The rusted bell rang as the motel door creaked open. The man stepped onto the brown material that carpeted the wooden floor. He had just gotten off a long and dreadful train ride to an unfamiliar city. The trip was “for a research project in a once-so-famous mansion”, he had told his wife. The man walked towards the front desk, where a tall and skinny boy stood, gazing at the wooden wall across from him.
“A room for one please.” The man spoke, with a steady low voice.
Startled, almost as if suddenly awakened from a dream, the clerk turned to look at the man. “Sure, sir. Would you like a room on the first or second floor?”, the clerk asked.
“Second.”
The clerk lamely turned to retrieve a room key. The wall on which the old-fashioned keys hung had fifteen hooks attached, organised into three rows of five. Every hook, except for one, held a bronze key. The one empty hook was attached to the centre of the wall.
“Not so busy here, huh?” the man said, pointing at the wall filled with keys.
The clerk simply shrugged and replied, “Visitors come later in the year. The weather’s much better then.” Once he finished, he turned around and handed the man an antique key. “Second floor. Fourth room on the right.”
Just as he was about to return to gazing at the wall, the man asked, “I’m writing an article about the city’s architecture and someone recommended an old, georgian mansion in this area. Told me it had an interesting history. But I can’t seem to find it. Would you happen to know where it is?”
There was a short moment of silence. Then the clerk pointed across the room at a photograph that showed the front of the motel – one without the signs and advertisements that now plastered its brick walls. “Well, you’re there. This motel was a mansion owned by the Adams family, but they moved out years ago and sold it to our owner. John Adams was an architect himself and built the mansion based on his daughter’s likings. The building’s quite extraordinary if you look close enough.”, the clerk revealed.
The man closely examined the photograph. “What’s 28?” he asked, referring to the number written under the photograph.
“That’s the room number. The room that is always occupied – never open for visitors. Not even open for the cleaning ladies.”
“Why?” The man asked as his curiosity spiked.
The clerk shrugged. “Don’t know. Just what the owner instructed or what the Adams had instructed when they sold the place. I forgot. Said it was a special room. John Adam’s daughter lived in there.”
The man studied the photograph once more, then slowly nodded. Picking up his luggage, he walked towards the stairs.
A soft forest-green carpet laid perfectly over the wood of the second floor. A sleek, patterned wallpaper lined the walls smoothly from top to bottom. A small but fine chandelier hung effortlessly from the ceiling. The door frames were embellished with intricate carvings of orchids and lilies. The silk curtains drifted gently as the breeze travelled through the windows. The man walked through the hallway with slow steps, admiring its beauty and elegance. As he moved towards his room, eyes still scanning the interior, the numbers “28” caught his attention. Putting his luggage down, he stood in front of the door of Room 28. The door was slightly larger than the others and was made of a different type of wood – one that was smoother and darker. The door handle was slightly crooked and less shiny than the others. What made this room so special? He thought to himself. As a man of relentless curiosity, he reached for the door knob, but as expected, the door was locked. Then, he – neglecting the indecency of his actions – leaned down and peeped through the keyhole. There was a girl sitting at the desk, back towards the door. She had long, dark hair and extremely pale skin. The man returned to his original position, confused. Thought nobody could use this room. He wrinkled his nose, and decided to look again. This time all he saw was red. Red and a black spot in the middle. An uneasy feeling suddenly crept on him – he felt as if someone was watching him. In a panic, he bolted up, picked up his luggage and went to his room.
The man was up by sunrise. He had planned to explore the motel (or what used to be a mansion) more, eager to see what other things would fascinate him as the interior of the building did. Before the clock struck seven, he was already down the stairs. He greeted the clerk, whose eyes were still hazy with sleep, as he walked past the front desk and exited the main door. The man wandered to the garden then to the front yard, often finding himself mesmerised by the splendor of the place. The motel, behind its veil of signs and posters, was magnificent. The clerk was seated motionless behind the front desk when the man returned.
“How old’s this place?” the man asked.
The clerk, taking his gaze off of the wall again, turned to face him. “Over a hundred years old, sir.”
