I am currently sitting in room 231 of The Avalon Hotel in Beverly Hills, drinking black coffee, contemplating a nightmare. It must be a nightmare. I can not call it a memory.
It has a different name now.
For two nights I have slept here. I must have slept, though the bed is still made and the mint lies uneaten on the pillow. I tried to go for a walk this morning, but the corridors confounded me and turned me back to my room.
Marilyn lived here. She got out, for a time, but her suicide tells me she never really left. She carried these corridors with her.
Alvin Lustig designed these hallways. He was clever to merely call himself a designer and not an occultist, but anyone with understanding can perceive secret messages in the architecture — sigils bound in stucco and steel.
Everyone here is from out of town.
Everyone is here on business.
Last night I was drawn to the amoeba-shaped pool, though I was very tired. Other guests seem to feel it as well, travelers dressed for dinner though it was nearly eleven. A young woman drank too much champagne and fell laughing into the water. I wanted to help her, but knew better than to stain my good suit.
We watched her thrash for a time, and when she grew still we raised a glass to her beauty and then retired smiling to our rooms. The pool was empty this morning. Someone else is checking in now.
I too am here on business, but I cannot remember what I do for a living. My credit cards are all maxed out. My pistol and passport have been stolen from my room.
I fear I will never leave.
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*I am staying in this hotel for work. I got sick of working so I wrote this up. No one actually drowned here last night.
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