After ten tedious minutes and an absurdly sour drink, Meredith was still hell-bent on staying in Suite 312. Mrs. Diana Glampers had poured herself a glass of her fancy-ass wine, and had proposed toast to Meredith, saying that she would need it. While Glampers emptied her glass, Meredith asked how, if the room hadn't been occupied for twenty years, Diana knew that electronic devices didn't work in 312.

"The room goes through a light turn once a month, given that the ventilation in such an old structure is quite poor," Glampers said. "I didn't intend to give you the impression that it hasn't been occupied since 456. This is a historical monument, after all. My staff and I take care to keeping everything spic and span. That means-"

Meredith waved her hand. "I know what it means."

"The sheets were changed last night, Miss Davis."

Meredith sighed, setting her glass on the armrest and said: "You know, you would be right at home in a horror movie, Mrs. Glampers. You could play the gloomy old butler who tries to warn the young married couple way from the Palace of Doom."

"It's a part I haven't had to play often, thank all the stars. Suite 312 isn't listed on any of the sites dealing with paranormal locations or psychic hotspots. All current information about 312 is strictly monitored by both the government," she put a hand to her chest, "and I."

That'll change after my book, Meredith thought, crossing her arms.

"I suppose I simply could have left 312 as it is anyway during most of its days and nights," the hotel manager mused. "Door locked, lights off, shades drawn to keep the sunlight from fading the carpet wallpaper and portraits, covers pulled up and canopy curtains closed, doorknob breakfast menu on the bed... but I can't bear to think of the air getting stuffy and old, like the air in an attic. Can't bear to think of the dust piling up until it's thick and fluffy. What does that make me, downright obsessive?"

"It makes you a hotel manager."

"I suppose. In any case, the maids are always sent to tidy up in pairs, with several security guards placed by the open doors. Over the years, I've come to notice that sending up several people on good terms allowed them to come out without too much damage to their person. Like their bonds make them...not immune, per se, but safe enough, at least for the short amount of time it takes to do a light turn."

"Hoping for that bond to withstand the poltergeists?"

"Hoping for that bond, yes. And you can make fun of the Suite 312 poltergeists as much as you want, Miss Davis, but you'll feel them almost at once, of that I'm confident. Whatever there is in that room, it's not shy." Diana shook her head, gripping the old brass key in her clenched fist. "On many occasions, I went in with the maids, to supervise them, or to pull them out, if anything really awful started to happen. Nothing ever did. There were several who had weeping fits, one who had a laughing fit, and a number who fainted. Nothing too terrible, however."

"So what risk is there for me? Stay for the night, then. It'll be like a sleepover."

Glampers' gaze hardened. Meredith suddenly felt uneasy under stare, like a pupil being chastised by her teacher. The manager obviously didn't appreciate the joke. "One of them went blind."

"What?"

"She went blind. A young woman of twenty, Annalise Desmond. She was dusting off one of the statues, and all at once she began to scream. I asked her what was wrong. She dropped her duster and put her hands over her eyes and screamed that she was blind, but that she could see stars and fire. It went away almost as soon as I got her out through the door, and by the time I got her down the hallway to the elevator, her sight had begun to come back."

"You're telling me all this just to scare me, Mrs. Glampers, aren't you? To scare me off."

Glampers tipped back in her seat, setting the key back down on her desk with a clink. "You know the history of the room, beginning with the suicide of its first occupant."

"He jumped out the window straight into the lake." Meredith cocked her head. "Is it true that back in the day, the nobles would toss the corpses of the executed in that lake?"

The manager cleared her throat. "Yes, that is true-"

Meredith pulled out her portscreen and a pack of cigarettes, speaking discreetly into the speaker. "The Artemisia lake really is an ocean of bodies-nice touch."

"You do know that smoking is prohibited in the Grand Artemisia Hotel-all throughout the city, too."

The writer looked down at her lap and gently picked up her smokes, feigning a pained expression. "Oh, I know. It's empty, see?" She drew it open and showed off the single cigarette, lolling around the box. "I quit years ago, but I always keep one to nibble on in case things get too intense."

"One woman died from choking in that room. Autopsy revealed that she had swallowed a dozen cigars that she had smuggled in." Glampers levelled her stare with Meredith's. "Suite 312 is a room not only of suicides but of strokes and heart attacks and epileptic seizures. One man who stayed in that room-the last one, in fact-apparently drowned in a bowl of soup. I know of several maids who have turned that room who now suffer from heart problems, emphysema, and diabetes. There was a heating problem on that floor three years ago, and head maintenance engineer at the time had to go into several of the rooms to check the heating units. 312 was one of them. He seemed fine then-both in the room and later on-but he died the following afternoon of a massive cerebral hemorrhage."

