Chapter 1

I’ve worked nights at the Bellweather Hotel for almost six years.

It’s an old place. Not beautifully old, either. There are plenty of hotels where “historic” means brass elevators and stained-glass windows.

The Bellweather means pipes that scream at 3 a.m., carpets that smell permanently damp, and an elevator that sometimes opens on floors that aren’t there.

I’m used to it.

Mostly.

I work the front desk from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. Most nights are boring. Drunks stumbling in at midnight. Business travelers checking out before sunrise. The occasional couple who thinks the lobby is an appropriate place to have a screaming match.

The weird stuff started about three months ago.

It was a Tuesday.

Around 2:15 a.m., the phone rang.

“Bellweather Hotel, this is Mike.”

There was silence.

Then a woman whispered:

“Can you send someone to 614?”

I looked at the computer.

“No problem, ma’am. What seems to be the issue?”

She breathed into the phone.

I heard a faint scratching sound.

“There’s someone in my room.”

I sat up.

“Are you locked inside?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Stay on the line. I’m calling security.”

Another pause.

Then:

“He’s standing outside the bathroom.”

I looked at the security monitor.

The camera covering the sixth-floor hallway was grainy, but I could see it clearly enough.

The hallway was empty.

“Ma’am, I’m looking at the hallway camera. I don’t see anyone.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“He isn’t in the hallway.”

The scratching stopped.

“He’s in the room.”

I called security.

We didn’t have a dedicated security guard that night, just Dave from maintenance. He was a big guy in his sixties who carried a ring of keys large enough to anchor a boat.

I gave him the master key and sent him upstairs.

The whole time, I kept the woman on the phone.

“Can you tell me your name?” I asked.

Nothing.

“Ma’am?”

Then she said:

“Please don’t let him know you’re coming.”

I remember feeling cold.

“Why?”

“He doesn’t like being interrupted.”

The line went dead.

Dave came back twelve minutes later.

He looked annoyed.

“There’s no 614.”

I laughed.

“What?”

“There’s no room 614.”

I pulled up the floor plan.

Sixth floor had rooms 601 through 613.

Then the stairwell.

No 614.

I thought the woman had made a mistake.

Maybe she meant 604.

Maybe she was drunk.

Maybe she was messing with us.

Then Dave said:

“Mike.”

He was holding something.

A hotel keycard.

Room 614.

I stared at it.

“Where did you get that?”

He shook his head.

“It was sitting on the floor outside the stairwell.”

I took it from him.

The magnetic stripe was wet.

Not damp.

Wet.

Like someone had just pulled it out of a glass of water.

I threw it away.

The next morning, I forgot about it.

Or tried to.

A week later, someone called again.

2:15 a.m.

“Bellweather Hotel, this is Mike.”

A woman’s voice.

“Can you send someone to 614?”

I hung up.

I know how that sounds.

But I wasn’t going upstairs.

Not for a prank.

Not for anything.

The phone rang again.

I didn’t answer.

Again.

Again.

Again.

On the fifth call, I picked up.

There was breathing.

Then:

“You shouldn’t have hung up.”

I slammed the receiver down.

The phone immediately rang again.

I unplugged it.

It kept ringing.

That was when I quit believing it was a prank.

I left the desk and went into the office.

I checked the camera system.

Sixth floor.

Empty.

I checked the lobby.

Empty.

Then I noticed something.

The elevator camera.

The doors were open.

The elevator was on the sixth floor.

I hadn’t sent it there.

The doors stayed open for almost a minute.

Then something stepped inside.

I couldn’t make out a person.

It looked like a distortion in the image.

Like someone-shaped static.

The elevator descended.

Sixth.

Fifth.

Fourth.

Third.

Second.

First.

The doors opened.

Nothing came out.

I watched the empty elevator for nearly thirty seconds.

Then the camera flickered.

When it came back, someone was standing inside.

It was a woman.

She was wearing a Bellweather bathrobe.

Her face was hidden by wet hair.

I stared at the screen.

She raised one hand.

And pointed directly at the camera.

Then the elevator doors closed.

The lobby elevator chimed.

I was standing ten feet away from it.

I didn’t move.

The doors opened.

The elevator was empty.

Except for water.

There was a puddle covering the floor.

And in the middle of it was a hotel keycard.

614.

I quit the next morning.

I never went back.

At least, I thought I was done with it.

Until last night.

I got an email from the hotel manager.

He wanted me to come in because they’d found my old employee badge.

Apparently, it had been left in the staff locker room.

I told him to throw it away.

He replied:

“That’s strange. It wasn’t in your locker.”

Attached was a photograph.

My badge was sitting on the front desk.

The timestamp on the photo was 2:15 a.m.

I called the manager.

He answered immediately.

“Mike?”

“Where are you?”

“At the hotel.”

“Leave.”

Silence.

Then he said:

“Why?”

I heard something in the background.

A woman breathing.

Very softly.

I said:

“Do you have a sixth floor?”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

My stomach dropped.

“How many rooms?”

“Thirteen.”

“Then why does the directory in your lobby list 614?”

He didn’t answer.

I heard footsteps behind him.

Slow footsteps.

Then his voice came back.

But it wasn’t his voice anymore.

It was a woman’s.

Whispering.

“Can you send someone to 614?”

I hung up.

I haven’t slept since.

This morning, I checked something I probably shouldn’t have.

I searched the Bellweather archived floor plans online.

The current plans show thirteen rooms.

601 through 613.

But the oldest blueprint I could find was dated 1911.

It showed fourteen.

601 through 614.

Room 614 was at the end of the hallway.

Where the stairwell is now.

According to the blueprint, there was a note beside the room.

Just three words.

DO NOT OPEN.

I thought that was the end of it.

Then, about an hour ago, someone knocked on my apartment door.

Three times.

I live alone.

I didn’t answer.

A few seconds later, someone slid an envelope underneath.

Inside was my old hotel employee badge.

The one the manager said he’d found.

On the back, written in black ink, were four words:

YOU LEFT ME THERE.

I don’t know what that means.

I don’t remember ever being in Room 614.

But I just noticed something.

My apartment building has six floors.

There are twelve apartments on each floor.

Mine is 613.

And the apartment directly across the hall from me has always been empty.

I checked the door tonight.

There’s a number screwed into it.

I swear it wasn’t there yesterday.

614.

And from inside, I can hear someone scratching.

Very slowly.

Like they’re trying to get out.

Or trying to get in.

Then the scratching stopped.

Three seconds later, someone knocked on my door.

THREE TIMES.

I froze.

A voice came from the other side.

A man’s voice.

Calm.

Almost cheerful.

“I’m King Turtle… 10… 10.”

I didn’t move.

Something metallic scraped against the floor outside.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a Roomba powering on.

BEEEEEP.

The man laughed.

“You shouldn’t have opened Room 614.”

The Roomba slammed into my front door.

THUD.

Again.

THUD.

Again.

THUD.

Then the man whispered:

“Good news.”

The Roomba began spinning faster.

“I brought a weapon.”

I backed away from the door.

The handle started turning.

Slowly.

And from underneath the door, I watched a little black robotic vacuum roll into my apartment.

On top of it was a handwritten note.

It said:

RUN.

Behind the Roomba, the man started laughing.

And then he said:

“King Turtle… 10… 10 has entered the building.”

The lights went out.

The Roomba headlights turned on.

And something in the hallway started screaming.

Then my phone buzzed.

One new text message.

It was from an unknown number.

There were only four words.

ROOM 615 IS NEXT.