Hotel Morte – The Unwanted Guest
No doubt all of you horror aficionados will be familiar with the world’s most famous (or perhaps infamous) spooky hotels. Whether it’s an old establishment harbouring restless spirits or a run-down hostel that has been the scene of violent deaths, there is sometime which draws us to these macabre venues. Every hotel has its stories of course – that’s inevitable, given the number of people who come through them. But then there’s the dark tourism industry, and those places that play on their history of paranormal incidents to bring in the numbers. Hotel Morte isn’t one of those establishments. You’d think the name alone would generate interest, but we like to keep a low profile. The Morte is located within an economically disadvantaged area in a small and unremarkable provincial city that few people will ever visit. We have no online presence and don’t appear on any review sites. That’s probably just as well, since I doubt our patrons would leave any positive feedback! Even the ghost hunters and paranormal investigators tend to give us a wide berth. We do get the occasional one who shows up and checks in, but they rarely last the night, soon realising that they’re out of their depth. As you might imagine, the Morte has seen better days. The hotel was built during the 1920s and was still a profitable concern right up to the 80s, but alas, our ‘golden era’ is long gone. The building itself is crumbling, the electrics and plumbing are barely functional, our furnishings are ancient, our carpets worn, and our mattresses lumpy and soiled. Needless to say, we don’t have much in the way of amenities – no room service, no spa, and we definitely don’t have Wi-Fi! What we do have is twenty usable rooms- that is to say, rooms deemed fit for human habitation. The other eighty are sealed off – their doors welded shut and windows boarded up. They aren’t exactly vacant however. When I walk the corridors at night I can hear their former residents clawing at the inside of the doors, trying their best to get out. And after midnight they start wailing, pleading for an escape they will never achieve. This is a deeply unnerving experience that you never really get used to. Given the frequent paranormal events which occur inside the Morte, it’s no surprise that the few guests we do receive are rather unhinged. We do get our fair share of addicts and drifters who pass through, many of whom also have mental health problems. We do our best to look after them…But sadly, the very nature of our hotel doesn’t exactly help in their recovery. We do have three long-term residents, all of whom are eccentric and rather troubled individuals with tragic pasts. For the sake of preserving their privacy, I shall refer to these three by their nicknames. First, there’s the major – a grizzled military veteran who acts the gentleman but is known for his violent outbursts. Then there’s the widow, who appears much like you’d expect – an elderly woman always dressed in black. She spends most of her time in our bar lounge, nursing a glass of sherry, puffing on a cigarette, and occasionally directing sarcastic and biting comments towards the other patrons. Finally, there’s the senorita. She’s different from the rest – young, beautiful, intelligent…but with a darkness inside of her, a terrible sadness which plagues her soul. But I’m not ready to talk about her just yet… And then you have the staff, all of whom incidentally also live in the hotel. First there’s me. I’ve worked and lived in the Morte for the past ten years. My job? Well, I suppose you could call me the ‘acting manager’, although I also fulfil the roles of front receptionist, concierge and general handyman. I report directly to the hotel’s owner, one Mr Black. My boss is an odd man and an absentee landlord. I can go years without seeing face-to-face. I do speak with Mr Black on the phone every now and again, usually to ask for advice when I’m facing a particularly tricky situation. Mr Black is a very intelligent man with vast experience, although I have no idea how he keeps the Morte operational when we’ve been running at a huge loss for decades. I suspect he may have other reasons for keeping our doors open, but I guess that’s above my pay grade. Now, you’re probably wondering why I chose to work in this hellhole, let along why I’ve stayed here for a decade. I’d like to say that I’m well compensated for the work I do, but sadly this isn’t the case. I earn a pittance, and the room that comes with the job is barely habitable. And unfortunately, I am not in possession of a set of rules I can follow that will keep me safe. The Morte is a chaotic, unpredictable and often dangerous environment, and I rely on my wits and the help of my colleagues to keep me alive. No, the reason I work here is a very personal one. I have an unbreakable