John was confused when he woke up on the morning of March 13th. For a minute he simply stared, unblinking, at the popcorn ceiling, questioning recent events.
Hadn’t he died?
He was almost certain he did. He brought a hand up to make sure his head was still there at the end of his neck. It was.
It must have all just been a dream, but something about it felt so . . . familiar.
He shrugged it off. It probably just felt that way because it took place inside a hotel, following a rather long day of work he had started to think might never end.
You see, John worked at the Emissary Suites, a five star hotel located in downtown Atlanta. In fact, John had always worked at the Emissary Suites. He’d been riding the elevators up and down its forty-one floors since he was barely tall enough to reach the buttons. He started out as an entrepreneurial little towel boy—delivering purely for tips, of course—but soon enough, he was adding food to his room service arsenal and finding ways to help out with housekeeping.
If you think this seems a little strange—an underage boy working in a premier hotel for cash under the table in one of the largest cities in America—you’re right. John’s situation was strange. Very strange, in fact, for a number of reasons.
Firstly, John is not John’s real name . . . probably. Nobody knows what John’s given name really is, because nobody knows who John really is. In the year 1998, on the morning of March 13th (a totally coincidental date), Emissary Suites Housekeeping found what they guessed was a three-year-old boy sitting on the bed in room 2025, watching reruns of The Fresh Prince. Who he was, and how he ended up inside that locked hotel room alone, remains one of the great unsolved mysteries of the modern world.
It was the slow season, and the room had not been checked out for several weeks, yet he was the picture of perfect health. The door showed no signs of tampering, nor were there any keys inside that would have given him access . . . not that it mattered. The police were certain that even if he had a whole ring of keys gripped in those little hands of his, he couldn’t possibly have reached high enough to use them without taller help.
The entire hotel was immediately put on lockdown. Every employee, guest, and random joe unlucky enough to be stopping in for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat was detained and interviewed by detectives. They investigated every hunch, looking for any information that might help identify this abandoned child. When they came up empty, they expanded the search and contacted every person who had spent even a single night there, dating all the way back to the beginning of the year—still nothing.
As you can probably guess, it became a rather large news story. Everyone wanted to know: “Who is this young John Doe?”—Find out, tonight at nine (Lies).
Luckily for John Doe, he was a pretty cute and easy going kid. He was quiet and hardly ever fussed, ate anything he was fed, and seemed more than happy to pay attention to whatever someone stuck in front of him. He was so easily entertained, in fact, that people probably would have commented on how unusual it was, were he not already so . . . unique.
The housekeeping and maintenance staff both took quite a liking to little John, so rather than taking the small child down to the station or forcing him into the system during the long search for his parents, child services okayed leaving him right where he was. The staff was more than happy to make sure he stayed well fed and bathed regularly, and when everyone was busy with work, John was more than happy to hitch a ride on a maintenance cart or housekeeping trolley and watch them go about fixing or cleaning.
Eventually, however, the detectives decided to give up on their search, and options needed to be discussed about a more ‘permanent’ home for young John. There were foster possibilities, as well as adoptions, but both paths seemed to mean a temporary stay in an orphanage.
“It’s just until they find someone to take him,” the lead detective assured the staff.
“And how long might that be?” asked Fredrick, an elderly handyman. He had been an elevator technician for just over three decades, until a thirty foot fall to the bottom of a shaft left him looking for something that kept him closer to solid ground. Now he led every maintenance team in the forty-two story hotel and repaired whatever broke, so long as it was located safely on one of the bottom three.
The detective took off his hat and scratched his head. “Ahh, well it’s hard to guess at these kinds of things, you know? He’s had a bit of press on his side, so that could help, but it could also hurt.”
Mariella, a particularly fiery housekeeper who understood English as well as any tenured Emory professor, but for some reason could only articulate a single word of it, was the next to speak up.
“Ayyy, Tonto,” she said, stomping one foot for dramatic effect, “Cuanto tiempo!”
The detective knew exactly two phrases in Spanish, both of which revolved around the word ‘cerveza’ and were absolutely useless at the moment. It showed on his face.
“She asked how long,” Fredrick said.
The polite translation earned him squinted daggers from the eyes of Mariella, who held up her index finger and wagged it in his direction.
“A year? Two? I don’t really know, folks, I’m a detective, not child services.”
“Well . . .” Frederick started, looking at the rest of the staff who had gathered in the break room to discuss little John. They all made eye contact and nodded to him in turn, seeming to be on the same page he was, so he nodded back at them, then returned to the detective. “What if we kept him?”
“What do you mean . . . we?” asked the detective.
“I mean we. Us. The hotel staff.”
A smile began to slowly creep over the detective's face, the kind that very clearly said he wasn’t sure if this was a joke or not, but that he was going to laugh either way. He coughed out, “You’re kidding . . . right?”
