Trapped in a secret hotel floor, a Hollywood producer finds his dead sister's recorder and uncovers his mentor's dark studio network
Part 1
Yesterday, while attending a studio press conference at the same hotel, the elevator malfunctioned.
The panel had buttons for 12 floors, but the cab rattled violently and opened onto an unnumbered, windowless concrete floor smelling of damp mildew and iron.
Sitting on the dark carpet ten feet from the elevator door was Clara’s silver voice recorder, its side scratched with her initials.
Before I could reach it, the heavy metal doors began to slide shut.
A primal jolt shot through Julian Burke. The metallic groan of the elevator doors starting their slow, inevitable close seemed to echo the sudden, terrifying lurch in his gut.
Clara’s recorder. Here.
He didn’t think, he just moved. His hand shot out, slamming against the ‘Door Open’ button with frantic force. The smooth, cold plastic gave way under his palm, but the heavy doors continued their relentless, grinding advance.
He had to get it. He *had* to.
Julian dropped the expensive leather portfolio he’d been clutching from the press conference. It hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud, unnoticed. His eyes were fixed, his entire being locked onto the small, gleaming object on the oppressive, dark gray carpet beyond the closing gap.
Clara’s recorder. The exact one. He’d bought it for her himself, a few months before she vanished.
He remembered her excitement, unwrapping the gift. She’d loved the brushed silver finish, the way the tiny microphone seemed to wink. She’d joked about recording Arthur Pendelton’s lectures, preserving every pearl of wisdom from the legendary director who had once been Julian’s own mentor.
That joke now felt like a punch to the stomach.
He lunged forward, ignoring the chill that seemed to emanate from the unnumbered floor. The air here was heavy, thick with the scent of damp concrete, forgotten iron, and something else—a stale, metallic tang that raised the hairs on his arms.
His fingers brushed the cold metal edge of the door, forcing it to hesitate. He pushed harder, wedging his shoulder into the shrinking gap. A protesting mechanical whine filled the cramped space.
The panel inside the elevator cab had shown twelve floors, from the opulent lobby to the exclusive penthouse suites where the studio’s biggest deals were brokered. But this floor was blank. A void. It simply didn’t exist.
Yet, here he was. Trapped between worlds, between the polished facade of Hollywood and this dark, forgotten space.
His eyes darted to the recorder again. It was closer now, barely five feet away. The tiny ‘CB’ initials, which he had helped her carve into the casing with his own pocketknife, were unmistakable, even in the dim light. A distinct scratch ran diagonally across the ‘C’—a mark he’d made by accident, testing the sharpness of the blade.
There was no mistake. It was hers.
He shoved his entire body through the gap, forcing the doors to reluctantly give way. His shoe scuffed against the concrete floor that felt rough and uneven beneath his expensive loafers. He stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe.
The smell intensified, sickly sweet and metallic, like stagnant water mixed with old blood. He breathed shallowly, trying to ignore it, trying to focus only on the recorder.
He was officially on the unlisted floor. The elevator hummed behind him, its doors now jammed open, a silent witness to his trespass.
The corridor stretched into impenetrable darkness, a tunnel of rough-hewn concrete. There were no lights, no signs, just raw, unfinished walls, and a ceiling that seemed to press down on him. The air was colder here, much colder than the conditioned comfort of the hotel above.
He took another step, his gaze fixed on the recorder. It was within reach.
Then, a faint sound, almost imperceptible at first, drifted from the inky blackness at the far end of the corridor. It was a rhythmic, soft thudding.
Julian froze.
A sound, like footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer.
The sound echoed. It definitely wasn’t his imagination. Someone was here. Someone else was on this dark, unnumbered floor.
Part 2
Julian lunged. His fingers closed around the cold metal of Clara’s recorder just as the heavy elevator doors groaned, a low, mechanical hum signaling their closure.
He yanked the small device, tumbling backward into the safety of the cab. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, plunging the unnumbered floor back into oppressive darkness.
His breath hitched. He stared at the recorder, the familiar silver casing scratched with Clara’s initials. A small ‘play’ button glowed faintly.
He pressed it.
The tape whirred to life, a low hiss of static, then Clara’s voice—muffled, anxious, but undeniably hers.
“…said it was a private audition, Arthur. Not some… some unlisted suite. What is this place?”
Then, Arthur Pendelton’s smooth, unsettlingly calm tone. “It’s a sanctuary, my dear. For talent. Where we can work without… prying eyes.”
A new sound, like a sharp, metallic scrape, then Clara’s voice again, louder this time. “This isn’t a sanctuary. This is a trap. You’re keeping girls here!”
The audio became distorted, a scramble of panicked breathing and a harsh thud.
Suddenly, Julian’s phone buzzed violently in his hand, making him flinch. The screen lit up with a stark, automated text from an encrypted studio channel.
*Subject: PRODUCER BURKE. Your movements are being monitored. Return to main floor immediately.*
You are Julian Burke. You hold Clara’s recorder, her voice still echoing in your ears, as a chilling warning flashes on your phone. What do you do?
A) Step back out onto the unnumbered floor to search the dark corridor using your phone light → Chapter 2
B) Spam the door-close button and hit the emergency call brake to summon hotel security → Chapter 3
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours