Relax, said the nightman
We are programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave
— The Eagles, "Hotel California"
"Hotel rooms are a naturally creepy place...Just think, how many people have slept in that bed before you? How many of them were sick? How many... died? "
"'Got out'? Now, why would I wanna do that when the room service in this hotel is still
excellent? Has been for 50 years. The paranoia here is like fine wine."
, "Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been"
"You must be dead tired... what? You want to know if I can see it in your face? No, my friend. What I see in your face is not a desire for sleep... it's a desire for death The two are twins, you know.
"... Just kidding. Mhmhmhm."
You think this is Hell? Rita:
The whole "80s hotel" thing took me by surprise, though...
The rooms smell of mildew, nicotine, and brimstone, and you take on the dreams of those who slept there - all those lost souls trapped in the seedy perdition of 3 AM - all those unique ways to spell despair.
An ancient TV flashes white static and crackles in a cyclopean voice, THROUGH ME YOU ENTER INTO THE CITY OF WOES
. The dying thermostat rattles and groans, THROUGH ME YOU ENTER INTO ETERNAL PAIN. The invisible stains in the streets spell out, THROUGH ME YOU ENTER THE POPULATION OF LOSS.
The old Fiend owns a high-rise hotel and had it built to her specifications. It's posh and upscale, with a beautiful rooftop garden. What nobody knows is that the garden sits atop a hidden atrium
that runs the building's length and is packed with the Tzimisce's native soil. She sleeps where it's deepest, far from harm; supposedly, she's got certain exits from the atrium into certain rooms. The hotel concierge directs lone travelers into these suits and never registers the as having entered. The old Fiend uses her... well, I guess they're arms
... to snag those guests from their beds and pull them into the dirt with her. Meanwhile, the cleaning staff steals all their possessions when they clean the room out...
Returning to the elevator niche, looking down the other half of the long, curving corridor
, I remembered his song about the hungry hotel, built in the shape of a smile.
I knew then that the elevator was never going to come, no matter how long I waited. I wasn't really surprised that I couldn't get a signal on my phone
. I can take pictures with it and record this message, but how is that going to help? Eventually, I will have to use the key, because that's the only thing left to try...
—The Hungry Hotel, by Lisa Tuttle
[March] wasn't just building the finest hotel Los Angeles had ever seen. It was a perfectly-designed torture chamber
, an engineered alibi. Secret chutes and rooms to hide and dispose of the bodies. Hallways with no exits
. Walls were lined with asbestos so they could mute the screams. People walked in, just vanished.
"No body, no crime," he would say.