Frederick looked around again, just to double check.
“I don’t think we are,” he said.
“Well, okay then,” the detective said, a chuckle continuing in the back of his throat. “I’ll go ahead and let ‘em know.” He put his hat back on his head and made a move to leave the room, still laughing, but stopped, half-turning around as he reached the door.
“A rep from CPS should be over to talk with . . . all of you, I guess, but uhh . . . I feel I should just go on and temper your expectations a bit.” He reached back to grab the handle and lazily pulled open the door. “There is absolutely, unequivocally, no way in this life or the next, they are going to grant custody of a child to the entire staff at a hotel.”
“Entire hotel staff adopts mystery child in groundbreaking custody case.” —More at eleven.
It was a good situation for John. He had his own room, 2025 of course, which they dubbed ‘the room of mystery’ to appeal to the tourists. It worked a little too well. So many people stopped by to take pictures and investigate that they were forced to post a sign that said, “Please refrain from knocking. Guests within.” It was a bit bothersome, but John would eventually come to believe it was a small price to pay to have a hotel room all to himself at the tender age of four.
In addition to the room, John had over thirty people acting as his primary caretakers. People like to say it takes a village to raise a child, but few children growing up in the great U.S. of A are actually afforded one. There was always someone available during the night shift to tuck him in and read him a bedtime story, in the morning to make sure he remembered to eat his fruits and vegetables, and when he started going to school the next year, the hotel shuttle added two permanent stops to its schedule. And in the afternoons, he continued doing what he loved most in the world—going to work with his family.
He learned a lot over the years by watching his family work. Cedric regularly showed him how to unclog hair from shower drains or much worse things from toilets, and on occasion, how to solder and deal with what he liked to call, ‘real plumbing.’
“You always gotta check your seams for leaks, at least twice, cuz’ little holes can become big holes real quick. There’s only one thing a man wants to find looking wet in his bathroom while he’s on a vacation, and trust me . . . it ain’t a puddle a’ water.”
Frederick taught him how to repair drywall, to always use a voltage detector before dealing with electrical problems, and like clockwork, about every two months, how to fix the wonky fridge in room 128. Shortly after his ninth birthday, Frederick also taught him when to give up and put in a new one.
Mariella taught him Spanish, and how a room should look before a new guest arrived, which included how to put hospital corners on every bed that were so crisp and perfect they’d bring a tear to the eye of the great Admiral McRaven. When he turned 16, and was finally old enough to start really working, in the eyes of the law at least, they handed him over to Tamara, employee of the year three years running. She sat him at the front desk and showed him how to use the register, the check-in system, and to properly greet and treat guests.
“They’re paying good money to stay here, John, and there are plenty other hotels in the area they could be choosing. Our job isn’t just to check ‘em in and make sure their rooms work out, it’s to make ‘em feel welcome, like their being here isn’t an inconvenience to us, but makes us happy. Make ‘em feel the way they would if they were staying with family members for the first time in a long time.”
By 2016, John was the hotel’s number one factotum. He could fix just about anything and had no qualms about cleaning up whatever mess needed his attention. He always wore a pleasant smile and greeted people so warmly that even Tamara seemed to be lacking in comparison. It was easier for John though, because he didn’t have to pretend. Tamara had to lie to her guests and try to convince them that she cared as much about this hotel and its staff as she did her own home and her own family—the place and people she returned to at the end of a long day. For John however, this was the place he returned to, and these were the people he cared about. Or at least . . . they used to be.
Most of the staff members he grew up with were gone now, having been cycled out for one reason or another. Cedric had finally saved up enough money to start his own plumbing business, and though he continued to service the hotel now and then, they rarely found time to chat.
Mariela’s son, Diego—who had graduated college with a degree in computer science in 2005, promising her that computers were the future of business despite her adamance it was a waste of a degree—got a premier job in Silicon Valley making an obscene amount of money. He took her with him so that she could finally relax, enjoy the California sunshine, and take a much deserved break from the work she had put into raising three children on her own.
Frederick had retired a few years earlier, but he continued to visit and spend time with John regularly until he died, suddenly, of a heart attack that May. The funeral was poorly attended and left the bright ray of sunshine that everyone called John feeling cold, dark, and empty. When he returned to room 2025 that night, for the first time in his life, John felt lonely.
There are a number of different ways that people deal with hard times, but two seem to stand out above the rest for men between the ages of 21 and 55: work, and booze. Perhaps fortunately for John, since he lived in the hotel there was always work for him to do, which left him little time for evening dates at the bar with bourbon. Instead, he spent them in the kitchen, working alongside Chef Dentora, running room service, or doing whatever would tire him out enough to keep him from ending up in his room alone, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, struggling to fall asleep.