connection to the hotel which means I can never leave. My staff team numbers two, both of whom also reside in the building. There’s Mary, who is our resident maid and has the unenviable task of trying to maintain a basic level of cleanliness in an old building plagued by dust, cobwebs and black mould. She’s a hard worker and has a particular skill in removing blood stains from bed sheets and carpets. Sadly, some of our less agreeable guests keep her busy in this regard. And then there’s Owen – our resident chef who also moonlights as our barkeeper, as unsurprisingly we don’t get many dinner reservations. I would describe Chef Owen as a weird guy with a very dark sense of humour. In addition to cooking and serving drinks, he has another rather unpleasant job which will become abundantly clear to you once I tell my stories. We make an odd trio, but Mary, Owen and I have worked and lived together for years and have learnt to watch each other’s backs. I guess they’re the closest thing I have to friends in this world. As I’ve explained, much of the hotel building is now off-limits, either because the rooms are out of use or because they’re occupied by entities one would rather avoid. In addition to our twenty usable rooms, the main hubs of activity include our lobby and reception area. You’ll generally find me behind the desk, waiting on guests who rarely appear and watching a phone that almost never rings. When I’m not engaged in other duties I’m stuck here, passing the hours by reading paperback novels (anything but horror, I get enough of that in my day job!). I stare at the rotating glass doors, reminiscing about better times in the days before I become trapped inside of this hellish place. Mary’s domain is the laundry room down in the basement, and Owen rotates between the kitchen and bar lounge, although I often need to remind him to remove his blood-stained apron before he starts serving drinks. The bar-slash-lounge is the closest thing we have to a social hub in the Morte and is where our handful of guests tend to congregate in the evenings. It was once a rather quaint art-deco style barroom but has long since deteriorated along with the rest of the building, with cracked tiles, dusty old bottles and tired old furnishings being all that’s left of its former glory. The lighting is also poor, but that’s the way our guests seem to prefer it. Our restaurant is rarely used but also doubles as our conference room. Believe it or not, but we do get the occasional group that wishes to rent it out (and more on that later). Other than these very basic facilities, the Morte has a few other areas of note, but most of them are best avoided for any extended length of time. Our elevator is ancient, creaky, and unreliable – prone to regular breakdowns. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been stuck in that damned lift, needing to be rescued by Owen or Mary. Often this is due to simple mechanical failures but sometimes the lift is paralysed by one of the malevolent beings that frequently pass through the hotel. It brings an icy chill down my spine every time I find myself trapped in that pitch-black box, listening to the foul cackles of one or more of those devilish fiends. And then there’s the dreaded corridors on each floor. They’re a frightening space, especially at night. Once I finish my shift, I speed through the hellish labyrinth on the sixth floor, rushing to my room whilst trying to ignore the bone-chilling din and avoid seeing the inexplainable entities who stalk the dark corners, always trying to draw in the living for their own nefarious purposes. Once I reach my safe haven, I shut the door and lock myself in, putting in my ear plugs in an attempt to drown out the inhuman screams which continue until daybreak. So, I guess I’ve given you a flavour of what the Hotel Morte is. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not writing this to tout for business. In fact, my best advice is to stay well away, which is why I shall not reveal the hotel’s location. Nevertheless, I do wish to share my stories, because I believe the many victims of the Morte should be remembered. Let me begin by telling you the tale of Mr Hillman, one of our most infamous guests who I believe had a very eventful stay at our little establishment. Now, I knew Mr Hillman was trouble the first time I met him. He was a heavy, middle-aged man with a thinning hairline. I wouldn’t say he was physically unattractive. When he first arrived at the hotel reception I noted how he was fairly well turned out, clean shaven and wearing an inexpensive but neat suit and tie. But, when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn how to recognise the bad ones. He wasn’t exactly rude when he checked in, but his whole demeanour and personality seemed off. I sensed a darkness in him and saw