Jonathan left the library after talking to the librarian more, she showed him a dew old news articles about a few murders that occured in, or around the Hamilton Hotel, but he had connections in the local police department and the DA, so he could get the inside scoop on this. It seemed that he was gonna that good, heart pounding, bestselling story after all. Jonathan decided to phone his boss, Harvey McDerm the chief editor of the New York Times. Him and Jonathan had devloped an almost friendship over the four years that Jonathan had been working with the paper as a full fleged journalsit. But this year had been dry, both in events and happenings and in Jonathan's writing, and McDerm didn't blame Jonthan but still he couldn't keep a journalist on who wasn't writing selling stories that would captivate an audience. But Jonathan believed he had the perfect story to get him back to still seas and ahppy sailing. The Hamilton Hotel was, at one time, one of the most profound hotels in all of New York City, but after awhile other hotels stole the spot light and the Hamilton slowly but surely sank into decay. But perhaps his article would bring more business to the Hamilton.

That or end any chance it had of coming out of their downwad spiral. Jonathan thought as he retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and dialed his boss's number. Several taxis lumbered by and Jonathan successfully flagged down one as his boss answered the phone.

"New York Times, Harvey McDerm speaking."

"Hey cheif, it's Jonathan."

"Oh! Jonathan! Any luck getting a good story going kiddo?" Harvey asked, his voice had that sound that only people who are holding a cigar in their mouth have.

"Yeah I did boss, hold on a sec. Yeah, police station please. Anyways boss, yeah I got the-" Jonathan started to say but McDerm inturrupted him.

"The police station? Jonathan what's going on? You talkin to someone else?" McDerm said, his voice harsh and it was as if he was holding a stick in his mouth.

"I'm on the way to the police station to see a contact boss. It's about the new story." Jonatha said reassuringly.

"Oh okay. So the story sonny, hit me with it." McDerm said a squeacking noise came through on the line, and it was a sound Jonathan knew well. He could see McDerm sitting there, cigar sticking out of his mouth like pop-eye, leaning back in his office chair, hands behind his head. Jonathan gather his thoughts in record time and began to articulate him story, or rather his idea for a story, to his boss.

Afterwards McDerm remained silent for a few moments, that made Jonathan even more nervous. When he boss liked a story he shouted it out right away, but when he didn't like it he remained silent, as Jonathan suspected, trying to find away to reject with finess. In other words, when the boss was silent after you pitch him a story, he's trying to figure out how to reject your story without totally crushing your self-esteem, though often that was the end result.

"Did ya get the manager's permission to write this one Johnny boy?" McDerm said after his lengthly silence.

"No not yet. I'm heading over to see my contact to see if there is a full story in this or not. I didn't want to ask until I knew for certain that there was a big story in this, which I'm sure there is." Jonathan replied. McDerm had himself a hearty chuckle. He thought the kid was good, damned good. And smart too.

"Alright I see your point sony, well as long as you get his permission, ya got my approval. It really sounds like a spooker." McDerm said, and by his voice (also taking into account the cigar in McDerm's mouth) Jonathan knew he was smiling, which was a very good thing.

Before Jonathan could say, 'Thanks boss.', McDerm hung up the phone. McDerm hated when people thanked him, he was a bit of a hard case in that sense, but he was a good cheif editor, and him doing things his way kept him secure in his position. And Jonathan kind of liked his attitude, it had it's own man's-man-ness to it. And even if Jonathan didn't like McDerm's attitude, what was he supposed to do? Try to change him? Ha. Ha. McDerm wouldn't change, maybe when hell freezes over, but other than that not a chance.

After a few more minutes, the cabbie pulled up in front of the police station. Jonathan quickly thanked and paid him, then hopped out of the taxi. The freezing cold air swept through him as if it was artic tempratures, and it felt like his internal organs were now frozen soild, but of course that was an exageration. His internal organs weren't frozen, but he was damned cold, that was certain.

