- chapter one -

Walking into one of the bloodiest crime scenes he had ever seen in his career, Detective John Lowe was never so shocked as he paced his way into a hotel in downtown Los Angeles. He had seen someone, perhaps a lifeless corpse wrapped in a body bag by the forensics team, carried out strapped on top of a gurney. He looked around, his distinctively-shaped face and furrowed, dark brow moving slightly as his cold, inquisitive blue eyes found the crime scene's main focus.

A man and a woman, who looked to be engaging in sexual acts during the crime, were in a reversed cowgirl position on the white sheets covering the bed. The man beneath seemed to be alive, mumbling unintelligibly with agony, but his face was unrecognizable and covered in blood and torn tissues. The woman was still on top but impaled by a harpoon through the chest that went right through the ivory-toned headboard. The officer walking behind Lowe, who led him to the scene, broke the ice in discussing the mysterious case.

"We think the culprit took the master key from housekeeping," he informed the detective.

"No one heard anything?" Lowe asked.

"It seems like both were chloroformed the minute they got into the door," the other officer said.

"Just great." The sarcasm in the detective's voice was evident now; the forensic photographer kept taking pictures of the scene, even of crucial pieces of evidence found around the bed upon which the victims were laying. John made his way to the bedside table, careful not to disturb the current state of the scene, and noticed three familiar-looking body parts laying there stuck by the natural fluids remaining.

"These are his eyeballs and tongue," Lowe noticed, looking at the pieces disgustedly.

"This area has already been documented," the officer urged.

"Not by me."

The living but injured man beneath the woman impaled by the harpoon to the headboard kept mumbling. If he was crying, then tears were not coming from the empty sockets he now had for eyes. John could not help but notice another key clue that the others had overlooked at the scene—the dead, impaled woman was wearing a wedding ring on her left finger.

"They were married," he indicated. "But not to each other. They were cheating. There was no pissed-off spouse involved. It wasn't jealousy at all. It was something else. Who would drive someone to this extreme an act?"

"Beats me," the officer said with a shrug. John continued his way toward the injured man beneath the woman's corpse, who seemed to weep and cry in pain and fear at what had happened.

"Sir?" the detective said. "We are going to get you out of here as soon as possible."

"He's still inside her," the officer said.

"I can definitely see a lot of Viagra in his system. You won't be able to detach them here. Take him with the corpse and cut him loose."

It was the voice of a woman—it immediately caught John Lowe's attention as he turned around.

She did not look like a detective on duty, or any kind of law enforcement occupation for that matter. In fact, she looked like a regular civilian. She was quite attractive, as well—she was rather short but slim-figured with long strawberry-blonde hair, easy blue-gray eyes, and an oval face with rosy lips and a kissed complexion. Her manner of dress amazed John in not so much a negative way, but he never expected someone on a crime scene to be vested in a brightly-patterned maxi skirt, a silk button-up blouse, and a dreamcatcher necklace with real feathers and suede to hang it around the neck. There was a slight smile in her lips, and she looked to the officer who led Lowe to the crime scene, who stared back and gasped.

"Who might you be? You can't be here," John told the woman.

"Klein," she said with a sigh. "Pamela Klein."

"What is that you do, Ms. Klein?" the detective questioned.

"She is the newest member of our team," the officer said. "Forgive me for not introducing you."

"This isn't the best place anyhow," Pamela said, looking at the bodies.

"I...agree," John stated with a nod. "But…are you—"

"I'm a police psychic," Pamela said bluntly.

"Uh…" I need to let this sink in, he thought to himself, there's no way this is real.

"Trust me. It's real," she cut in—John's cold blue eyes widened in shock; was she reading his mind? "I was tested. I am the real deal."

"Did you collect all the data you will need from the scene for now, John?" the officer cut in.

"Uh, yes," Lowe said. "Off to the office now."

"Let Pamela come with you," he said.

"Why?" John said with confusion.

"She's your new partner. The lieutenant found her to be a perfect fit for the cases to come."

"To come?"

"Yes," Pamela said, walking further away from the bloody crime scene with John by her side. As they made their way out the door, she finished her sentence and ended John's bewilderment; "this is a true monster we have on our hands. He or she seems to love hotels."