The man nodded, and continued, “Everything else too?”
“Yes, sir. Still the way it was when it was first built.” The clerk answered easily. The room went quiet.
The man spoke up. “What about the Adams? Are they still here?”
With furrowed brows, the clerk answered, “Been gone for years. All in the grave.”
Then the room went quiet again. After mouthing a quick “thanks”, the man turned around and headed for the door.
Somebody must’ve been taking great care of this place – dusting, polishing, and tending the garden. Perhaps the gardener or the maid. He hadn’t seen anyone else here except for the clerk. Perhaps the others only work on weekends. The man thought as he walked around with no particular destination. When he came across a door that led to the second wing of the mansion, he entered it without hesitation. His feet brought him to the second floor. The second wing was connected to the main building in the shape of a V. It was much smaller than the main building and was practically empty with only a storage room. The man found it much less interesting than the main building, though its windows were considerably larger, displaying a clear view of the mansion. The man observed the mansion carefully from the window, taking in everything. There was an open window on the second floor of the main building, directly across from where the man stood. He had forgotten to close the window before leaving his room in the morning. Some fresh air’s nice. Just as he was about to walk away, he felt like someone was looking back at him. The man looked out the window again, his eyes landing on the room with half-drawn curtains – Room 28. He saw that it was the same as his, containing a single bed, a desk, and a closet. But no television. The room seemed ordinary. Then in the blink of an eye, he thought he saw a girl standing by the window. Stepping closer to the window, he looked again. There was nothing – the room was empty. The man turned around and left the wing.
The man was up at the same time as the day before. He had packed his luggage and was walking towards the staircase when he stopped by Room 28 one last time. Putting his luggage down, he studied the door of the mysterious room, then leaned down to peep through the keyhole. He saw nothing. The man stood up and before his hands could pick up his luggage, he leaned down and looked again. This time he saw red. The red and the black dot in the middle. It was piercing through him. The red stared right back at his green eyes. Shivers running up his spine, he quickly picked up his luggage and walked down the stairs.
The clerk had a weak smile when he saw the man walking towards him with his luggage in hand. “Hope you had a nice stay, sir.” he said as he took the key from the man.
The man watched as the clerk returned the key to its hook, his eyes landing on the empty hook in the centre. Then, he spoke, “About Room 28, you’re sure it’s empty?”
The clerk nodded.
“Thought I’ve been seeing someone else in this place. You know, other than you. A girl.” the man said.
The clerk tilted his head in confusion, waited, then said, “No other visitor other than you, sir. Perhaps it was an old lady, our cleaning lady. But she doesn’t usually come in on weekdays.”
The man was quiet. Maybe I’m just seeing things. I was probably too tired from the long train ride that day. He thought to himself. After awhile, he finally picked up his luggage and headed for the door. Just as he was about to reach for the door knob, he noticed a photograph on the wall that he had not seen before.
“The Adams, sir.” The clerk said from the front desk. It was a family photo. A stocky man in a striped suit, assumably John Adams, stood behind a timid, middle-aged lady and a young girl. A girl with long, dark hair. A girl with a crooked smile. A girl with snow-white skin. “She’s got quite the eyes. The daughter.” the clerk voiced.
The man’s eyes met the girl’s in the photograph. He felt as if she was looking right back at him. Her eyes glued to his. Staring back at his green eyes with her big, red ones. The vibrant red iris with the pitch-black dot in the middle.
Reflection:
I had this assignment last year in Literature Survey as an in-class essay. I didn’t so well on it because I didn’t have sufficient planning and the plot that I came up with was flawed in many ways. So, when I was writing this piece, I made sure that I had a clear layout that would be the foundation of the writing. I focused on setting the uncanny mood throughout the story by using descriptions of the mansion. I rewrote the ending a few times and also added more hints in the story because several of my peers said my first draft was confusing. Overall, I think I did a good job on maintaining the suspense, keeping the read curious. I also think my plot is quite interesting (to be honest, I don’t know why I chose to write about this subject because I get scared easily. I actually got scared writing this – not that this story is that scary.)
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