The Thirteenth Floor[ON HOLD]

Prologue

1964 - Flames of Wrath

The part was wild, as many were back in 1964. Big names gather to celebrate the success of one, or to the celebrate the success of many. Many people hooked up and went to rooms to consummate their meeting. Others staggered around drunker than drunk, laughing a dirty jokes that normally they wouldn't laugh at but their intense level of intoxication added to their acceptance of the jokes.

People fell into the wall, slammed doors open, making holes into the wall. All of them completely oblivious to the force that dwelt in the thirteenth floor, which had a very short fuse, well more like what fuse?

Then the force that dwelt within the walls and floor, and even the air, of floor thirteen woke up, and it was royally pissed off, it's fuse being totally non-existent. It's rage burned like a roaring fire. And then it became a true roaring fire. People screamed and true to flee from their rooms, but their doors were locked and they couldn't unlock them even though the locks were on their side of the doors. Others ran for the elevator and the door that led to the stairs. But the elevator doors wouldn't open, even the strongest of them couldn't pry the door open, and the stairway door was locked and wouldn't budge an inch, even though there was no lock on the door.

The flames flickered and engulfed people, yet no carbon dioxide not carbon monoxide was released, so no one died in any other way other than the flames or wrath. People screamed in agony as the flames flickered against them, melting their skin. The people dropped on by one, the smell of burnt flesh filled the air and drifted into the rest of the hotel.

And thus is the disaster on the thirteenth floor at the Hamilton Hotel in New York City. And the cause of the fire, or how the doors locked themselves, still remains unsolved, and even buried purposfully, to this day, fifty years later.

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Prologue by Michael Hall (@MichaelHallWritting)