The problem with diving into work, at least when it isn’t combined with a nightly routine of getting wasted, is that the job eventually starts to get easy. Easy tasks start to become monotonous, and after a while, monotonous just becomes code for boring. A bored mind is a mind that drifts, and for John, a mind that drifts is a mind that ends up coming face to face with his unexplainable sorrow. Naturally, there was only one healthy thing for him to do.
Ask for a promotion.
A promotion to a management position would mean new challenges, and new challenges would mean a distraction from the darkness residing rent free in his head. They were happy to oblige, of course, promoting him to floor supervisor, where he learned how to schedule and manage people, and not much else. After a year of doing practically the same thing he had been doing before, only with a new title, he asked for another promotion. They said they only had one more step available for him without a college education—food and beverage manager, which they also said was incredibly difficult and time-consuming, and didn’t offer an increase in pay.
He accepted it on the spot.
For the next few months, he was too busy learning how to use inventory control systems and place orders to worry about the bleak loneliness of a futile existence, but he eventually got a grasp on that position, too. A couple of years later, John would turn into the best F&B manager in Atlanta, and with his mastery over the position came reduced stress, some additional time to relax, and the return of his creeping feeling of dread. He asked for another promotion and they reminded him that even if the general manager position wasn’t filled, it required a masters degree.
He said he understood. He said it was fine. He said thank you for your time.
He lied.
At 29 years old, still living in the room he grew up in, John Doe looked around, decided he desperately needed a change, and started looking for a new job in a different hotel. You might think it would be easy for an individual with 14 years of experience under their belt to find a job (22 if you don’t care about things like legality), especially when they can do literally every job in the hotel, but, you would be wrong.
As it turns out, if you send out resumes that make you seem like a god, with the name “John Doe” and an address of room 2025 in Emissary Suites, downtown Atlanta, HR departments tend to dismiss it as an elaborate prank. So after 135 applications, John hadn’t gotten a single response. That is . . .
. . . until today.
On the morning of March 13th, after John realized he was still alive and that his horrifically gory hotel beheading must have in fact been the work of an incredibly vivid dream, he stopped staring at the popcorn ceiling of room 2025 and rolled out of bed. He instinctively reached for his phone, then spent a few seconds sitting with his feet against the ground trying to remember if he had any plans for his only day off this week, or if he was just going to find some work to do around the hotel, like usual. That’s when his attention was drawn to a new email at the top of his mailbox window, which he must have left open last night, along with his laptop.
He cleared his throat and stood up, scratching at his bare chest as he went to lean over the front of the desk and take a closer look.
The subject line read: “John. We want you to join us at The Familiar Place.”
“The familiar place?” John muttered under his breath, before checking the clock in the room against the one on the laptop, then squinting at the time the email was apparently sent. Strangely, all three said 8:03am. He twisted his body into the chair, then opened the email and began to read.
“John. The Familiar Place has come to understand that you are looking to branch out from your current position at the Emissary Suites. We believe that your background makes you the perfect candidate to tackle the kind of peculiar challenges that arise on a daily basis within our walls, and would like to offer you the position of Hotel General Manager. The position comes with a competitive salary, an opportunity to regularly have out of this world experiences, and full room and board. The last is non-negotiable.
We look forward to receiving the question of interest you will send at 8:11 am. Thank you.
—Ahhe”
John scratched his chest again, trying to decipher the strange language used in the email. Sure, hotels often varied based on their location and the kinds of clientele they catered to, but what type of hotel had peculiar challenges, why would room and board be mandatory, and how could they possibly expect him to respond at exactly 8:11, when it was already 8:05 and they had just sent it? He decided those questions could wait while he searched the internet for a little background on this so-called, “Familiar Place.”
Aside from a little music and a bunch of reviews calling hotels rather familiar, he found absolutely nothing. ‘Of course it was a scam,’ he thought, realizing he couldn’t possibly have been so lucky as to have been offered a GM position without so much as an interview. He thought about leaving it at that, but since he didn’t really have anything better to do with his day, he decided to write back instead.
He wrote, “Nice try, but what kind of hotel in 2025 doesn’t have a website or a single online review?” and then hit send. His eyes glanced to the bottom right corner of his laptop, where the time said 8:11am, then back to the center of his screen when a barely audible whooshing sound informed him he had gotten a response..
“John,” the title said. “We’re so glad to have received your question of interest.”
He opened it.
“John. The nature of The Familiar Place makes broadcasting our services openly on your internet rather complicated. It is also difficult to explain the intricacies of what our guests refer to as ‘the hotel to visit when you want to leave your time behind,’ through text. We would love to have you come and see the place for yourself, so you can better understand the scope of what the work would entail.
