The Careful Implementation of External Pressure

Case #2: Nancy O'Connor.

Case #2: Nancy O'Connor.
Saturday/February/23/2019/12:13PM

Nancy O'Connor cleaned up after ghosts. Not actual ghosts, of course, because the light bulb in the west hallway is merely burning out, the door of room 13 just has a flimsy latch, the air-conditioning in the lobby is simply broken, and no matter what Margaret says, the Lynwood Motel is not haunted.

Not by ghosts, anyways.

In truth, people are far scarier than any ghost. Nancy, however, was not afraid of either until two years ago.

The Lynwood Motel is the last motel listed in the L section of the yellow pages, and a room is less than forty dollars a night. Room 26, is always checked out. Its not always occupied, of course, more often empty than not, but on the third of every month, enough money appears to keep the room empty for another month. Nancy had worked at the motel for the last twenty years, with a smokers cough and an unimpressed reaction to most things. She worked at a motel, she had seen things beyond the imagination of most human beings.

Yet, room 26 put her on edge; more specifically, the people who stayed there.

This week, someone was staying in the room for the first time in three months, and for the first time in an entire year, it was more than one person. They checked in at 3 am, a girl and a guy, allegedly stayed in the room until sunrise, then speed off in a different sleek sports car than the one that had been described to Nancy.

It was just after noon now, and they had yet to return. Theirs was the last room before she got her break, and she repressed the urge to rush through the room so she could have a smoke and rest her sore feet. She wanted to take her time with this one.

It was her weekend off last time anyone had stayed in that room, so she had no idea what to expect when she slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

"Housekeeping," she called haphazardly, even as she crossed the threshold of the room.

First impression? Boring, but not without potential.

She turned around, dragging her cart into the room and swinging the door shut behind her. She smooths out her skirt, a habit from when she was younger, and checks her watch. Its an old watch, given to her from her grandmother, but it works and its precious to her.

It's 12:13. She has twenty minutes.

She steps out of the entrance hall, and nearly trips over a pair of black boots. She tisks, and straightens the shoes against the wall for now. Every appliance in the room is off, but the coffee maker has been dragged out from its place and a half-full pot remains, permeating the room with the smell of coffee. The bed against the far wall is made, the closest one is not.

She strips the made bed first, slightly impressed at the neatness of the sheets, and the messy bed second, making both with that tight, seemingly impossible motel sheet-work in under thirty seconds. She is good at her job, after all.

Next she skims the room for any trash, finding nothing but used coffee filters and an abundance of wrappers for something called Pocky. She notices that the mirror is turned so that the entire room can be seen from any point, and wonders about it as she turns to her cart, dumping the trash can and grabbing her duster.

She dusts every surface, pausing when she moves to shake out the curtains. A bit cautiously, she brings the hideous green fabric to her nose. They smell like the ever-familiar nicotine, and she smiles fondly. She remembers the days she smoked out of windows.

She skips dusting the window sill, and moves onto wiping down all hard surfaces. There's a folder sitting, closed, on the desk, inconspicuous against the dark, worn wood.

Now, she knows she shouldn't look, but with the amount of mystery surrounding this room, the urge to learn as much as possible about the guests is overwhelming.

She checks her watch, double checking the time by glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table, and sits down in the uncomfortable desk chair, setting her cloth off to the side and pulling the folder towards her.

The first thing she sees is a newspaper clipping, any photo there might have been had been cut out and the date was missing as well, but the words 'mysterious death' circled with blue pen jump out at her immediately, and she frowned. She thinks back, but she doesn't remember any strange deaths recently, then again, there's no date. The paper could have been from years ago, for all she knew.

She flips the clipping over, and the next page is a list of records from the library, notes scribbled in messy handwriting. She leans closer, squinting to read the words, but freezes when she hears the safety of a gun flick off.

Her entire body freezes, her heart hammering in her chest as a cold sweat breaks out across her skin. The looming presence that she can feel over her shoulder says nothing, but the cold metal presses against the base of her skull harder.

There's footsteps behind her, and soon a figure is invading her vision.

It's just a kid, she realizes with wide, terror-filled eyes. He's giving her a sad-sort of smile, but his eyes are cold and send shivers down her spine.

"Watch, please," the kid says. When she doesn't move, the gun is pressed harder against her head, probably leaving an imprint in her skin. Her hands tremble so much it takes her a long time to undo the latch keeping her watch on, and tears fill her eyes when an impatient tapping starts from behind her.

She finally slides the watch off her wrist, and hands the precious metal off to the kid, who was waiting with a patient smile but vexed eyes, and he stares down at her like she's less than human as a flame so hot its blue erupts from his palm, turning the metal to liquid that evaporates into nothing before it even has time to burn the hand of the boy.

She startles back at the flare of heat, knocking her chair over and leaving her to crash to the floor. Her skull hits the floor with a sickening crack, and her vision turns blurring, shifting in and out of focus.

The gun follows her, pointing at her limp body as sobs rack her form, held with one hand as the owner snakes her other hand up to her ear, retrieving a cigarette from behind her ear, and lowering it to light it in the flame produced by the other.

She has time to crave the familiar nicotine, before the flame flickers out, the watch burned out of existence, and her entire body is covered in a searing, burning pain, her vision exploding into white and then nothing.

-0-0-0-0-

Cookie takes a drag of her cigarette as she tucks her gun back into the holster around her thigh, holding the smoke between her teeth as she cracks her knuckles.

Jay sighs, picking up the chair and returning it to its proper position, "just our luck," he says, with a little bit of humor, "our ghost hunting base ends up haunted."

Cookie chuckles a little, eyeing the open folder on the desk. She reaches into her pocket and places the missing piece of the newspaper- 1986- February 26- The mysterious death of housekeeper Nancy O'Connor on Monday, February 24, that occurred at the Lynwood Motel has officially been labeled a suicide by police, despite opposing evidence. Police chief Mark Madison and the local police department send their condolences to the family of the deceased. The funeral will be held on the 28th at Eastwood cemetery for friends and family of the dead.- in the folder, closing it and turning to Jay.

"What do ya' say, lunch before we report back?"

Jay smiles a little, "as long as you're paying." He takes immense joy in the way Cookie's face falls, sputtering protests even as the other sits on the end of one of the beds to slip her shoes on. Jay mimics the action, rubbing his shoulders, still sore from hiding out in the closet waiting for the housekeeper to arrive, and his "think the owners will give us a discount now that we've taken care of their little ghost problem?" hangs in the room as the door closes behind them.