the barely suppressed malice behind his eyes. I was also suspicious of the leather briefcase he carried, somehow sensing it contained unsavoury items. Yes, sadly Mr Hillman is the type of unwanted guest we occasionally receive at the Morte, perhaps drawn in by the darkness and the evil presence which stalks our corridors. I would have liked to refuse him a room but knew Mr Black would never allow this. Nevertheless, I knew we’d need to keep a close eye on him, and so we did. It was ten o’clock on a Friday night when the first altercation occurred. I’d just finished my shift on the front desk and was having a solitary drink whilst working up the courage to face those hellish corridors on the sixth floor. Our bar was about as busy as it gets. All three of our long-term guests were in attendance, nursing their drinks and killing time. The widow was sat in her usual spot, the darkened booth in the far corner of the lounge and facing the bar. White-haired, wrinkled and wearing a black dress and shawl, the elderly woman made for a sorry sight as she sipped her sherry and puffed on her cigarettes. There was always an awful sadness in her eyes, betraying the hurt and grief she carried with her always. The major stood at the far end of the bar, striking a confident pose as he drank brandy and closely watched over his fellow patrons. The ex-officer was always well dressed, wearing a tweed suit and his regimental tie. He sported a grey moustache and wore thick spectacles, giving him the appearance of a harmless intellectual type. But this was merely a guise. The major is in fact a highly trained killer, and he’s lost none of his edge since retiring from the service. And finally, there was the senorita, who sat in the middle of the bar, nursing a glass of white wine. As always, I was struck by the young woman’s beauty and elegance – her flowing dark hair, olive skin, soft eyes and bright floral dress. I wanted so badly to speak with her, but I knew she wouldn’t talk to me. It hurt, but I would continue to respect her wishes…For now at least. Owen was working behind the bar, serving our patrons whilst sporting a wide grin. Our chef is a tall and thin man with a devilish look in his eyes and a near permanent smile on his lips that is anything but wholesome. I’ve worked with Owen for years but the man still surprises me, and I’ve never figured out what makes him tick. In one sense he is my closest friend and confidante, but the man also scares the hell out of me. I know what he does in that kitchen and it turns my stomach. Mr Hillman came into the lounge at around 9:30pm. He’d already been drinking that evening. This became obvious due to his slurred speech and the smell of alcohol on his breath. Nevertheless, our guest took a stool and ordered a large whiskey, downing it in one before demanding a second. I became concerned whenever he turned his attentions to the senorita, taking a seat beside her and trying to start a conversation. Frankly, the exchange was painful to watch. Hillman seemed to be trying to chat her up, but the senorita was having none of it, and clearly she was well out of his league. I noted how his body language became more aggressive as the conversation dragged on and as she continued to give him the cold shoulder. I was very worried about the senorita’s safety but knew she wouldn’t appreciate me trying to intervene. Besides, she could look after herself, as she’d proved many times in the past. I remember the moment when the situation deteriorated. Hillman leaned forwards, trying to touch the girl. She reacted in an instant, jumping off her chair and stepping back whilst glaring him down and shouting – “Don’t you dare!” Predictably, Mr Hillman reacted badly to this firm rejection, standing up from his stool, his face red with fury as he clenched his fists. “You stuck up bitch!” he spat, his eyes narrowing as he prepared for violence.I could no longer sit and watch and so made ready to intervene, but this proved unnecessary, as the others stepped in first. “You sir, are a sorry excuse for a man!” That was the widow, awakened from her grief as she spoke up in the girl’s defence. “If my husband were still alive, he would teach you a damn lesson!” Hillman shot her a hateful look, shouting – “Keep out of this, you old bat!” The major was the next to speak, and as always, his words hit home.