We await your response letting us know what it will take to get you here. Thank you.
—Ahhe”
John chuckled to himself. It was an elaborate ruse, he’d give them that.
“100,000 dollars,” he wrote, mumbling it aloud as he did. Before he hit send, he decided to add, “And a website, with pictures, that proves you’re a real place.”
The reply came before John had even leaned back in his chair to relax.
“John. We’re so glad to have come to an agreement,” the subject line said, and when he opened it, his eyes bugged out of his head.
“John. We’ve sent the money to your account. If you search your internet again, you will also find the website you have requested. We will leave it up until 8:18am, your time.
Thank you.
—Ahhe.
P.S. The Familiar Place.”
John began an incredulous bout of laughter. It rolled from the back of his throat to the front of his mouth, slowly rose in pitch, and then died off when he read the message again and seriously began to question its validity. Even though he knew there was no way a transfer of that size could have been completed so quickly, he pulled up his bank account, logged in, and then dropped his jaw when he found out that he had apparently been wrong. One hundred and twenty-six thousand, seven hundred and eighty-four dollars were in his account. And sixty-two cents.
He went to the internet and searched the keywords “Familiar Place Hotel” again and got the same results. So, he reopened and reread the email, then changed the keywords to “The Familiar Place Hotel” and clicked the link at the top of the list.
The website was eerily well developed, complete with a page dedicated solely to an alphabetical list of their seemingly endless locations. It took John four mouse scrolls to find Atlanta, Georgia, USA, Earth; which sat sandwiched between Atikaria, Marapasia, Kingdom of Jelreth IV, Thera; and Atles, Hiddeland, Terron.
“What the heck,” John said, wanting to explore a few of the odd links, but it was already 8:16am.He clicked the link for Atlanta instead.
At the top left corner was a greyed out box with the text, “John Doe?” in it, and a subheading that read, ‘Future Hotel General Manager.’ Rather than read the written synopsis, which appeared to speak an awfully lot about time, he went looking further down the page for pictures. The first he found was a snapshot of a comely, single door entrance on the side of a building with a small golden plaque that simply said, “The Familiar Place,” which seemed—oddly, and with no better way to say it—familiar.
The next picture was of a desk and labeled, ‘check-in’. The desk was small compared to the thirteen station marble wrap-around that sat in the corner of the lobby of the Emissary Suites, but its craftsmanship was stunning. It was made of gorgeous, shiny looking wood, and the design engraved in its front appeared as if it had been painstakingly created by a single artist with a chisel, incredible talent, and an immeasurable amount of time.
It depicted an entire battle scene, and to John’s amazement, the further he zoomed in on the picture, the more detail he found. Men in robes were gripping staves and swords between their hands while others were clad in full suits of armor, riding on horseback with lances or pikes held at the ready. Together, they fought back against the things of nightmares: an army of wretched, bloated abominations, stitched together with random limbs sticking out from all over their bodies. The largest of them held a man in four of its seven arms and seemed in the process of trying to swallow him whole. Behind it, two fire breathing dragons, ridden by a pair of skeletons wielding their own bones as weapons, held a trio of knights at bay, appearing to dash their attempts to save their poorly fated comrade.
It was easily the most impressive work of art that John had ever seen. He leaned in closer to the 15.6 inch LED screen, squinting at one of the armored men who held a shield up from the ground. He appeared to be trying to defend himself after having been thrown from his horse, which would make perfect sense, had John not been almost certain a moment ago, his shield had been at his side. Plenty of applications could make slideshow-like movies for a web banner, but none could make the engraving itself move . . . could they?
Unfortunately, his examination of the front desk carried him straight through till 8:18, when he was moved from The Familiar Place’s webpage to a very static, white screen, with a large ‘Error 404’ box in the center, and the words, “Site not found.”
No sooner than he had backed away from the screen, an email notification popped up.
“John. Directions for your arrival today at 11:11am.” Click.
“John. We are thrilled that you’ve accepted our offer. Our Atlanta entrance is located at the corner of Forsyth and Mitchell, adjacent to the Alligator Mural. You won’t see it at first. Keep looking, and don’t be afraid to ask for help.
We are very excited to meet you.
See you then,
—Ahhe
P.S. Please do not bring anything with you.”
John drummed his fingers against the desk. It was definitely a scam. Most likely. Probably . . . . It was a terrible idea and only a complete fool would fall for it. He pulled his bank account back up, stared at the three numbers in front of the comma, then clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. That sure was a lot of upfront money for a hotel general manager position that didn’t require a college education. He also had a lot of questions that would only get answered if he went.
He shook his head at himself, knowing he was about to do something dumb, then plugged the destination into his laptop and got the seventeen-minute estimated walking time. He set an alarm for 10:35, made sure to roll the chair back under the desk after he stood up, and then hopped in the shower.
