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There was a brief span of time at the end of one loop and the beginning of the next where Alan’s mind was clear. If time were to flow linearly here, as time is supposed to, it would amount to perhaps half an hour. A mere blink in the vast, chaotic vortex of time and matter that made up the Dark Place. For just a short moment, Alan remembered. Remembered everything that had happened, every turn he had taken, every choice he had made that had led him to another early demise and cast him back to the beginning. Over and over and over again.
For just a brief moment, Alan remembered where he had died.
The what and how were fuzzy, already beginning to dissolve like the content of a dream after waking. Though this was no dream, this was reality. At least, one of the many realities Alan had tried to use to his advantage. It seemed as if he had failed this time, too.
Still, the location pulsed in his mind like a persistent headache. If he wanted to get ahead, he had to return there, continue where he had left off. Perhaps destroy whatever had stopped him, if he could. He could perfectly picture the hallway in his mind, closed doors on either side, a shaggy, beige carpet, cheap wallpaper peeling, parts of it torn off completely and revealing mold underneath it, the scent of humidity and dust in the air. Alan did not know where it would lead him, not just physically but as a scene as well.
He tried to focus on the feeling of it, forcing his failing memory to cling to that place. It held the key, Alan knew it, if only he could bend his surroundings to his will once more and return there.
Get it together, Alan. Focus.
He tried to zone in on the details, raise the image from the vague shapes his memory provided him with. The doors were made of wood, something thin and light, cheap material. Roman numerals marked them in large, metallic letters. The rooms of a run-down hotel, perhaps? No, it was older than that, in a worse condition. Abandoned, then. The brown tones reminded him of the 80s, some shady dive where people went to do drugs or hire prostitutes. The stench of cigarettes stomped into the carpet.
Alan could perfectly imagine that place having been shut down as a consequence of a police investigation. Murder, perhaps. It would fit the theme he had begun building up for himself. Was that why his mind was leading him there? Was it a scene similar to the Oceanview?
The beam of his flashlight swept over the stained, shaggy carpet but the light did not reach far. The darkness at the end of the hallway loomed like a cat poised to lunge at a mouse unaware of its presence. It swallowed his light readily, hungrily so Alan moved with caution.
The door to his left was locked, the number had fallen off at some point, or perhaps it had been stolen; the wood underneath it was lighter. It outlined the number ‘XIV’; Room 14. To his right, Room 13, marked with metal letters that read ‘XIII’, was locked as well. A tattered ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung from the door knob. And despite knowing better, Alan could have sworn he had faint noise coming from inside that room. Just another fade-out, probably.
He moved on, step by tentative step. The hallway separated the previous two rooms from the rest with an archway. The second Alan stepped through it, the darkness swallowed the doors leading to Room XIII and Room XIV. Pitch black surrounded him as if the Dark Presence itself had cupped its palms around him.
Onward.
For a while, the hallway was empty. Where a modern hotel might feature side tables with vases, flowers or other decorations in between rooms, it stretched onward, devoid of any sign of life.
Then, to his left, the next door came up. XVI. 16. There were deep scratch marks in the wood and around the door’s edges as if something had tried to claw its way inside… and had succeeded. And yet when Alan tried to twist the doorknob, despite the sinister warning, it did not budge. Locked.
Alan was beginning to lose his patience. What was the point of this location if every room was locked? The setting might work for a horror story if something, anything, would happen but it was eerily silent.
Where Alan expected Room 15 to be, the wall was blank. It had to be further ahead. A strange layout for a hotel but who was Alan to judge? He was just a writer, not an architect.
A different scent accompanied the stench of cigarettes here, too faint to identify. The further he moved into the dark, the more unsettled he was starting to feel as if the memories of this place that he had forgotten in this new loop were trying to warn him of what was to come. As if whatever had happened here was now ingrained in his psyche.
Somehow, instinctively, he knew he had to find Room XV, 15, the one that was missing. Somehow he knew the answers he was looking for were in that room, despite not even remembering what the question had been in the first place.
