Chapter Text
“Are you insane? You can’t take this case.”
Komaki stared me down long and hard, concerned as I had never seen her before. The door to my office was closed, but I was certain our coworkers down the hall could hear the fuss. She slammed a fist on my desk, scattering files. I blew out a puff of smoke. Gazed down at the grey street through the blinds.
“Five people,” I said. “Five people have visited Tokiwadai Hotel and gone missing. How many will it take before someone does something?”
The hotel was definitely out of our jurisdiction, on the far north-eastern side of town; but the authorities there weren’t making much progress if any at all. I rolled my eyes. Some professionals they were. I bet they had given in to the rumours as well.
You see, everyone called it the “haunted hotel.” It was supposedly overrun with ghosts, and brought misfortune to those who stayed there. Many businesses and homes were relocated to escape its cursed radius — but it was nonsense, I thought. All nonsense. Only the incompetent would pin the unexplainable on ghosts. I brought the cigarette to my lips again, shaking my head. Even the most absurd cases had logical explanations buried somewhere, and this would be no exception.
It would simply take the right mind to find it.
“I am going to visit the hotel.”
“Of course you are,” Komaki spat. “And what happens if you vanish as well? How will I know?”
“Give me a fortnight,” I declared. “If I have not returned after that, come for me.”
I put out my cigarette in the ashtray and turned for the door. I noted the sweaty handprints on my desk, the unnaturally heavy breaths, and the strict gaze that followed my every move — Komaki had been a professional detective for many years, but her emotions were not subtle. I sighed.
“I’ll be fine. Trust me.” They were empty words. Only my presence, in two weeks, would be enough to console her. As I walked away, a hushed voice muttered a desperate prayer.
“Come back safely, Shirai-san.”
I wanted to arrive at the hotel as early as possible. But filling out paperwork, packing my suitcase, maneuvering between train platforms; these things took up too much time, and it was already sundown by the time I stepped out of the cab. I paid the driver a generous fee, and the second I stepped out, he sped away into a cloud of smoke.
So this was it. The Tokiwadai Hotel.
What a shame that such a beautiful establishment could be tarnished by a few sour words. Despite its construction nearly a decade ago, the massive, U-shaped building was still in pristine condition. Rows upon rows of windows dotted the walls like eyes, peering out at the eerily quiet street. I could not hear anything, could not sense any movement from inside; if I hadn’t done my research, I would have assumed the hotel was deserted, much like its surroundings.
But here it was. Still standing.
My heels clacked against the front steps, and the mahogany doors opened their arms to welcome me. I was glad to have pocketed some extra change beforehand, for the interior was quite grand. The patterned red carpet, the cream-coloured wallpaper; a glittering chandelier, a painting of a mountain range with a gilded frame. The smoky, humid atmosphere of the streets had completely vanished, too — it was like stepping into another world. Here, the air was unnaturally cold, the air smelt of lavender, and in the distance, marched the ticking of clocks.
The lobby was completely empty, of course. No staff, no guests, nothing. I suppose they stopped expecting visitors a long time ago, but that begged the question — how were they making a profit? If no one ever visited, why maintain business? What purpose did they serve?
I approached the dusty front desk. There was a notebook, a candle, a chair neatly tucked in. No signs of recent activity, but nothing suspicious, either. I rang the bell, and immediately — thump, thump, thump. A pattering of footsteps from above.
Around the corner, a figure suddenly appeared, dressed in a maroon uniform and a pencil skirt. She had a long face and a perfectly rehearsed smile, and ringlets any woman would be jealous of. Her skin was polished to a shine, and her gloves pure white; untarnished, save for the loose threads over her knuckles. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her voice rung like a bell as she spoke.
Her name tag read: Hokaze Junko.
“Oh, my. My apologies, it has been quite some time since we have had a guest. Welcome to the Tokiwadai Hotel.” Junko bowed. “How may we help you?”
There was no hassle in arranging a room, of course. Junko’s manners were immaculate, and they had more than enough rooms to spare.
“And what was your name?” Junko asked.
“Shirai Kuroko.”
It was a perfectly ordinary question, and a perfectly ordinary answer, but what I witnessed next was anything but. I cannot entirely describe it; Junko was standing next to the desk, when I heard the flapping of pages. It was unmistakably close by. I looked to the desk, and saw the notebook wide open — miraculously, a pen floated through the air, and, as if piloted by some invisible figure, began writing my name.
I was certain I was imagining it. But it continued for some time, and I found no sign of explanation. “How— how are you doing that?” I gasped.
“Doing what?”
I gestured to the book. She did not show any recognition. “The writing,” I said.
She blinked. “I’m not writing anything.”