The glass stand up shower in the corner of his bathroom was the only thing John didn’t like about his room. He had always wanted one of those Jacuzzi tubs that doubled as a shower and came with a couple of rain-shower style heads, but hotels tended not to remodel individual units just because the person staying in them wanted wider coverage and massaging jets.
He tried not to think about his disdain for the shower too much as he got clean and dressed, and by the time his alarm went off, he was already downstairs about to finish eating. He polished off the last bit of his hash browns and Denver omelette, then stopped by the kitchen to thank them for the meal and whisper to Steven that the potatoes were a bit overly greasy—which was an understatement if ever there were one. He then returned to the lobby, waved a goodbye to the smiling faces at the front desk, and exited the revolving doors onto Marietta.
The walk took a little longer than expected, but he had accounted for this. He checked his phone when he arrived at the mural.
11:06.
Now . . . where was that door from the pictures? There were plenty of doors around, but they were all dual handled glass. The only single wooden door in the area was the beat up one with the alligator’s mouth painted on it, but that obviously wasn’t it, so he checked down the alley nearby to no avail, took a few steps down Mitchell without seeing anything on of note, then spun in a circle near the body of the gator and decided to take a different approach.
“Ahhe!?” yelled John, hoping someone might hear him. Someone did, but it was only the homeless man sitting across the street with a knotted beard and a crooked smile that was missing a tooth . . . or three. He jumped up and responded back with a cry of, “Tuna!?”
John ignored him and yelled again. “Ahheee!?”
“Tuuunaaaaa!?”
“I’m actually looking for someone named Ahhe,” John said, rather than repeat the process for a third time.
“Well, what do you know!?” the man said, smiling excitedly. “I’m actually looking for food. Ya seen any fish swimmin’ about here?”
“I haven’t,” John sighed, “but I’ll tell you what. I’m looking for the door to a hotel called The Familiar Place. If you can tell me where it is, I’ll give you . . .” he paused to pull out his wallet and check inside. He had a five, and a twenty. “Five bucks.”
“Hmmm,” the man uttered, pulling at the curly dark bird's nest that was his beard with his left hand. “A fiver eh? Y’aint the kinda guy who’d be holdin’ out a person in need . . . are ya?”
John sighed again, only deeper, before he remembered that a hundred thousand dollars magically showed up in his account earlier this morning. “Make it twenty-five, but only if you can point me directly to the door. Deal?”
“Heh!” The man laughed, showing off his best tooth as he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “You got yourself a deal! But no take backsies, ya hear?”
John crossed his heart then held up a three fingered boy scout salute.
“Good!” The man said, before taking a series of comically wide strides to cross the street towards John. “M’lord,” he said when he arrived, bowing with a large flourish that ended with the hand pointing just over John’s left shoulder.
“Your door awaits,” he said, and then without rising from his bow, turned his hand so that his palm faced upwards and made the international symbol for, now pay up.
John almost laughed at the man. He almost told him there was no way the door he was looking for was back there, because he had been staring at that wall for the past couple of minutes and it sure hadn’t been there before. He almost put his wallet away and refused to pay . . . and John would have done all this, if the gesture hadn’t drawn his eyes to first look in the direction the man was pointing.
The beaten up wood that had once been the canvas for the alligator’s mouth was gone, and in its place sat a comely single door entrance with a small golden plaque that simply said, “The Familiar Place.”
“I . . . but . . .” John mumbled, stumbling over his words as he tried to figure out how this possibly could have happened, before doing what most people tend to do when something doesn’t make sense – blame the person next to them. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” the homeless man said, honest confusion thick in his voice.
John pointed back at the new door. “That!” he said, a little too aggressively for a jumpy man used to being accosted on the street.
“Hey now!” he replied, jumping back and putting his fists up between them like an old-timey boxer. “We said no take backsies, but if’n you want trouble, I got six and a half knuckles worth of it riiiight heeere.”
Something about the man’s missing half a knuckle told John this wasn’t a fight he wanted. He scrambled to pull the cash out of his wallet, dropping the five by accident. “Here!” he said, shakily handing over the lone twenty. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I just . . .” he pointed back at the door again. “That door was not there a minute ago.”
Without looking, Birdbeard stomped the ground with his left foot. John glanced down to find the five dollar bill impressively sticking out from just underneath the sole of the man’s torn-up leather boot. The moment he did, the twenty got snatched from his outstretched hand.
“Was there, wasn’t there . . . who cares?” the man said, pausing to rub the twenty between his fingers, then take a couple quick sniffs of the paper. As he bent down to free the five from under his foot, he added, “It’s there now, isn’t it?”
