Violet . . .
Violet slowly awoke to the sound of someone saying her name.
Violet . . .
She heard it again and this time she could have sworn it was Moira's voice.
Violet, I'm here . . .
The voice was coming from just outside her door. Violet turned her head to the digital clock and saw it was 3:33 a.m. Maybe Moira found out I was here, she thought as she got up and went over to the door.
When she opened the door, there was no one there and the only sound she heard was the static of the hallway's fluorescent lights.
Disturbed, Violet started to close her door again when the sound of a door slamming caught her attention. She quickly looked back down the hall, and realized it was the stairwell exit door that had slammed shut.
Thinking that it was Moira and that she must have went down the stairwell instead of using the elevator, Violet quickly went back into her room to put on her boots, and ran back out towards the stairwell exit.
She pushed open the door and she saw a girl slowly walking down the stairs. She didn't look like Moira. The girl had long, straight light brown hair, while Moira's hair was a vibrant red which she would usually wear pinned up. Violet thought, maybe Moira changed her hair for some reason?
"Moira?" Violet called out to the girl.
The girl stopped walking and looked up at Violet. When she saw the girl's face, Violet felt her blood run cold, and she gasped out, "What the fuck?!"
The girl looked just like her, even down to what she wearing: black tank top, flannel pajama bottoms, and Doc Martens. When the girl made eye contact with Violet, a sinister smile crept across her face, and she started walking back up the stairs. Only . . . she wasn't really walking. She was contorting her body and floating at the same time.
Violet watched in horror as her doppleganger opened her mouth wide and a black, oily substance poured out, giving her a macabre grin.
"Violet . . ." the doppleganger said in a creepy parody of Violet's voice.
Violet yelled out, "Stay the fuck away from me!" as she opened the door to run back down the hall.
Her doppleganger continued after her at a faster pace, and Violet ran to her room for all she was worth.
She was almost there when suddenly a door opened, and a strong pair of arms grabbed her, pulling her inside of the room, before slamming the door shut. Violet struggled to be free and opened her mouth to scream. But whoever had her quickly put their hand over her mouth.
"Violet, it's me, Tate. Stay still!" Tate whispered against her ear.
When she recognized his voice, Violet stopped struggling, but she still couldn't calm down. I must be losing my fucking mind, Violet thought. What I saw just isn't possible!
Tate looked out the peephole of the door, and Violet saw him relax his stance.
"She's gone," he said quietly before looking at her. "What were you doing?"
Violet didn't answer him right away. She hugged herself and rubbed her arms, trying to ward off the chill that came across her body at her freaky encounter. She looked around and saw that Tate's room looked like hers, just a little bit messier. She walked over to the bed and sat down, suddenly feeling like her legs couldn't support her weight any more.
"Violet?" Tate asked as he walked over to sit next to her.
"What the fuck was that?! Why aren't you as freaked out as I am?" Violet asked as she turned to look at him.
"Whatever it was, it's gone now. What are you doing up this early?" Tate asked her gently.
Reacting to Tate's calmness, Violet let out a sigh, closed her eyes, and counted to ten. Get a grip! You're safe now, she told herself.
When she opened her eyes she saw that Tate was looking at her with a concerned look on his face.
"I thought I heard Moira saying my name from outside my door. I thought that maybe she heard I was looking for her. Instead it was that . . . thing, and it started chasing me. What the fuck is going on?" Violet asked exasperated.
Tate took her hands and rubbed his thumbs against her palms, probably trying to soothe her. He looked down at their clasped hands for a moment, and then all of a sudden he gripped her hands hard and started chuckling. Violet tensed up, suddenly feeling like a fly caught in a spider's web.
Tate raised his head to look at her, and Violet gasped because his eyes were completely black.
"Don't look at that hand, look at this one! Violet, don't you know? Pink stars are falling . . ."
Violet jerked awake and the first thing she noticed was that she was in her room on her bed. It was just a dream, Violet thought relieved.
The second thing she noticed was the sound of the alarm clock going off. She reached over to turn it off and she saw it was only 5:17 in the morning.
That's weird. I don't remember setting the alarm, Violet thought. Maybe the last person who stayed in this room set it and didn't reset it when they checked out.
Violet really wanted to go back to sleep, but her nightmare still lingered in her mind. She sat up in bed and reached for her iPod and her notebook.
When she was a child she suffered from night terrors. Her dad was a psychologist and told her to keep a journal next to her bed so she could write her dreams down. It didn't really help but at least it was better than talking about the nightmares.
She had heard that talking about nightmares would give the dream less power. However, Violet felt that talking about her nightmares made them more real. She also couldn't stand the look on her dad's face when she told him about her dreams. It looked like he was psychoanalyzing her, and had deemed her to be a psychopath.
She eventually outgrew the night terrors, but she still kept the habit of writing down any dream that bothered her. This dream qualified. As she wrote she couldn't help but notice that Tate was in her dream.
Last night, she had smoked another cigarette while they talked on the roof top. She offered him one, but he just smiled and pulled out a blunt from his pocket. He was kind enough to share it with her.
Hmm, maybe that's why I had that dream, Violet pondered.
Through their conversation, she discovered that Tate was a year older than her and that he actually lived at the hotel. His mom kicked him out as soon as he turned eighteen.
Violet had asked him if he remembered seeing Moira at the hotel, showing him a picture from her phone. He said she looked familiar. She explained that she was looking for her and Tate offered to help.
When they finished the blunt, they walked back to their rooms, and Violet had the urge to invite him into her room. For someone who rarely talked to people, she felt completely comfortable with Tate. Not to mention she was really attracted to him. She didn't have a lot of experience with boys, but somehow she was at ease and even found herself flirting back when he started flirting with her during their conversation. I like him, she thought.
In the end she settled for saying good night and a promise to get him in the morning so that he could help her with her search. She was not the most animated person, but she did find herself feeling excited that she would be spending more time with Tate. Violet now understood the appeal of the idea of hooking up with someone while you're on vacation.
But this wasn't a vacation, and even though she wouldn't mind seeing where things go with Tate, she needed to focus on finding Moira.
Her plan was to ask the hotel receptionist what room Moira stayed in and if it was possible to get Moira's things. Then she planned to look for Hugo and interrogate the bastard. She had a feeling that Hugo had something to do with Moira's disappearance.
But Moira's strange voicemail gave Violet some doubt about Hugo. In the voicemail, Moira had mentioned a "she". Could the "she" be Hugo's wife? Daughter? Sister? Who did Moira meet while she was here?
Violet shook her head to clear her mind. Too much to think about without coffee. She finished up writing in her notebook and decided to take a shower.
She went over to her luggage, pulled out the clothes that she was going to wear that day, and walked over to the bathroom.
She saw them as soon as she turned the light on. Her Doc Marten boots laced together, submerged in the sink, which was filled with a black, oily substance.