“Then who…” My words trailed off. It was like talking to a brick wall; she would not give me any answers. That was the first flash of fear I felt — I was observant, I was a trained investigator, and yet I had not the faintest clue how this was happening. This was a trick beyond my comprehension. There was no glimmer of a string, no hidden figure behind the desk, and the ink and the parchment smelt real.
Instinctively, my eyes flickered towards my exit. The double doors through which I entered. But, to my further astonishment, they were no longer there. I did a double-take. Now, there was a solid wall where the doors once stood; there was a couch, and a bookshelf, and a pair of potted plants. I was certain I had not gotten lost — and I hadn’t heard the dragging of furniture, or movement, or anything.
I raced up to the wall. Felt around. I knocked, but the wall was solid, I tipped the couches, but they were weighted, I turned the plants, but they were scratch-free. No grooves in the carpet, no drag marks, no false doors. The colour drained from my face. Was I missing something in my investigation? What did it mean? My eyes darted up and down, up and down, searching for a logical explanation.
For the first time in my life, I was coming up empty.
“Shirai-san.” Junko put a hand to my shoulder.
“The door,” I said, whipping around. “Where is the front door?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Junko must be an actor, I thought to myself; one that was paid a fortune. But I was sick of the charade. “What is the meaning of all this?” I narrowed my eyes.
She looked at me like I was a lost child at a fair. Her voice was soggy with sympathy, egging on my frustrations. “You must be fatigued from such a long day,” she said. “Allow me to take your briefcase and show you to your room.”
When she reached for me, I instinctively recoiled; I did not want her near my things. My heart was thudding in my chest like a hammer, and with every beat — why, why, why? Why was this happening, and what was going on? I was dizzy with confusion.
I took a few, deep breaths. My investigation had only just begun, I reminded myself; it was natural to be puzzled. The absence of a hypothesis was frustrating, but perhaps I would find more evidence later. These were the first of many abnormalities to come, and I knew it would be a challenge when I took on this case. Surely, I thought, surely there was an explanation lying somewhere in this mess.
Ghosts did not exist, after all. That I was most certain of.
I quietened, then. How unlike me to lose my composure. I allowed Junko to take my briefcase, following her to the west wing. She explained to me that there were two lifts on opposite ends of the hotel, but only the western side was working. Barely working, I thought, as I stepped into the elevator. It rattled and creaked under our weight, and I was afraid it would snap and send us plummeting to our deaths at any moment. But we reached the second floor, safe and sound, and continued onward.
Junko stopped at the end of the hallway. Room 296. She plopped my suitcase inside, set the keys in my hands, and vanished. I closed the door behind her.
So this is where I am staying now.
It is a humble space, no bigger than my office, with rosewood flooring and furniture. A single bed rests against the far wall underneath a grilled window. There is a bathroom, a desk; and that is where I sit now, writing in the candlelight.
I have decided to keep a diary. In the event something does happen to me, I pray my records can shed light on the happenings of the Tokiwadai Hotel. It shouldn’t come to that, of course, but I would rather be safe than sorry.
I should get some rest now. There is no clock in my room, but the sky is pitch black, and I fear morning will come sooner than expected. I shall begin my investigation tomorrow.
The moment my head hits the pillow, I am usually out like a light. But I could not sleep that night.
My eyelids would not close. It was like someone had nailed them open. The wind howled all through the night, rattling against the window, trying to get in. There was a perpetual chill in the room; no matter how tightly I wrapped the blankets around me, I was never comfortable, never satisfied. Never relaxed. Something nagged at my consciousness, like an itch I could not scratch, telling me to stay awake.
And then, I heard it: the sobbing.
It was quiet at first. Somewhere in the distance, somewhere above me, I thought. I held my breath. It was undoubtedly a woman, crying her heart out; the noise echoed through the walls. My chest twisted. I wondered if she would want a stranger’s comfort, or perhaps a glass of water. In the end, I decided not to pry, and rolled over.
But ears cannot be shut like eyes, and the sobbing went on and on. She wailed as if coughing up her very heart; she took sharp, ragged breaths, that scraped across her throat, her voice cracked until it was nothing more than a crumpled husk. It barely sounded human now — that awful, piteous whining. Minutes turned into hours.
And that’s when I knew something wasn’t quite right.
I felt a shiver down my spine. Something wasn’t right. Dread settled in my stomach like a rock. The sound was clawing at me, trying to get under my skin, and my initial sympathy withered away.
Who was making that noise? And why? Why were they not growing tired, after all this time? When would it cease?
A foolish hypothesis crossed my mind. Perhaps, I thought, grasping at straws — perhaps it was a ghost.
I threw off the covers, and scrambled to put on my coat. I had to see for myself. I had to prove myself wrong; the hotel was not haunted. It couldn’t possibly be. I stomped into the elevator, staring at the row of buttons before me. Only the bottom few were labelled: G, 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. It was no mystery that the hotel was taller than five storeys — so why were the rest blank?
