Her small house was exactly as she had left it; green throw draped haphazardly over the couch, three dirty plates in the sink, an empty shampoo bottle in the shower, and the first draft of her latest manuscript left open on the large netscreen in her office. Well, her writing room. It didn't really resemble a conventional workspace; it was cluttered with books and various memorabilia from her travels. Meredith stalked through her home, barefoot, in her warm fleece pyjamas. She ran her fingers over the globe on top of her cabinet. They came away coated in a thick layer of dust.

Like silk before it rots.

The carton of milk in the fridge was fresh and half-full. She raised an eyebrow as she poured it into her cereal bowl. She distinctly remembered throwing out that milk before she left for the moon—it was beyond spoiled. As she crunched away on her breakfast, the laughter of children playing in the snow could be heard from outside, as well as the neighbours shovelling off their driveways. She figured she would have to clear away her own eventually.

The clock on the wall ticked away merrily. On the hands, there were little leaves that shook with each passing of the minute. They fell like dead moths. Meredith trudged to her office; she cleared away some of the papers from her desk and organized her final proofs. She would need to go and send these off to her publisher sometime today...she groaned. They always insisted on physical proofs. A trip to the post office didn't seem the least bit delightful in the poor weather.

She jerked to a sudden stop. Her hand hovered right above her keyboard. Those proofs. She had sent them off before she went to Artemisia. They shouldn't have...they shouldn't have still been there. Her heart racing, she grabbed the thick files and flipped through them. They were definitely the proofs that she had mailed from the post office. She had done it the same day that she had received that postcard, depicting the Artemisia Palace. The one egging her to stay in 312. She tossed away the proofs and nearly tore apart the room in search for that postcard, but it was nowhere to be found. Meredith couldn't remember where she had put it.

Angered, she picked up her port and established a comm link with her agent, the wisecracking Neil Barker. As was typical, he picked up with a laugh and said a suggestive, "Hello?"

"Neil, it's Meredith. Did you get the proofs I sent on Thursday?"

"Whoa, nice to hear from you too, Meredith. I take that your last date didn't go too well?"

Meredith rolled her eyes. "Mr. Barker, please. Have the proofs I sent arrived at the publishing house yet?"

"No, I'm afraid not." He clucked his tongue. "Since when do you hound our mail deliveries?"

"Unless I somehow had a second copy of these proofs that I wasn't aware of, I know that I've sent them. They should've been there yesterday." She could hear Neil coughing over the line. In response, she pursed her lips.

"When, exactly, did you send them?" Neil asked.

"The twelfth. Around three in the afternoon."

He laughed. "Meredith, today's the twelfth. And it's eleven in the morning."

"What?"

"Unless you can somehow time travel, I think you're imagining things," he chuckled. "You probably haven't even sent those proofs in the first place. You could do well with some more sleep."

Meredith whimpered, knotting her fingers in her hair. "But I...I..."

Breathless, she glanced at her netscreen. The date was displayed in the top right corner, where it had always been. December 12th, Year 309. 11:17 AM.

"Oh," was all she managed to say.

"Are you alright?" Neil laughed again. "I think I'm going to let you go for now, so you can get yourself together...and send those proofs."

"No!" Meredith shouted. "Please...please don't."

There was an apprehensive silence. "What else do you need?"

Meredith let out a breath and sank down into her chair. She kept Neil on the line as she pulled up her travel history, every transaction and booking neatly organized in a list. Her last trip was three months ago, when she joined a friend for a getaway in Australia. There was no record of her reservation to Artemisia. She had spent a thousand univs on a flight to the domed city.

But not according to the computers. She wiped away some stray tears and took in a deep breath. Was she going mad?

It was a drunk's thought.

"I have...I have another idea for a book. I've already written out a loose outline; it's called Ten Nights in Ten Haunted Hotels."

"Ooh," Neil drawled. "It's true that we haven't tapped into hotels yet."

"I swear, this book will be the best one yet." Meredith forced a grin. "The juiciest chapter will be all about my one night stay in the rooms of the Late Queen Levana."

That caught Neil's attention. "You mean the Grand Artemisia Hotel?! You stayed there?"

"In the legendary Suite 312. The whole night."

Neil whistled. "I'll bet you have some real good stuff on that."

It's an evil fucking room.

She laughed uneasily. Yes, certainly, she did. Meredith had very vivid memories of the room, despite having never been there. Her nightmare, that horrible, horrible hour, would be enough to write her bestseller. There was no need to add that she apparently hadn't set foot in Artemisia. "It's just pouring out of me."

"Well, less talking, more writing! I want to read this steamy book myself!" He cleared his throat. "And don't forget—"

"—those proofs, yes. I'll be mailing them today."

"Good. Be sure to keep yourself in good shape, Meredith. Thinking like that guarantees a one-way ticket to the loony bin."