"Coincidence," Meredith said. Yet she could not deny that Diana was good, a true campfire story-teller.

"Coincidence," Glampers repeated softly. She held out the old-fashioned key on its flimsy white ribbon. "How is your own heart, Miss Davis?"

Meredith found it took a conscious effort to lift her hand, but once she got it moving, it was fine. It rose to the key without trembling at the fingertips, so far as she could see. "All fine," she said. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to check in."

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Diana insisted on accompanying Meredith in the elevator to the third floor, and tired of arguing with the headstrong woman, Meredith simply followed her lead in silence and admired the sights around her. In the elevator, Glampers once again offered to carry Meredith's briefcase, and Meredith once again refused. The button to the third floor was pressed and as the car rose, Meredith said, "I'm curious about something. Why didn't you simply create a fictional resident for Suite 312, if it scares you all as badly as you say it does? For that matter, why not declare it as your own residence?"

Diana sighed, crossing her arms around her chest. "I suppose I'm afraid I would be accused of fraud. The royal suites are property of the Lunar Republic, and therefore can't really belong to any one person. If I can't persuade you to stay out of 312, I doubt that I would have more luck in convincing the government that I took a perfectly good room off the market because I was afraid that spooks cause the occasional traveling official to jump out the window and sink all the way to the bottom of Artemisia Lake."

Meredith found herself incredibly disturbed by this. Before, it was clear that Glampers was playing it up to convince her against her goal, like the well-spoken saleswoman. But Meredith had payed for the night in 312, and it was all said and done. But she still spoke of 312 as if it truly were something to be afraid of. Because she believed in it. She believed in it all.

A pleasant ding rang out in the lavish space, and the glass doors slid open, revealing an even fancier hallway. The constant glass and gold and sparkles were making Meredith's head hurt. She stepped out, expecting to have Glampers follow her, but to her dismay, she turned to see that the manager had planted herself inside the elevator.

"Here we are," she said. "Your floor. 312 is to your left, at the end of the hall. Unless I absolutely have to, I don't go any closer than this." Glampers brushed her hair back, slight perspiration appearing on her dark skin, brought on by anxiety and fear. "The netscreen in the room has a comming function, of course. You could try it, if you find yourself in trouble...but I doubt that it will work. Not if the room doesn't want it to."

Meredith thought of a snarky reply, something about how that would save her a charge at least, but all at once her mouth seemed as heavy as her legs. It just lay there on the tip of her tongue. Suddenly, without Glampers even saying goodbye, the elevator doors slid shut. Meredith stood where she was for a moment, in the perfect silence of the Grand Artemisia Hotel, and thought of reaching out and pushing the elevator's call button.

Except if she did that, Glampers would win. And there would be a large, gaping hole where the best chapter of her new book should have been. The readers might not know that, her editor and her agent might not know it, the lawyer might not...but she would.

Puffing out her chest, she pulled the key to Suite 312 out of her side pocket and began to make her way down the hall, her feet as sticky as molasses. The reflective tile that covered the floor shimmered like diamonds, and the crystal chandeliers on the ceiling basked everything in a gentle light, picturesque against the pink and orange sunset that could be seen from the arched windows. Once Meredith managed to park herself in front of her room, she took in the first problem she had with her overnight residence. The door to Suite 312 was painted white, with solid silver embossed in a swirling pattern.

It was also crooked.

Not by a lot, but it was crooked, all right, tilted slightly to the left. Just enough to be irritating as all hell. It ruined the beauty of the hallway décor, and made Meredith look sideways, oddly squicked.

She bent over, aware that the slightly woozy feeling in her stomach left as soon as she was no longer looking at the off-kilter door. She unzipped the pocket on her bag, and took out her port. She pushed RECORD as she straightened up and opened her mouth to say, "The door of Suite 312 offers its own unique greeting; it appears to be crooked, tipped slightly to the left."

Meredith narrowed her eyes and stopped her recording. What was she talking about? The door wasn't crooked. It was perfectly straight. She turned, looked at the second door leading to 312, down the hall, then back at the door before her. Both doors were the same, white with silver and black doorknobs. Both perfectly straight.