One floor at a time, I decided. I rubbed my hands as the elevator jolted, regretting not grabbing my gloves, and waited for the doors to open.
Cautiously, I stepped out onto the third floor. The lights overhead flickered, and more often than not, it was pitch black. The wallpaper was green, and the hallway stretched out to my left and right. No doors in sight. I kept my breaths close to my chest and listened for the crying.
It was much louder here. The woman was certainly on this floor. Like a beckoning finger, the crying guided me, and I inched down the hallway. Louder and louder, it grew. I approached a T-section up ahead — on one side, darkness, and the other, the glow of a candle. A shadow stretched against the wall; the silhouette of a woman, holding her knees and trembling.
I turned the corner. The lights flickered out. And then, from behind, someone grabbed me. A hand covered my mouth, muffling my cries of protest. I was powerless. And I was being dragged away.
I kicked, and squirmed, but to no avail. There was an arm tight around my waist, squeezing the breath out of me. I caught the whiff of something metallic. Something ashy on their clothing. But I could not turn my head. I was dragged and dragged, my heels scraping along the ground, until at last, I was thrown in the elevator. My back slammed against the wall, knocking the air from my lungs. I coughed and spluttered and blinked the stars from my eyes.
There was a brunette woman staring me down, her sharp, auburn eyes lit like roaring flames. She had me by the collar, her grip so tight she could lift me off the ground. The elevator groaned, and like a trembling earthquake, began its descent. “What are you doing?” she spat. “Guests aren’t allowed on the third floor.”
I was wheezing. Nothing came out. It took her too long to realise she was holding me too tightly; then, she let go, and I gasped for air. I straightened out my collar. “What? This is the first I have heard of this,” I said.
“No one told you?” Sarcasm. She did not believe me.
I explained I had only checked in today, and she clicked her tongue. “Geez. Well, that explains why I’ve never seen you before. Snooping around on the first day, are you an idiot?"
“There was a woman crying,” I explained.
“Yeah, look, she’s…” She rubbed the back of her head. “She’ll be fine. You get used to it.”
“Used to it?” I said. “Don’t tell me this occurs every night.”
“Not every night, but— ugh, forget it, okay? Just forget about it.”
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. We were back on the second floor, and we awkwardly glanced at each other. Perhaps she was scared I would run — I took one step before she grabbed my wrist.
“Sorry,” she said, “for scaring you back there. I didn’t want you to get into trouble, that’s all.” Her expression had softened, now. The flames in her eyes no longer threatening to swallow me up; now they were inviting, reaching out towards me, and I felt my trepidation falter. Save for the creases of lost sleep, she looked pure and youthful. Surely, she was not much older than me. And now that I was looking at her properly, something about her handsome features looked familiar. I could not put my finger on it.
“That is certainly not an ideal way to make a first impression, but…” I huffed. “I suppose it can be forgiven.”
She brightened with relief. “Let me walk you to your room.” We headed down the hallway, our steps slightly out of time.
“My apologies, I did not catch your name,” I said.
“Misaka Mikoto.” There was no pride as she said it. Her smile did not reach her eyes, and she spoke matter-of-factly, as if asked about the weather. Like a simple answer to a simple question.
I introduced myself. Then, “you are not wearing a uniform,” I said.
“Oh, no, I don’t work here.”
It was a subtle choice of words — she avoided using the word ‘guest’, but I never missed details. Mikoto was not meant to be on the third floor either, then. Interesting. “How long have you been staying here?” I asked.
“Honestly? I don’t know.” I sensed a little shame. It was further solidified when she suddenly changed the subject. “Can I ask you something, Shirai-san?”
We had reached my room by then. I lingered in the doorway, awaiting her response. “Absolutely.”
“Why did you come here?”
I saw no reason to lie. “I am a detective,” I said. “Investigating the disappearances linked to this establishment. Surely, you have heard.”
“A detective, huh…” She lingered on those words. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I was hoping to speak with the staff members, but may I also question you about these incidents? Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Sure. Happy to help.” Mikoto nodded. “Um, and also… I know it’s part of your detective nature, but try not to wander around too much. Especially alone, okay?”
“I appreciate the concern.”
I stared at Mikoto a little longer. She was not one of the five missing people, I concluded. Then why did her face bother me? At the very least, it was reassuring to know there were other guests in the hotel — ones that had not met a grim fate. Mikoto was a questionable character, sure, but she did not seem sinister.
Perhaps, I thought, I could learn to trust her.
Mikoto smiled. “Goodnight, Shirai-san.”
And just as she walked away, I caught the faintest glimpse of it — my eyes would never lie to me, you see. It was too late to interject, but I was very certain of what I saw.
Her shoes were spattered with blood.