John and Pamela arrived at the police station within a half hour, less time than usual due to a lack of afternoon rush-hour traffic in the streets of downtown Los Angeles. As they walked into the rows of desks, everyone seemed to have their eyes on Pamela's strange bohemian clothing choice as the sound of her flat boots filled the room. A secretary, whom she saw walking to John from the corner of her eye, held out a folder full of papers and crime scene content to the detective.

"Is this the report?" John asked the secretary.

"Not from the hotel homicide this morning, no," she replied slowly.

"Martin Gamboa?" Pamela asked, putting a look of shock on the secretary's face.

"Uh…yes…maybe you could look at it?" she asked. "If John is okay with it."

"She's my partner on these cases now," John said. "She has to."

"It doesn't mean I'll like what I see," the police psychic said.

"No one does. I've been a detective for years and these things still bother me," John replied.

As the secretary walked away, the two made their way into the detective's office, where John gestured his open hand toward an upholstered leather chair in front of the desk. He flicked on the vintage desk lamp with a brass bead pull string and green porcelain shade and sat down. Pamela, who was holding the file, nearly dropped it the moment she saw a bloodied, messy corpse in one of the pictures. She read from the description slowly, trying to absorb all the details.

"Martin Gamboa," she began, "aged forty-seven. He was an Oscar blogger, 187 occurred at his home in Silver Lake."

"Are you seeing this or reading it?" John asked.

"I'm reading, just listen," Pamela said, clearing her throat. "The victim died from blunt force trauma to the head. There's evidence of wounds on arms and thorax; some defensive. Whoever did this wanted him to suffer first. There are also fractures to the radius and the ulna of the right arm; compound fractures of the humerus of the left arm with bone protrusions through the skin." Pamela grimaced, swallowing her nausea and continuing "There are traces of what appear to be gold paint chips in the rectal cavity as well as in what is left of the cranium."

"Yes," John said. "That's what was found."

"You wrote it all right here. Very neat handwriting, I must say," Pamela said.

"So…why did they hire you? Why did they put you with me?"

"I told you why."

"No," John said, "I mean why did they put you with me?"

"Because they saw me to be a perfect fit for the cases to come. I have a strong feeling there will be many of them, unfortunately. All leading to one place," she explained, relying on her intuition to give a clear answer.

"Where?"

"I see it is a…rather vintage hotel…yes, it's another hotel," she said, her eyes closed as she attuned her natural second sight on what she was receiving. "Endless hallways. Enough geometry to make even someone like me sick to my stomach. It…is grisly—"

RING-RING!

It was a notification on John's cellphone for a Facetime. Pamela fell silent upon hearing the voice of a little girl, John's blonde daughter Scarlett, on the other line. She rolled her eyes complacently.

"Hi, daddy!" she exclaimed.

"Hey, how's my little girl?" John asked sweetly to his daughter.

"I'm good. School was so funny!"

"What happened?" he asked his daughter—Pamela crossed her arms impatiently, one leg over the other as she remained in the chair.

"Lizzy Cooper threw up in the middle of spelling. Now they're calling her Lizzy Puker," Scarlett giggled.

"How is your mother?" he asked. "Does she want to talk to me?"

There was a pause—Pamela heard the little girl talking to her mother in the background, asking if she wanted to speak with John.

"No," his wife said. What a bitch, Pamela thought, furrowing her brows. John sighed, discouraged by this thought, but was immediately cheered up with his daughter's voice.

"We ate dinner. It's almost bedtime, too. Can you read to me?" Scarlett asked over Facetime. John smiled, but just when he reached for his copy of Little Women, Pamela gave him the coldest, most impatient stare he had ever seen; we have work to do, she thought to herself. Luckily, the voice of a woman, John's wife, in the background ceased the girl's intentions.

"No, your father is working. He can't read."

"But mom!"

"No. Go to sleep."

And the Facetime ended there—Scarlett had said a quick goodnight. John frowned and looked at Pamela, whose face was as blank as a white sheet of copy paper.

"So, what is the plan?" she asked, her arms and legs still crossed in her seat as her patterned maxi skirt cascaded down the length of her legs.

"I always read to her at bedtime," he muttered. "Do you have kids?"

"No," she said. "Never would want them, either."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-seven."

"You don't look it, but I'm sure you'll change your mind later," John said with a smirk.

"No. I just don't like kids. I can tolerate them only to a certain extent," Pamela said.