She swallowed and brought the key to the lock, preparing to turn it. She stopped.

The door was crooked again.

She stepped back, the key still left in the keyhole. It was like airsickness, as the door seemed to turn to the right, but she blinked, and the door was straight. It had always been straight. Meredith grunted and turned the key, pushing the door open.

The room was completely dark. Fumbling for a moment, she found a glowing pad that basked the room with light as soon as she put her fingers on it. The rumoured luxury of the room had not been exaggerated-the main foyer or whatnot gave way to three other pieces, one of which Meredith saw was the bedroom. To the left was a sitting room, with a writing desk, exceedingly lavish sofas and the famous netscreen that Glampers refused to let up about. Walking straight ahead, she found herself in a world of windows, each draped with velvet curtains. Another chandelier hung from the ceiling, adorned with crystals. From the windows was a magnificent view of the Artemisia Lake and the hotel gardens, where she could see some people milling about among the flowers.

"From the window I'm looking at," Meredith whispered to her port, "The very first guest of Suite 312 jumped down to his death in the ocean of bodies." She glanced around with a smirk. "It's not hard to believe that royalty used to live in here-this all just screams expensive and tacky. The wallpaper is all white and golden flowers and I'll bet that the curtains are worth more money than I've ever seen in my humble lifetime." She walked up to the ornate fireplace on the very back wall, scrutinizing it with her writer's eye. "This is supposed to be history...it seems more like a movie set to me. If it's true that indulgence is the embodiment of evil, then I'm in the seventh circle of hell. But, I must admit, it does have its charms."

She plopped her two bags on the divan and opened three of the windows, the cool breeze from outside chilling her to the core; it was pleasant and soothing, a small reminder of home. Scotland, the huge forests overflowing with natural beauty, the embodiment of the Earth. She was glad that she had had the common sense to leave Luna as soon as she was able, much to the despair of her family. The selfish writer had never fared well under a dome.

Meredith glanced at the walls. That room, like the others, also contained several portraits, which Meredith assumed all depicted members of the Blackburn line. Each face offered something new to the table of wildly varying traits, and she wondered if, for any of them, what was shown on canvas was their true face. There was dust on the glass covering the pictures, and Meredith trailed her fingers across the face of a black-haired queen and left two parallel streaks. The dust had a greasy, slippery feel. Like silk just before it rots was what came to her, but she wasn't about to put that on tape. How was she supposed to know what silk felt like just before it rotted? It was a drunk's thought.

Suddenly, all at once, the feeling in Meredith's gut returned with a vengeance. She took a step back and found that the painting was also crooked. It was crooked in the way that all the pictures in the room were crooked, come to think of it, now that Meredith looked around. Of course they were crooked, there was nothing supernatural about that-paintings would go on being crooked, as old as those were. They've been here a long time, no doubt about that, Meredith thought. If I lifted them away from the walls, I'd bet I'd see lighter patches on the wallpaper. Or bugs squirming out, the way they do when you turn over a rock.

Meredith scrunched her nose. There was something both shocking and nasty about that idea; it came with a vivid image of blind bugs oozing out of the pale and formerly protected wallpaper like living pus. With a flick of her thumb, she brought the port to her mouth once again. "I have to admit-Glampers has me riled up, without a doubt. I dare say I'm even uneasy right no-"

She was cut off by sudden flash from behind, and she turned to see a faint glow emanating from the room next door. Slightly startled, she put a hand to her chest and began to make her way towards the light. In the other space-the study, she imagined-the netscreen was inexplicably turned on and the display showed an archaic-looking menu, with symbols and applications (at least, she assumed they were applications) that Meredith didn't recognize at all. So Glampers was saying something, when she mentioned that the thing was ancient, so old that even the software hadn't been updated. There was no way she could figure how to use it, she concluded. She was no technical whiz by any means.

On the screen was a digital clock, constantly ticking down the seconds, then minutes, then hours, like any other clock. But the time wasn't there. It didn't indicate eight-twenty-seven, like her port, but the more Meredith stared at her own device, the more the minutes seemed to fade away, the more she realized that time had stopped. Her port was frozen at eight-twenty-seven, and then her recording app was frozen, and with a jolt the entire system crashed. Meredith, her lips trembling, gazed at the black screen, her feet rooted to the ground.

The netscreen flashed again. Meredith peered up, her eyes wide and glossy as she stared at the countdown, the white numbers clicking by-60:00, 59:59, 59:58...

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