“Yes . . . but how is it there now? Where did it come from?”
The man straightened back up and examined the five in a similar manner to the twenty, then beamed, for a moment appearing to be awed by how new and crisp the bills were. Then, he crushed them into tiny little balls within his right fist and shoved them deep into his pocket.
“Well let’s see . . . ” he said, bringing a hand back to his beard as if the action was necessary for deep thought, “You could be crazy? Are you crazy?”
John’s flattened his lips. “I’m not crazy.”
“You sure?” The man said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s what they all say, you know.”
“I’m sure,” John said.
“Good,” the man said, winking and nodding to John as though they both had just become part of a secret club. “Me neither. You know what that means. Don’t you buddy?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” John answered, as honestly as he had ever answered anything in his entire life.
The man recoiled as if stricken by John’s stupidity and threw up his hands. “Magic! Obviously!” He laughed and began to walk away, waving a hand over his shoulder with a departing cry of, “Tuna!?”
“What the hell was that?” John said to himself as he started towards the door. “Just two, completely normal, non-crazy people, talking about magic doors.”
Before grabbing for the handle of the door, John fished his cell phone out of his pocket to check the time, and watched as the 11:10 that stared up at him from the face of his lock screen changed to 11:11. The coincidence was rather weird, yes, but if he’s to believe what people have told him about his childhood, weirder things had happened, and just because something was weird, didn’t make it magic.
He put his phone away and opened the door. Then he froze, trying to figure out how he had gotten from the busy street to the middle of a hotel lobby. The last thing he remembered was opening the door, but then . . . he was here, as if he had somehow missed the last ten seconds of his life – which, considering his surroundings, seemed quite impossible.
The lobby was lit not by electric bulbs, but by a series of oil lanterns that hung along the walls, and looked more like a quaint ski chalet in the swiss alps than it did anything belonging in Atlanta, The beautiful desk he had seen online stood alone and unmanned just in front of the wall to his left. A number of racks sat next to it holding various items that ranged from a standard, black british umbrella, to an unusually large walking stick with a gnarled head grip and a brilliant red gem encased in its center. And off in a rack all by itself was something that John’s mind could only describe as a model replica of Excalibur, the mythical sword of King Arthur.
A loud popping noise drew John’s attention to another part of the lobby, past a set of stairs, to where a fire was burning in a stone mantle fireplace set across the corner diagonally opposite the front desk. The stones of the chimney chute ran straight up the wall; how far John couldn’t tell, since they continued through the ceiling. A couple of large chairs and a small couch sat around the fireplace, all upholstered with some kind of matching purple fabric that to John’s untrained eye, looked a lot like velvet.
“John!” a voice called.
“Huh?” John answered without thinking, suddenly being pulled free from the daze of his confusion. He looked around for a few seconds before finding a jarring man with pitch-black skin, ice-blue eyes, and white hair, walking down the stairs. On the inside, John was gawking, but a lifetime of customer service had taught him how to keep the wrong reactions from showing.
“I swear, I looked absolutely everywhere for you,” the man said as he reached the bottom floor, in a voice so proper, John had to assume he could only be the queen people spoke of when they called it, ‘the Queen’s English.’ “I even stopped by the 42nd floor to see if you had perhaps gotten lost in a bit of pleasure. But wouldn’t you know it, here you are. In the lobby of all places. Who ever would have thought?”
“Uhhh . . .” John murmured as the man approached, certain he had never met him in his entire life.
“What is it, old boy?” The man said, smiling as he looked John up and down. “Kaibyō got your tongue? I heard a rumor one was . . . stalking about here—somewhere.”
“I’m uhh, sorry if we’ve met before, but . . . do I know you?” John said, deciding it best to be direct.
The man with skin as black as night paused, mouth open as if he were now the one confused, as if the question John had asked was far more complicated than it appeared. That’s when John figured it out.
“Of course,” he said. “You must be Ahhe.”
The man nodded and sighed. “Ahhh,” he muttered, then shook his head and mumbled something under his breath that sounded an awfully lot like, ‘How unfortunate.’
“I’m sorry?” John asked.
“Oh. Oh no. It’s nothing. I erm, had you confused with a different John. I’m actually . . . I’m Edwick. It’s a- it’s a pleasure to meet you, John. I’ve uh, heard so much about you. From Ahhe. Allow me to introduce you.” He took a breath, then called, “Ahhe?”
Almost instantly, he appeared, as if popping up from behind the front desk. “How may we assist you, Edwick?” he said, then turned his head ever-so-slightly and added, “John. How great it is to see you have arrived safely. We are Ahhe. Welcome to The Familiar Place.”