“You’ve had too much to drink, young man. I suggest you call it a night.” His words were typically polite on the surface but were spoken in a tone which left no doubt as to their meaning. He also shot Hillman a killer glare, holding his gaze after he’d said his piece. I imagine the major had given that look to dozens of men over the years, just before he snapped their necks. I looked on in shocked awe as Mr Hillman’s face turned pale and he quickly backed off, almost stumbling over the bar stool as he retreated. Hillman had been humiliated and clearly wasn’t happy about it, and so he ranted angrily whilst leaving the lounge, screaming – “To hell with the lot of you! You’re all a bunch of God damn freaks! This place is dead anyway…A total dump. I’m going out to find myself a real party!” And with that he stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him. I felt a huge relief at seeing him leave and looked over to Owen, who was still standing behind the bar. He’d remained silent throughout the tense encounter, although I noted his hand was under the till and remembered that’s where he kept his meat cleaver. “That guy is trouble. We haven’t heard the last of him.” said Owen. I nodded my head in agreement, knowing he was right. I didn’t think this was going to end well. I took another drink to calm my nerves before leaving the lounge and ascending the floors, running the gauntlet to reach the relative safety of my room. Thankfully, my short journey was fairly uneventful on that night. The elevator ran smoothly, and my walk along the sixth-floor corridor went uninterrupted, that is until I reached my bedroom door. I was fumbling with my keys when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my sixth sense told me I was being watched. I turned around in a shot, coming face-to-face with the senorita. She was just standing there behind me with a look of reproach in her eyes. The lights above her flickered as she stared me down, giving the young lady an unsettling appearance. I was in shock because I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken with me. I’d yearned for the chance to reconnect, but now she was here, I found myself speechless. Therefore, it was left to the senorita to break the silence. “I saw you watching me at the bar. What were you going to do, jump in to save me? Play my knight in shining armour?” I was taken aback, barely able to stutter my response. “…I wanted to make sure you were safe…” She scoffed in contempt whilst rolling her eyes. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” I lowered my head in shame, as her words were like a dagger through my heart. The worst thing was – I knew she was right. “Why?” she cried angrily, “Why are you still here? Why can’t you leave me be?” I began to sob emotionally as I struggled to respond. “You know I can’t do that…” I whimpered tearfully. She shook her head in disgust, her voice full of sorrow as she spoke her parting words. “There’s nothing I can do for you, no relief I can give you. Please just leave me alone.” And with that, she left me – disappearing into the darkness and leaving me alone with my pain. I didn’t sleep that night as my encounter with the senorita kept running through my head. I was so upset that I’d forgotten all about Mr Hillman and his bad behaviour. Unfortunately, he also occupied a room on the sixth floor, only a few doors down from my own. He came in after midnight, making an awful racket that would wake the dead. I listened to the muffled sound of his voice and realised he wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him – I could hear her laughing at his undoubtedly snide comments. I assumed she was a lady of the night as I couldn’t imagine a man as vile as Mr Hillman could charm any woman he wasn’t paying. I lay on my hard mattress and continued to listen carefully as they entered his room and shut the door behind them. I didn’t like it but remembered Mr Black’s motto – ‘The customer is rarely right, but we must suffer their excesses.’ Besides, I was exhausted – both physically and emotionally drained, and so I closed my eyes and fell into a deep slumber. I awoke to the sound of screaming, jumping up from my bed as all my senses came to life. I groggily glanced at my alarm clock and saw the time was 3:33am – right in the middle of the witching hour. The screaming grew louder – a blood curdling cry from a woman in mortal danger. I thought it could be connected to Mr Hillman and his late-night visitor but couldn’t be sure, as disembodied screams were not uncommon along the hotel’s haunted corridors. I know what you’re thinking and yes – I should have left the sanctuary of my room to investigate, but I’d learnt long ago to never walk the halls between the hours of 3 – 4 am. My actions may well have been cowardly, but I haven’t survived this long by taking unwise risks. Next, I heard the sounds of a scuffle as furniture was knocked over and walls were slammed. Soon, the screams were soon replaced by the terrible sound of a death rattle…and then there was an awful silence. I knew straight away that the Hotel Morte had taken another victim and I also realised there would be a mess to clear up in the morning. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep another wink that night and by 7am I found myself standing inside Room 66 – Mr Hillman’s room – observing the bloody mess he’d left behind. Mary – our resident maid – was standing with her back to the door, facing the blood-splattered bed and shaking her head in disgust. I sheepishly walked up behind her, making my presence known by clearing my throat. Mary turned to look at me and I saw the anger in her tired eyes, noting her drawn face set under fading red curls and her traditional maid’s uniform that was now worn-out and threadbare. Sadly, the many years trapped in this hellish establishment had taken their toll on this poor woman. She remained professional with her words, but I could hear the emotion in her voice as she spoke. “Really sir, this will not do. Those sheets will have to go, and the carpet will be permanently stained. Frankly sir, this guest is little better than a savage animal.” I nodded my head meekly and muttered – “Where is the deceased?” She didn’t answer verbally, instead pointing sternly towards the bathroom. I reluctantly made my way to the closed bathroom door, my nostrils filled with the sadly familiar stench of death. I turned the handle and discovered a sickening scene inside – the corpse of a young woman dumped in the blood-filled bathtub, semi-nude and stabbed multiple times through the chest, her dead eyes still open and staring up at the ceiling, and her face frozen with an expression of absolute terror, a permanent reminder of the horrifying last moments before her violent death. I stood in the doorway for a moment, sickened by the sight and with my heart filled with shame, as I recalled how I’d done nothing to prevent this heinous crime. I was brought back to reality by a voice from my rear. “I told you he was trouble.” I swung around to see Owen standing beside Mary, his usual grin no longer present.“Yeah.” I agreed solemnly, “Where is Mr Hillman?” Owen shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know boss. I heard him going out early this morning, but all his stuff is still here, so I guess he’ll be back.” I sighed out loud, racking my exhausted brain as I tried to figure out what to do. “Okay.” I finally answered, “I know this is bad, but I’m going to need you both to work with me on this. Mary, please do your best to clean up the blood. And Owen, can you take care of the body?” “Sure thing boss.” our chef replied, his face suddenly lighting up. This worried me as I’d seen that look before. “Now Owen,” I said sternly, “I don’t want her going through your kitchen like the others. This young lady deserves better.” Surprisngly, Owen seemed aggrieved by the accusation. “What do you take me for boss? I am no heartless monster. I shall wait until dark and drive her out to the woods. Find a peaceful burial spot. Nice and respectful.” I nodded my head, feeling somewhat reassured. “And what about our guest?” Mary asked sharply. I experienced the stabbing pain of anxiety as I considered her question. Sadly, this was a task I could not delegate. “I will speak with Mr Hillman.” I replied. And so, I left my staff to their unpleasant work while I went downstairs and began my shift. I carried out my daily tasks and impatiently waited for Mr Hillman to return. He arrived back at the hotel around lunchtime. I noted how he wore clean clothes, having presumably discarded his blood-stained garments from the night before. He shot me a look as he entered the lobby through the rotating door and I tried to see any signs of guilt or remorse in his bloodshot eyes…but alas, all I saw was darkness staring back at me. Mr Hillman was evidently not in the mood for conversation, as he attempted to rush past my reception desk, tightly clutching his briefcase which I now believed contained a murder kit.I cleared my throat, speaking up to stop him in his tracks. “Excuse me sir, might I have a word with you?” I would’ve used much harsher words if it were up to me, but Hillman was still a customer, and so Mr Black would insist on a basic level of courtesy. He turned around and glared at me with hate in his eyes, practically spitting out his reply – “What do you want?” I took a deep breath, meeting his hateful gaze as I spoke my piece. “Sir, I must tell you that the incident in your room last night is considered a severe breach of our residency rules. With all due respect sir, the condition your room was left in is unacceptable.” I expected him to react aggressively to my rebuke but instead he bellowed out laughter, emitting a sick, sadistic cackle which filled the lobby. “So, you’re not happy?” he replied mockingly, “And what the hell are you going to do about it?” I felt the anger rising up in my stomach and struggled to control it as I spoke my next words through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to pack your bags and leave.” He laughed again, louder this time. “I’m not going anywhere my friend. If you’ve got such