There was a silence. As Pamela put the file full of disturbing crime scene content on John's desk, she sighed complacently and breathed out her nose.

"There are actually two, aren't there, Mr. Lowe?" she asked.

He turned pale and cold as ice—what was she getting at here? Was she trying to prove herself as the "real deal" being a police psychic?

"Excuse me?"

"Don't be afraid. I know you have a son. He was taken from a family event, a carnival. Yes?" she affirmed.

He did not answer, at least no more than a loud, apprehensive gulp.

"His name…it's on the tip of my tongue…Harold…Homer…Holden?" she asked, getting the visions exactly as they were coming to her. "If you put your daughter and him side to side, you would think they were twins."

"I…I…" John was speechless, but listened: does she know where he is, he asked himself in his mind.

"I'm getting the image of a woman," she said, looking at him and leaning forward; his attention was entirely on her at that very moment. "Glamorous…a long, sparkling gown…but…a claw…I'm getting the image of a claw. I see a claw. I can't put my finger on where she is, but I feel like she has a connection with the disappearance of your son. And I also know…this has caused a…a…strain on your marriage."

"H-How do you know this?" he asked in a frightened tone.

"I do. I didn't choose to have this gift," Pamela said. "It chose me."

"D-Do you sense my son is far?" he asked; his heart was racing a million miles an hour at this point. Her psychic abilities were one hundred and one percent accurate in assessing his private life and a possible matter at hand regarding his missing son Holden, mysteriously abducted from a carnival carousel five years before.

"Not at all. I can't put my finger on where he is, though. I feel a blockage in energy coming from the place. Therefore, I don't know where he exactly is," she said. "But I know for certain, when we uncover another hotel crime that is yet to come, we will come across him."

"When?" he asked with his jaw dropped.

"Soon."

In the moment of silence, Pamela got up from the upholstered leather chair in front of his desk and walked to the door, opening it. Before leaving, however, she looked at John, whose eyes were locked on her steadily; he was still amazed and shocked at the revelations she had told him.

"Mr. Lowe," she added. "The next time your wife tries to call you, answer it. It is not what it seems, but it will be useful."

And she left without further word, leaving John afraid and unsure, yet confused and amazed.

The following evening, John came home from work at the police station, and oddly enough, he had not seen Pamela at all the entire day. A fellow officer claimed she was trying to remotely locate the body of a murder victim in the area unrelated to the hotel incident. When he walked into the door, he was greeted by Scarlett and their dog. The little girl reached up to hug her father, and the dog barked contently at his return.

"Daddy!"

"Hey, how's my little girl?" he asked sweetly.

"I'm good, and you?" she asked.

"Just great," John replied.

His attention went to his wife Alex—a pediatrician, she was wearing her lab coat and rummaging through the contents of her black, worn leather tote with brass-toned buckles in the front. She was plain faced with blue eyes, a dewy complexion, and stringy golden hair tied back in a ponytail. She also looked quite flustered, flashing her glare at her husband with irritation. When he approached her, she sighed wearily.

"Hey," he said to her. "I'm sorry for being late."

"The text is more considerate than you, clearly," Alex replied. "It came at six o'clock, just when you were supposed to be here and watch Scarlett."

"I'm sorry," John said, looking down at his polished leather dress shoes.

"Well, that won't do me good. I have a kid with a sprained ankle in Beverly Hills and twins with whooping cough in the Palisades right after," she ranted in a huffy breath.

There was a silence—John kept listening, but Alex just seemed to get more aggravated as she slapped the flap back over the opening of her worn leather tote.

"Damn it, it pisses me off when parents refuse to vaccinate their kids," she said forcefully, whispering out of consideration for her daughter's ears. "I don't care how much they pay me. I was called in because everyone else is busy and can't work. I normally refuse to see parents like that."

Another silence—John made his way to the table, and Alex's voice stopped him, changing the subject.

"I made that casserole you two like," she said.

"Thanks," John said. "I'm a bit hungry."

"You should've eaten that protein bar I stuffed in your pocket."

"I didn't get to," he said to her, watching her pack her stuff to leave. He felt her lips graze his cheek briskly before seeing her hug their daughter and pat their dog one last time before leaving. Looking down, he saw that the casserole set out for him and Scarlett was hard, stale, and cold. He put down his fork and cleaned up both dishes, not even caring that it was a waste until his daughter stood in the kitchen doorway and offered a suggestion.