Meredith smiled, this time in earnest. "Good day, Neil. Thank you for your time."

She hang up and brushed back her red curls. A chill ran down her spine. The room was quite cold; she then noticed that she had left the window open. "Oh, for the love of..."

There was a dusting of powdery snow, as well as a few stray leaves on the shelf beneath the sill. She blew away the frost and plucked up the leaves with the intent of flinging them outside. A sharp wind blew in her face. The walls seemed to groan, and the glacial cold bit at her skin. A hiss came from the window frame and Meredith barely had the time to jump back before the glass slammed shut with a terrific bang.

Her body crumpled by the desk. Her very breath had been knocked from her. Meredith's blood chilled as she shook what seemed like ice shards from her hair; she looked over her left hand, that had been exposed to the outside cold. No harm done. Every one of her fingers was straight and aligned. She shook her head.

No cuts.

No scrapes.

No stitches in her pinkie.

The post office was established in a squat little building on the end of the street. Meredith made her way there slowly, careful not to slip on any ice that littered her path. The road was buzzing with hovers coming from all directions—she found herself glad that she didn't decide to drive today. She needed some air to clear her head, and being stuck in traffic would've only fuelled her pent-up rage. Wrapped in her velvet coat and silk scarf, she willed herself to be warm. But despite her clothes and the three lattes she had consumed in the past hour, she couldn't seem to shake off the chills.

Her breath came out in little puffs and her red-tinted nose tickled as snowflakes landed on her skin. The door to the post office was covered in frost; it took strength to pry it open. She stepped inside and let out a sigh of delight at the hot air that hit her face. Finally warm and comfortable, she found it within herself to smile. However, no one else in the facility seemed to be in the smiling mood.

Meredith gulped and waved the blush from her cheeks. She deposited her stamped package in the appropriate slot, thanking the familiar staff member that sat behind the desk. The two had often gone out for coffee together once the work day was done. Meredith expected a warm greeting; instead, she was returned with a glare. That woman, whom Meredith remembered as being loud and jubilant, began unplugging the netscreen and other electrical equipment from the wall. Everything clanged together as she forced the equipment into a large blue bin.

Meredith opened her mouth to protest, but she quickly thought better of it and backed away. Wary and nervous, she walked over to her mailbox and unlocked the slot. She groped the inside of the cold compartment, searching for that postcard, but to no avail, she had no mail. The clock on the far wall ticked and tocked mercilessly, not unlike the one she had at home. Squinting, she attempted to make out the time.

3:12 PM.

"Are you looking for anything, Miss?"

She turned around. A gruff-looking man sulked behind a wall of glass. Behind him, Meredith could see piles of outgoing packages. "Have you seen a postcard lying around, maybe? It's blue, and it has a palace on it..."

He shook his head. "Nope. Now, if that's all, please leave. We're closing."

"Closing?!" Meredith glanced at the clock again. "But it's only three!"

"We're closing down. This town has no more need for a post office."

Her heart began to race again. Behind her, she saw some men shuffling about, taking down bulletin boards and signs. "I don't—"

She screamed. The man's face split into a terrifying grin, baring teeth that looked more like a wolf's than a human's. He held a sledgehammer in his clenched fists. Beads of sweat ran down his neck and the tendons in his arms bulged. It was then that all hell broke loose.

The sledgehammer passed through the glass, which instantly shattered in an explosion of white. Meredith fell to the floor—and it shook, oh how it shook, as people drove jackhammers into the walls. The ceiling began to crumble down around them, and Meredith was left staring at clouds and gold and those goddamn cherubs. They all flew around laughing. Dust fell in thick motes and a broken chandelier snapped down on a rusty chain. The hardwood flooring was ripped out, revealing soft flowered carpet splattered with blood. Large windows with tattered curtains appeared like gaping maws; screaming, begging, starving. In them was ghostly brick wall and crude writing that said:

BURN ME ALIVE!

Meredith screamed.

BURN! THIS IS SIX, THIS IS GODDAMN SIX!

The remnants of the portraits still cried. They laughed and laughed and laughed.

EVEN IF YOU LEAVE THIS ROOM, YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS ROOM!

The spinning stopped. The clamour ceased. All the post office staff had disappeared. There was nothing but dead silence and hot, thick air. She pried her sticky eyelids open. Cried. Gasped. Hacked the blood and soot from her raspy throat. She wasn't in her winter clothes, but in her soiled sweater and tattered pants. The bandage on her finger had been torn away and she nearly vomited at the sight of it. The hideous stitches, the blacked flesh, the smell of rot...

Her portscreen has still clenched in her other hand. From where she was on the floor, she could see the ravaged bed in the other room. The sheets and duvet lead in a trail to where Meredith lay, as if she had rolled out of them. Her chest heaved. Ugly sobs filled the air as she recorded herself once again.

"I was out."

10:45, 10:44, 10:43...