a problem with what I did, why don’t you call the cops?” Suddenly I lost my previously held confidence, finding myself unable to respond. “Yeah, I thought not.” said Hillman, as a sickening smirk appeared on his lips. “I know what goes on here. I hear the strange noises late at night – the banging and the screaming. This is no normal hotel, and you sure don’t want the authorities poking their noses in. Besides, I rather like it here. This is where I belong. No my friend, I intend to stay here for a long time, and there’s nothing you can do about it! In fact, I would strongly advise you to stay the hell out of my way, or else you may end up dead in my tub!” He cackled once more, slapping me hard on the shoulder before casting me a parting, predatory glare. And with that, he left, heading to the elevator and up to his room, no doubt planning his next murder. I was left seething with anger, barely able to contain my hatred of that vile man. It took a moment to compose myself and consider my next move. At this point there was really only one option left open to me. The time had come to phone Mr Black. The owner of the Hotel Morte didn’t sound particularly pleased to hear from me. Mr Black expected me to handle difficult situations on my own initiative wherever possible. However, my employer became more sympathetic after hearing my predicament. “Hmmm…” he mumbled thoughtfully, his soft voice carrying down the line, “This is quite the conundrum. A very unfortunate situation indeed. Our guest is right of course, we cannot contact the authorities on this. At the same time, we certainly do not want this unpleasant individual to remain in our hotel…” “So, what should we do?” I asked impatiently. Mr Black laughed softly before replying. “My good man, have you learnt nothing from your time in service? Here at the Hotel Morte, we handle such matters in house. Our staff and long-term residents, we are like family. Perhaps our relations are not always amicable, but we’ve always come together in the face of external threats. Speak to your people and they will advise what action to take…Now, if there’s nothing else, I will bid you good day.” After that, he abruptly ended the call, leaving me listening to an ominous dial tone. I knew this was as much advice as I would get from the enigmatic Mr Black. And of course, he was right – we needed to deal with the Hillman situation ourselves. So, I called a meeting in the lounge that very afternoon, and we made our plans, preparing to put them into motion. That evening I sat up in my room and stayed alert, ignoring the usual ‘bumps in the night’ that were all too common in the Morte, waiting for the sound of our unwanted guest returning from his night’s exertions. I felt extremely tense, shaking with anxiety and anticipation when I heard his muffled voice and the footsteps along the corridor. A surge of adrenaline kept me going as I opened my bedroom door and stepped out into the danger zone. Mr Hillman was outside his room, fiddling with his keys in the lock. He turned to face me, and his expression was one of pure rage. There was a lady of the night with him, a girl so young she could have been his daughter. She was pale skinned, thin and wore a short cocktail dress and heels. I noted how her pupils were dilated and so guessed she was an addict. Digging deep into my reserves, I spoke up defiantly as I finally confronted the vile man. “Now Mr Hillman, perhaps I wasn’t clear when we spoke this afternoon. We will have no repeat of last night’s unpleasantness.” Hillman was clearly furious and he snarled at me through clenched teeth. “Get back in your damned room!” I took a deep breath and shook my head in the negative. “I will not.” I replied firmly. “You son-of-a-bitch!” he growled, “I’ll gut you like a damned fish!” Hillman pushed the girl aside and charged at me, reaching into his jacket to withdraw a sharp butcher’s knife. I reacted on pure instinct, fighting for my life as I grabbed hold of his wrist and desperately struggled to disarm him. As we fought, I glanced over his shoulder and saw the young lady, her eyes wide with terror. “Run!” I screamed. Thankfully she obeyed, sprinting down the corridor in the opposite direction. We’d anticipated this situation and so Mary and the widow were waiting for the fleeing girl and would get her to safety. But now I was the one in mortal danger. Mr Hillman was stronger than he looked and so he soon got the better of me, breaking free from my grasp and throwing me to the ground. I looked up fearfully at my attacker as he advanced upon me with pure hatred in his eyes and his knife raised, ready to strike. “You bastard!” he cried, “I warned you not to interfere in my business! Now you’re going to pay!” I crawled backwards, praying that the cavalry would arrive in time to save me. Thankfully, my friends didn’t