard mattress of the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, an unmanageable number of thoughts plagued his mind. Who had broken in? What did they want from him? And who is this Rachel girl? He felt his eyes slowly close, free for a few hours from these relentless question.

Michael was woken by the sound of faint crying. As his eyes opened, he noticed that the room had since filled with darkness. Though faint light was shining through the window, it wasn't enough to illuminate much. He sat up and ran his hand through his hair. 

How long have I been asleep?

He pulled his arm up to his face level and squinted in the darkness. He could barely make out the time of 3am on his wristwatch. He stood up and stumbled towards the light-switch, flicking it down. He flinched as the room lit up a bright, dirty yellow - his attention now turned to that of the crying noise. It seemed to have grown louder since he woke up, clearly emanating from a nearby room. He sat back down and rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes as he did so. He was certain that eventually the perpetual sobbing would cease; surely somebody would go and help the lady. But it just seemed to grow in volume, louder and louder and louder until his own thoughts were being drowned out by the noise. Finally, he pulled his head from his hands and stood to his feet, purposefully moving towards the door and pulling it open. He craned his head around the doorframe and looked up and down the corridor. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen, though he noticed the crying sounds were coming from his left. A room just down the hallway. He began to follow the noise.

As he followed the sobs, they grew louder and louder, until they were barely muffled at all. In fact, if he had his eyes closed he would be certain that the person producing them was right there in the corridor in front of him. Continuing his walk down the narrow stretch, following the door numbers, 240, 242, 244, 246 and finally 248. That was where the crying was coming from, he was certain of it. He knocked five times, hard, on the door. 

"Hello?!" He shouted out, but his words were most likely unheard, being covered by the sincere, pained cries. He shouted again, though still no response. Finally, he tried the door handle, twisting down in his hand without a problem. As he entered, he noticed that the room seemed utterly untouched. The lights were off, and the bedding completely made. It was almost pitch-black in there, though the light barely penetrating the curtains provided enough vision to make out a long, curved scratch along the wall directly beneath them and a figure, hunched in the centre. She was shaking feverishly with every sob, turned away from Michael.

"Excuse me, Rachel?" He enquired, moving slowly towards her. As the words left his mouth, she burst up and turned to him, tears streaming down her youthful cheeks, her light brown hair messy and frizzy. He could barely make out her appearance in the dark, though he was certain she was beautiful. He spoke up, "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? What's wrong?! What do you think is wrong?! What do you think is wrong with me?" She marched quickly towards him, the two of them now uncomfortable close. She lifted her hand up close to his face, revealing to him that it was absolutely covered in blood. She began to gently stroke his cheek, smearing the red liquid on him. He pushed back.

"What the fuck?! What's happened?!" He found himself almost speechless. He looked down her body and noticed multiple stab wounds in her stomach. The mixture of the blood and the darkness of the room didn't allow him to see how big or just how many there were.

"I'm sure you think it will be for you. But you can rest assured, people will find out, and when they do you're going to be much worse off than me. Do you really think I deserve this, though?" With every step he took backwards, she took a step forwards. He couldn't get away from her and she was taking delight in his fear. He tried to form a sentence, though it was near impossible. This whole scenario was surreal, impossible, unlike anything he had experienced before.

"I uh... I'm gonna go get help, you just wait up here, I'll be back in a second." He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him, though the screams and cries could still be heard. He began scrambling to his right, planning to head downstairs when he noticed a man walking down the corridor.

"Hey! Excuse me, I need help! There's a woman in there who-" But before he could finish his sentence, he noticed the man take a right turn, into Room 231. His room. "What the fuck?" He uttered under his breath, before running down towards his room, barely staying on his feet as he slipped on the dark red carpet, cornering in. However, as he entered, the room was empty. The light was still on, but the man wasn't in the room.

Michael swiftly checked the en-suite bathroom, under the bed, everywhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. Again, he slumped down on to his bed and dragged his hands down across his face. As he pulled his hands away, he noticed a wet feeling on his right hand's index and middle fingers. Looking down, he noticed the blood, having been smeared on his cheeks moments earlier. It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps over towards the door of the room. He turned his head to the left to see a rather short man in a white shirt and brown waistcoat stood over by the door. The man was staring directly at Michael, his dark brown eyes making him feel uneasy and scared. Suddenly, his frowning mouth twisted into a crooked grin, as he lifted his index finger to his lips. With that, the mystery figure reached out and flicked the lightswitch off, shrouding Michael in a complete darkness; an unnatural, unnerving darkness. 

Soon after, his eyes began to open, to the sight of the ceiling. He jolted upwards and felt down his right cheek. His hand pulled away wet, though it was only due to sweat. The blood had gone, the crying ceased. He quickly stood up and rushed to the light, turning it on as fast as possible. There was no evidence of anybody having been in the room, and his watch read 10pm. It must have been a horrible nightmare, though it was so vivid, so real. And Michael could remember every single detail. It seemed to be lying somewhere in between the realm of dreams and reality, though he knew it must have all been a product of his stressed mind. He wiped sweat from his brow before switching the television on for comfort. 

Still feeling uneasy from the terrifyingly real nightmare, Michael knew there was very little chance of sleep tonight. 

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