Jonathan leaded against a street sign pole as he again pulled out his cell phone, this time dialing his contact, Detective Wallice, who was an old friend. They had gone to high school togther, and were the best of buds ever since the first day of nineth grade. They had even gone to the same college, and both came to work in the Big Apple, but Jonathan chose a life of journalism and Wallice chose a life of crime fightin'.

Ring. Ring. Ring. The phone went as Jonathan leaned against the frozen metal pole, which he found only made him colder.

"Detective Wallice. Homocide."

"Hey! Wallice, it's Jonathan. Look, I need a favor." Jonathan said, not being able to help from smiling.

"Don't tell me, cause I'm bettin' my car I can guess." Wallice said with a little laugh, "Here come on over and I'll get you hooked up with what you need."

"I'm standing outside, about fifty steps from the door." Jonathan said as he began to walk towards the door. Wallice chuckled.

"Gotcha. I'm double timing it down there." Wallice said the hung up.

. . .

"One hundred and seventy six steps to the door." Jonathan said as he and Wallice shook hands a few moments later. Wallace laughed at how utterly ridiculous Jonathan could be when he so wished.

"You always were a little overly observing." Wallace said as he lead Jonathan to the stairs that led to the file department. Jonathan simple chuckled.

"So whart do you need this time?" Wallace asked as they walked down the stairs, neither rushing or taking it overly slow, just walking at their normal pace down some normal stairs.

"Anything on, or related to, the Hamilton Hotel." Jonathan replied as he breifly told Wallace of his story idea. Wallace whistled as if it was a far fetched, but possibly sensative idea.

"Did you ask the manager if you could write that?" Wallace asked, they were now on the file floor, which in reality, was a modestly finshed basement, filled in with any type of security devices that one would expect to see in the New York City Police Department.

"Not yet. I wanted to make sure there's a bis sized story behind this before I ask. I don't wasnt to assume because to assume makes and a-"

"Yeah, yeah I know that one Jonathan." Wallace said with a light laugh. He signed the sheet for the file department, which basically said who he was, who was with him, and what he was doing. Research was what Wallace alwasy put, and it wasn't lying. They were doing research, just not the normal type that cops did.

Wallace stopped for a moment by the file department officer, who watched everyone sign in and such. "Hey Ralph! You know of any cases that happened in then Hamilton Hotel? Or any cases that are related to it?"

Ralph's eyes widen at the question and come out of his booth station, where he sat about eighty percent of his shift, and he walked over to Wallace and Jonathan. "Well of course I know of some cases! What kind do you want?"

Jonathan and Wallace looked ateach other then Jonathan looked back to Ralph. "Is it really that bad?"

"Worse than you know sonny! Here follow me I'll take ya'll where ya wanna go." Ralph said as he walked down one of the aisle, appearing to randomly chose, but he wasn't being random, Ralph could name ten different and unrelated cases (other than the victim/perp some how being connected to the Hamilton Hotel) off the top of his head, and the way his eyes widened whe Wallace asked him, well that only made Jonathan believe him more.

"Let's see here...." Ralph said as he suddenly stopped and bent over alittle looking at boxes with random case numbers on them. He pulled out out from the first shelf, then two from the second shelf. "There's three. I know of about ten more, give or a take a few. Just holler if you wanna see more, alright?"

"Yeah, we will Ralph. Thanks." Wallace said, Jonathan was already opening the boxes, his eyes glimmered like a boy seeking buried pirate treasure, except, it wasn't pirate treasue, but it was buried, but more medphoraclly speaking. It was buried in the concious mind, unwanted to be revealed, but it was there. It was all there, just wating to be dug up and exposed to the light of day.

Wallace knelt down by Jonathan who was already reading through a police report. His eyes were wide with excitment and anticipation, and by the way he was flipping through the file, Wallace guessed he wasn't being dissapointed at all.

"Anything good?" Wallace asked as he himself picked up another file, it was fairly think, and heavy. He looked at the date and saw it was from 1985.