let me down. “Now then sir, this really will not do.” said the major. “He’s got that right.” added Owen. Hillman turned around in shock, suddenly finding himself confronted by two men, both advancing upon him with menacing intent. The major carried a machete and Owen was armed with his trusty meat cleaver. The hardened looks in their eyes confirmed they meant business. Hillman gasped and slowly started to back away. As he did so, the banging started, as the entities trapped inside of the vacant rooms slammed their fists against the insides of the doors, hammering in unison to create an ominous and intimidating drumbeat. For the first time I saw genuine fear in the killer’s ghostly pale face, as suddenly the hunter had become the hunted. The major and Owen were blocking his route to the elevator and so Mr Hillman fled in the opposite direction whilst still wielding his knife. He headed for the staircase, just as we’d anticipated. I got back up on my feet and joined my armed comrades as we pursued our quarry. In a blind panic, Hillman threw open the door and stepped out onto the staircase. That’s when the next part of our plan was put into action. Suddenly, the senorita emerged from the shadows, approaching Hillman from behind and taking him completely by surprise. She got right up in his face and shouted – “Boo!” Hillman cried out in dismay and stepped backwards, losing his footing and falling down the stairs, his body tumbling heavily until he hit the bottom. He turned over and I saw his own knife was now protruding from his chest, buried deep in his ribcage. The monster’s eyes were now filled with shock and fear as he began to choke on his own blood, his life slowly and painfully draining away. I think we all felt a grim satisfaction when watching the serial killer die, but Owen was the first one to speak the words. “A job well done!” he stated firmly. “Indeed.” I replied, whilst shooting our chef a sly look. “I assume you can take care of this?” “Of course.” Owen confirmed. “And feel free to dispose of this body in whatever way you see fit.” I added. I watched with a combination of concern and morbid curiosity as Owen’s face lit up, and he replied – “With pleasure sir.” All traces of Mr Hillman were gone by the next day and no-one ever came looking for him. Things returned to normal soon after, or at least as normal as they ever get in a place like the Hotel Morte. We’d worked together to take care of Hillman, but sadly the senorita went back to ignoring me. I would keep working on her however, hoping against hope that she would one day forgive me. It was two days later when I received an unexpected phone call from the ever-mysterious Mr Black. “So,” he began, “I understand our issues with the troublesome guest have been resolved?” “Yes.” I replied, somewhat puzzled but not really surprised. Somehow, Mr Black always knew what was happening in the Morte, even if he wasn’t physically present. “Very good.” he replied, “I always had faith in you to find a satisfactory solution…But this isn’t the reason I called you.” “No?” I said, now feeling more than slightly apprehensive. “There is a special event coming up which I want to discuss with you.” he continued, “A small convention, of sorts. Thirteen attendees, all requiring food, beverages, and rooms for two nights.” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I would have thought this was a joke, but Mr Black never had much of a sense of humour. “Really?” I exclaimed, “They want to hold their convention here?” “Yes indeed.” he confirmed, “This group has a special interest in our little establishment and the unique amenities that the Morte offers. Now, do you think you can handle this event?” I almost laughed, struggling to find the words to respond. “Well…I suppose so, if we use all of our spare bedrooms and set up the dining hall. Yeah, I guess we can make do.” There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line before my employer finally spoke again. “Hmmm…it’s not that I don’t trust in your abilities, but this is a very important customer and so I think I will need to attend in person, just to make sure everything runs smoothly. I shall see you next Friday to confirm the details. Good day.” And then he hung up, leaving me to my thoughts. I’ll admit to feeling deeply concerned but also intrigued. I was facing three virtually unprecedented events within the next week – a fully booked hotel, a convention, and a personal visit by the hotel’s owner. I expected it to be an eventful few days but could never have anticipated the bloody carnage that would follow. And so readers, if you’ll indulge me for a second occasion, I will tell you the tale of a hotel convention straight from the depths of hell. Until next time, my friends. Credit: Hell Tourist Facebook Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.