Hideaway (Devil's Night 2)

“There’s a story…” a voice suddenly said, jolting me.

I popped my eyes open, and my heart dropped into my fucking stomach. What the…?

“What the hell?” I burst out, sitting up. “Who is that?”

The voice—a woman’s—came from somewhere close.

Like the other side of the fucking confessional.

I leapt up from my chair, the legs screeching against the marble floor.

“No, please, don’t,” she begged, probably knowing I was about to rip open the door to the priest’s chamber on the other side. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I was already here, and you started talking. I won’t say anything.”

She sounded young, maybe my age, and nervous. I stared down at the screen, her voice inches away.

“You’ve been in there this whole time?” I growled, my head a flurry of all the shit I’d just said. “What the hell? Who are you?”

I whipped open my curtain, but then I heard the shutter on her side o

f the screen slide open all the way, and her plea, “Please,” she whispered. “I want to talk to you, and I can’t if you see me. Just give me a minute. Just one minute.”

I stopped, locking my jaw together. What the hell was she doing over there? Did she know who I was?

“You can see me,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”

Something about her voice was fragile. Like she was a vase teetering on the edge of a coffee table. I stood frozen for a minute, debating whether or not to let my curiosity pull her ass out of that room or indulge her.

Okay. Just a minute then.

“There’s a story,” she started again when I didn’t move farther, “about The Pope Hotel in Meridian City. Do you know the place?”

I eyed the screen, barely seeing her outline in the dark.

The Pope? That multi-million-dollar waste on the shitty side of the river?

I closed the curtain, taking my seat again. “Who are you?”

“There’s a rumor about the twelfth floor,” she went on, ignoring my question. “It exists, but no one can get to it. Have you heard that story?”

I leaned back just slightly, my body still rigid and on guard. “No.”

“Rumor has it that the family that owns The Pope built a twelfth floor in every hotel they constructed. For the family’s personal use,” she told me. “The entire floor is their residence when they’re in a particular city with one of their hotels. It’s inaccessible to guests, though. The elevator doesn’t stop on that floor, and when it was investigated, there’s not even a possibility for the elevator to stop there. The floor is walled in.” Her voice evened out, and I noticed a touch of excitement in her words. “And so is the stairwell access.”

“So, how does the family get to their secret floor when they want in?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” she asked. “That’s the secret. For the longest time, people assumed it was just some mystery promoted by the owners and staff to increase the allure of the hotel.” She paused, and I could hear her draw in a breath. “But then guests started noticing her.”

“Her?”

“A woman—dancing,” she answered.

“Dancing,” I repeated, suddenly a little more interested.

A secret floor? A secret entrance? A ghost girl?

I felt like she nodded, but I couldn’t be sure. “After midnight, when nearly every guest is tucked into their rooms and the hotel is quiet and dark, they say you can see her…” she nearly whispered, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Dancing by herself—like a ballerina—down in the dark, moonlit ballroom. Dancing to a haunting lullaby.”

I watch her lips move, concealed mostly in shadow, but I could make out the outline.