"Yeah, this is great writting material. I mean look at this." Jonathan said as he scooted closer to Wallace, so that he could look at the file he held. "A former bell boy of the Hamilton Hotel goes mentally insane, killed his entire family. Then watch this, this is the good part, he was shot by police, but lived for another thirty-six hours, and as they were transporting him to the hospital he said, 'It was the thirteenth floor, the thing in the thirteenth floor.'; then he slipped into unconciousness and never woke up. He died the next day mysteriously. According to this someone had pulled the plug on his respirator, that or it malfunctioned, and that killed him, but it says that the docotrs said he would've gotten better." Jonathan said, reading from the file, never taking his eyes off it, "I mean that's just one! We box three boxes full of these. How many are in this box?"

"I don't know, lemme see..." Wallace said as he began to look through the box, "So about six, including the one you're holding and the one I'm holding."

"Damn. I could write an entire book on the history of that hotel." Jonathan mused as he flipped through the files.

Wallace stood up, putting the file he held back in the box before he did. "Well, I'll let you take these three boxes to your hotel room for acouple days, but you have to keep this hush-jush and between me, you, and Ralph. Deal?"

"Hell yes you got a deal!" Jonathan said, as he stood up. They shook hands quickly and then Jonathan called Ralph, who came quickly, as if he knew they'd call him sooner or later.

"Yeah soony? Ya call me?" Ralph asked, seeming excited that someone needed his help again.

"Yeah, Ralph which box has the file for fire in 1964?" Jonathan asked as he placed the file back in the box.

"That box." Ralph said, pointing at the only box Jonathan had opened.

. . .

Jonathan arrived at the hotel in a taxi, the three boxes filled with police reports of crimes related to, or ones that took place in, the Hamilton Hotel. Jonathan quickly got out of the taxi, thanked and paid him, then lifted his three, rather heavy, but nothing he couldn't handle, boxes. He walked into the hotel, unable to keep a small smile off his face, toting the three boxes, and their contents. There was no bell boy or anything, so Jonathan simply took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, that actually was the fourteenth floor. It was the same roller coaster type ride as the first time he rode the creepy elevator.

"One of these times I'm taking the damn stairs." He said as he picked up the boxes and began walking down the hall towards his room, number 26, which was shy of his lucky number, twenty-five, by one.

Jonathan again set down the boxes to remove his hotel room key. The Hamilton hotel was so old, and in their loathing of decay, that they (a.) never had the money to upgrade to key cards, or (b.) the manager never saw the use in upgrading. Either way, the still used old school keys. He opened the door easily, placing his key back in his pocket after pushing it open, and again lifted the ultra-heavy boxes, which were beginning to weigh down on his shoulders, as walked into his hotel room, kicking the door closed as he went.

He put down the boxes with a thud on the small desk, which gave a literal groan from the pressure being out on it's structure by the weight of the boxes. Jonathan plopped himself down in the small, and very old, chair and opened one of the boxes, the one that had the case file on the mysterious fire that occurred back in 1964, exactly fifty years ago.

He rummaged through the files, until he found it. It appeared to be the thickest, and if Jonathan had his bet, the heaviest file in the box, possibly even the thickest out of all the files in the three boxes.

Jonathan opened the document, immediately greeted by old crime scene pictures of the charred room. The first picture was of the hallway, which had what looked like peeling wall paper, but then he noticed how it was concentrated around the white sheets that covered the bodies, and it dawned on him, as softly as the sun rising every morning, but as powerful as the effects of the sun's rising, that those peels of wallpaper were probably burnt skin, which had melted off the people who were unlucky enough to have been caught in the fire, and stuck to the walls when the flames reached their bodies.

Jonathan quickly flipped the picture aside, not sure how much longer he could keep what little food he had consumed throughout the day in his system if he looked at the picture much longer.

. . .

After what seemed like centuries, though it was only a few hours, Jonathan had successfully gone over all the files. There were many cases of insanity followed by murder or suicide. And even more of random, unexplained deaths. It was a very odd history indeed, perfect for his story though. Jonathan decided he had enough to go ask for permission to write on the hotel. So we he went, not caring what it would take to get the permission he needed.

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Chapter written by Michael Hall (@MichaelHallWritting)