Room XVI disappeared behind him as the others had, Alan had no reason to turn back even though he wanted to. That scent from before seemed to become stronger the further he moved, it smelled almost… metallic. Some animalistic survival instinct buried beneath what Alan hoped was reason and common sense rebelled the stronger it got.
Alan stopped dead in his tracks. He could have sworn he heard something coming from up ahead. Then, he heard again, and this time he was sure he had not imagined it. He raised his gun, immediately on high alert. There was no telling what he was about to encounter.
Careful not to make a sound, he crept closer, the arm holding his gun propped on the one holding the flashlight, ready to defend himself. The noise got louder. And louder. It sounded… wet, strained in a way that Alan could not identify. His heart was hammering in his ears. He prayed that whatever was up ahead could not hear it or smell his fear.
To his right, Room XV came into view. The door was open, torn off the top hinge, it barely held on by the bottom one. The carpet was stained with blood, practically soaked in it. It had not even dried yet. Alan had witnessed enough horrors to have a steeled stomach but the sight made nausea rise in his stomach. He swallowed his discomfort, leaned forward to peer around the corner into the room.
Calling it a mess would be an understatement. The place had been destroyed, furniture torn apart, wood splintered, the mattress and bedding torn to literal shreds. Blood stained the cheap stuffing. That same metallic scent hung in the air here, nearly suffocating with its intensity.
Blood. What Alan had smelled from down the hallway had been blood. Blood that had been spilled in alarming quantities. Alan feared it might have been his, once. Had the previous loop ended here? He could not remember.
There were— Alan could barely describe it, did not want to describe it, because he knew the implications. There were drag marks in the blood. Something had been dragged out of this room, something that had bled heavily.
Alan knew what it had been, refused to think about it. Naming it made it real.
He stepped back out of the room, turned right, kept following the direction he had been moving in. Kept following the blood trail.
The noise got louder. Wet squelching, the rustling of fabric, a faint, low growl too animalistic to be coming from a human. Something strained, reluctant to let go, then tore.
A gun and flashlight no longer seemed enough to protect him. Alan wanted to run, everything inside him screamed at him to save himself and never come back but he ignored it, pressed onward. Slowly, quietly.
The stench of blood was so strong Alan thought he was going to be sick. Every shaky breath he took was saturated, nearly sticky with it.
One more step. The flashlight uncovered a bit more of the floor and— Alan used all his restraint to not throw up. He recognised that shoe. The same brown Oxford was on his foot at that very moment.
Slowly, so slowly he was barely moving, the beam of his flashlight inched upward, illuminating more of the dark hallway ahead of him.
He dropped it with a loud clatter, the light bouncing everywhere until it finally settled in a pool of blood. Dark, feral eyes reflected it.
The body was barely recognisable but Alan knew it was him, his previous self. Suit torn, limbs twisted into positions they should not be in, his flesh torn to shreds, ribs bent out of the way to get to his organs. Skin pale with bloodloss, blank eyes wide open in terror. Staring straight ahead.
Hunched over his corpse lurked a creature, a monster in every way safe for its appearance, so painfully familiar. His own brown hair slicked back with blood, his own face, hands, and chest covered in it, his own eyes feral and opened wide. A chunk of flesh between his own teeth.
It cradled Alan’s corpse closer to its chest like a dear possession, growled at Alan, territorial and hungry. It swallowed.
Frozen in terror, Alan watched. He could not even raise his gun to point at the monster as it flashed its teeth at him. Its face was shiny and wet with blood, his blood. It held his gaze as it leaned down, sharp teeth closing around a piece of flesh of Alan’s— no, the corpse’s intestines, he could not think of that dead body as himself, he could not. Holding it in place with its hands, the creature pulled back, tearing at the flesh. It strained, wet and heavy, tissue fighting to hold together, but it ultimately gave.
It swallowed.
The stench of blood suffocated him, the sight rooted him to the spot, the noise, God, the noise. He would never sleep soundly again.
The creature cared little for him, now that it was focused on its meal. It lapped greedily at his blood, dug its fingers into his chest cavity, pulled out the tastiest of treats.
Its teeth sunk into his heart.
And Scratch swallowed.