Ahhe was likely the most average looking man that John had ever seen. He had dark brown hair teetering on black, light brown eyes, and light brown skin. The only thing about him that stood out at all was how straight, white, and perfect his teeth appeared to be.
“Well . . .” said Edwick, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I think I, uh . . . I think I’ll go. I have a bar to set up, after all. We all know how ogres behave when they don’t get their evening grog– or, actually, I guess . . . I guess we don’t. A bit of a tip for later, then. Ahhe? Please make a point to alert me, the next time it happens again, will you?”
“Of course, Edwick,” Ahhe said. Then Edwick backed away, offering John an awkward nod before he hopped himself in a half turn and disappeared up the stairs.
That entire exchange left John literally scratching his head. ‘Had him confused with a different John?’ And what the heck is a Kaibyō? Did he say ogres? He turned around and stepped over to the front desk. “That man was very strange,” he said, then raised a hand towards Ahhe. “John Doe.”
Ahhe looked down at the hand, then back up at John and smiled.
“Ah yes. The hand shake,” he said. “There are few things we find quite as unfortunate as not being able to enjoy this earthly tradition with you, but alas, here we are.” When John looked at him side-eyed and slowly began lowering his hand, Ahhe continued.
“John. Allow us to explain. We are Ahhe: Autonomous, holographic, hotel, entity. We may appear to have a corporeal form, but appearances can be deceiving. Please observe.”
As though he were turned off, Ahhe’s form collapsed, vanishing into his center like the last light of an old television. After a moment passed, he reappeared, expanding outward from the same point.
Perhaps it would have been less unsettling had he appeared all at once, but witnessing the form of a man unfold itself in space left John a tad unnerved. He jerked back away from the desk.
Ahhe inclined his head to gesture behind him.
“You see?” he said, his voice not only coming from the man standing behind the desk, but joined in a chorus from others standing behind John.
John turned at the neck to find five identical copies of Ahhe standing there in a line. In unison, they all said, “Hello John,” and offered him a wave so flat and robotic it appeared as if they were each trying to wash an invisible window. “We are Ahhe.”
One by one, they flashed out of existence, until only the Ahhe at the front desk remained. John took two steps forward and examined him more closely, then reached an arm forward and passed it through the image that was Ahhe’s body.
“This is . . . incredible,” he said, gawking as he looked around the room. “This is way beyond solid light. Where are the light sources hidden? What kind of phase guides are you using? And how do you get the sound to project so authentically?”
Ahhe smiled. “We don’t require anything to assist us in our being,” he said, opening his arms and then duplicating himself to fill the entire room. “We simply are.”
“Oh,” John said, feeling a little cramped by all of the people who suddenly appeared around him, despite knowing they weren’t taking up any actual space. “Uh. Okay.”
All of the Ahhes in John’s view checked the watch on their left wrist, then vanished. “Now,” one said, prompting John to turn towards the voice of the lone Ahhe left standing by the stairs. “It’s time to show you what it is we do here. Come.” He started up the stairs, so John hustled after him.
The stairs were made of wood, like everything else seemed to be. As he climbed them, John let one of his hands guide him by running up the wall, the fingers of his other sliding up along the edge of the ornate bannister opposite it. Though the top of the bannister was smooth and flat, the sides twirled with deep etchings that seemed to represent the movement of leaves as they swirled through the breeze. With each step, his feet fell on a runner colored a deep forest green that lay perfectly flat until it ended just before the first landing.
A plaque matching the one on the hotel’s entrance hung on the wall to his right. It said, “3rd Floor.”
John chuckled. “There’s no second floor?”
“There is, but very little happens there. The third floor saves time.”
“Is that so . . . ?” John mumbled, as his mind drifted away to examine the wide, open room, that made absolutely no sense.
A perfect replica of the stone fireplace from downstairs sat in the corner behind him next to the same purple furniture, complete with flaming logs and the chimney that ran straight up to the ceiling. Unlike in the lobby however, where the ceiling couldn’t have rested much more than eight or ten feet above John’s head, there was no less than forty feet of open air between him and the fourth floor. The large, open footprint of the room was easily twenty times the size of the lobby downstairs, and its lack of windows made it look more like a warehouse or airplane hangar than it did any hotel John had ever seen.
He looked back down the straight set of stairs, then to his right, where the wall that guided him up the stairs had ended and turned to create the perimeter of the giant room. John pointed at that wall, then to his left.
“That wall should not be that far away,” he said.
“We find the clientele who reside on this floor enjoy the extra space.”
“No . . . I mean, Mitchell street . . .” John said, counting his steps as he considered the space. “This room is too big for this building.”
“It may be,” Ahhe said, “But, you have a certain proclivity towards the residents of this floor. Meeting them is the fastest way to wake you up to what it is exactly that we do here. We believe it is because of certain myths that circulate on Earth.”
