The Unnamed Room

By Leah Stone

On the outside, the room had no number, so it was impossible to tell whether it was a guest room or something else. Nothing about the door itself was inviting: it was a black with a golden doorknob. But with no sign on the door indicating its reason for existing, there is a strong urge to open it.

First stepping inside it is completely black. After fumbling for the light and turning it on, the room is soaked in a faint amber glow. An armchair sits in the middle, paired with a simple wooden end table and a lamp without a shade, from which the light glows.

Then another light switch is turned on, and the floor is illuminated. Looking down you feel your stomach plummeting as you realise you are standing over the ballroom. The floor is glass and you can see the hotel staff begin to set up for the evening’s meal. It seems, however, that they cannot see you, and they go about their business, un-stacking chairs and placing tables, not realising that you are watching from above.

Now you feel too scared to move.  It looks like there’s no floor, and it fills you with a fear that it could collapse at any moment and you would fall onto one of the tables just as one of the staff were placing the cutlery. It seems safer to slowly crouch on all fours and crawl over to the armchair in the middle of the room. Once on the chair it seems a lot safer now that you have something you can actually see between you and the ballroom below.

You turn slowly on the chair, finally taking in the rest of the room. The walls are bare, a disgusting shade of magnolia. A desk sits in the back right corner, its draws open and the top bare. There is no desk chair. Another door faces the one you came in through. A faint light pulses from underneath it. Do you go through that door, or back the way you came? Though first you have to gain the courage to get off of the armchair.

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