"Can we get sushi instead?" she asked.

"Read my mind."

"Should we ask if this fish has radiation?" Scarlett asked, looking down at the tuna rolls and salmon tataki in between her and her father as they dined in the nearby Japanese restaurant. John just chuckled and held his chopsticks, smiling and shaking his head.

"No," he joked. "You sound like your mother."

"She always says she has good reason to worry," Scarlett said.

Ring-ring!

There went John's cellphone suddenly ringing in the restaraunt—Scarlett reached her hand out, her knack for good manners getting the best of her.

"No phones at the table," she said.

"It's your mother," he said, putting the phone to his ear as soon as he redialed the number already in his contacts. When the ringing on the other end stopped, he got redirected to a voice mailbox, but no sooner did it end when another call came. Scarlett, sitting across from him, looked at her father strangely as he answered the unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Lowe?"

"Uh…Pamela?"

"Yes, it's pretty damn important."

"Whoa, whoa," he protested, "how did you get my number?"

"That's not important. Just listen," she instructed. "You need to come here right now."

"Where?" John asked.

"I…don't even know where I am," Pamela answered. "I followed my instincts and…I…ended up here. It's on one of the longer stretches on the outer part of town. It's…very run-down and dark so please hurry!"

"Don't worry, I'm on my way."

After the waitress came by and gave them their tab on request by John, as well as their leftovers to take home, Scarlett was confused as to why John was in such a rush to leave. He kept the excuse that it was "police work", which worried her even more the further they drove toward their destination. Pamela, even in the night, was not hard to miss with her brightly-colored, patterned clothing. Her arm waved out to him on the side of the road, where another police car was parked and two more policemen stood. As he sped toward them, he walked to Pamela and made subtle eye contact.

"Are you okay?" he questioned with concern.

"In there…it's…it's…"

She had a look of trauma and disgust on her face, her complexion almost green as she ran toward a bush and hurled chunks of undigested stomach matter into it. Scarlett, who was sitting in the back of her father's car, saw her vomit and grimaced as she wondered if she was well enough to stay there at all. John gasped, looking at the other officer.

"Have you been inside yet?" John asked.

"No, I just got here. Pamela pinged me," the policeman said.

"Watch my daughter. I'm going in," he warned.

"John, no!" Pamela shouted definitely.

Pulling out his gun, he ignored her pleas as he made his way into the run-down, dark building. He was fortunate to at least have the light of a waning gibbous shining down into the structure, but he was still wary of his surroundings. He was stealthy in his movements, holding out the gun defensively.

"Who's there?!" he shouted. "Police!"

Ring-ring!

His cellphone rang again; Alex, he thought as he saw the name. Putting it to his ear, he spoke frantically.

"Alex! What the hell? You didn't—"

"I nailed them to the headboard," a male voice said.

"W-Who is this?" John simply froze, speechless. "W-Where is my wife?!"

"I told you I'd do it again," the male's voice said. "Look behind you."

When he did, he almost fainted. It was also the reason why Pamela had thrown up outside in the bush upon his arrival—two corpses, both of men, had their abdomens ripped open and were eviscerated, their intestines dangling out as stale blood dropped onto the concrete floor. A pang of nausea ran through his torso, and as he tried to hold back the urge to puke, he talked into the phone again.

"Where are you? Why did you do this?" he asked fiercely, holding out his gun. "Show yourself!"

"I'm not where you are…" The voice trailed off.

"Please cooperate with me," John hissed. "Don't fuck around."

"I'm in the Hotel Cortez," the voice said. "Room 64."

Click.

~ a/n ~

The long-awaited first chapter of 'Façade (AHS: Hotel)' is FINALLY HERE! I've gotten a lot of reviews on the prologue alone and this story has a bunch of favorites and follows so THANK YOU all for the love!

NOTE: Kaya Scodelario (actress from Skins and The Maze Runner) plays Angela Saxon. Evan Rachel Wood (actress from Thirteen and Across the Universe) plays Pamela Klein.

So, as always, please leave Reviews, and be sure to Follow and Favorite if you liked it!

Want to see more? Well, good news for you! I plan on updating every couple of days! Stay tuned!