When Ahhe began to walk away, John traipsed after him, head still reeling over the impossibility of the room, until they came to the largest set of double doors that he had ever seen. They stretched the entire height of the wall and were wide enough that John felt sure he could drive the world’s largest tank through them without threatening the jambs, despite never having actually seen a tank in person.
“Let’s speak with Sylvanus this time, shall we?” Ahhe said, then gestured to the brass knocker that sat at eye level. “Give it a knock.”
“Sure,” John said, as he realized his curiosity was almost certainly going to be the death of him. “Why not?”
The knock made a hollow clacking noise that John felt, considering everything else, was far too normal. It did echo however, giving the open room the feeling of a renaissance castle, and giving John the eerie premonition he was soon to be greeted by something the likes of Dracula or Grendel.
“You should step back,” Ahhe said, when the doors started to creak and open. John did, and then kept stepping backwards to no particular end after he tilted his eyes up to learn that the size of the room and doors were in fact, practical.
“Ahhe . . .” he said, reaching out and through the hologram in an attempt to pull at its shirt as his eyes moved up to take in the beast in front of him. That is uh . . .a dragon, Ahhe.”
It was indeed a dragon, with yellow scales that rippled and waved across its neck as its head moved lower to the ground to get a better look at John. It exhaled out through its nose, producing two large streams of steam that raised the temperature in the air around John—like opening a dozen ovens all at once. Two eyes stared at John that were each several times larger than his own head, like giant golden pools that leaked into the vertical black rifts at their center.
When it spoke, it elongated each vowel as though it were either tired or uninterested in the conversation. Its voice was deep, and its mouth never moved.
“Ahhe,” it said.
“Sylvanus,” Ahee said, bowing.
“John.”
John’s eyes widened as he thought, “He knows my name.”
Sylvanus sighed. “Again?” it said.
Ahee nodded. “Again.”
“Is that why you disturbed my slumber?”
“It is.”
“I assume this was all you required?”
“It was.”
“Then I will return to my sleep.” Sylvanus turned to leave, then expanded its giant wings and used them to start closing the doors. “By the way, John. I am not a he, and your book is long overdue,” she added, just before they shut.
Ahhe walked away, but John remained standing where he was, mouth agape, staring at the doors as they finished closing. A long minute later, he regained his composure enough to shout, “Sorry . . . , Ma’am?” then turned in circles looking for Ahhe.
“Over here, John,” Ahhe called, from one of the purple chairs near the fireplace. He waved John over and gestured for him to take a seat.
“I have so many questions,” John said as he sat down.
“I know you do, but for the sake of brevity, allow me to say a few things first. John . . . .” He paused as if he were trying to build suspense. “The Familiar Place is not a normal hotel.”
John nodded. “You know, Mr. Infinite Hologram . . . I think that’s putting it lightly.”
“There are some other, more important things that you need to know about it.”
“More important. Than a dragon? By the way, how many of those do you have here? And what else do you have here? Ogres. You have ogres here. Don’t ogres eat humans?”
“Very rarely. They usually just smash things, but only if you insult their intelligence. Thanks to Edwick, we haven’t had an ogre related incident in over 32,531,762 rotations.”
“Oh,” John said, unable to comprehend what that figure could possibly represent. “Well . . . that’s good.”
“It is, John. Though we cater to beings from over 1,300 realms, we pride ourselves on maintaining a near zero fatality rate here in The Familiar Place. In fact, only a single person has ever died here, and believe me, it’s always best when you don’t worry yourself about that. What you must understand however, is that The Familiar Place doesn’t exist on your planet of Earth, or any other planet for that matter. Instead, we are currently located in the breach between time and space.”
John took a deep breath, considered the day’s events, and pondered whether or not these were the mad ramblings of a corrupted computer program. They did explain a lot, and as crazy as they seemed . . . he looked back over his shoulder at the six giant sets of double doors . . . Dragons.
He nodded to himself, popped his lips, then sucked in an audible breath. “So this place exists outside of the normal time stream? Or whatever,” he said.
“Let’s call that a layman’s explanation, but stick with it for now,” Ahhe said.
“What does that mean for me?” John asked. “Is there a disparity between how time passes here and back on Earth? Some kind of mismatched relativity where a minute here is an hour out there? Oh God . . . when I go back, is it gonna be 2030 or something?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Quite the opposite, actually,” Ahhe said, smiling. “We believe with a 99.87% certainty if you are ever able to make it back to Earth by your own volition, you will simply return at the precise moment you left.”
“Oh, well that’s go- waaait a second,” John said, standing up from his seat. “What the hell do you mean if I’m ever able?”
“We exist between time, John. There are a few realms whose paths to The Familiar Place are always open, but the rest come and go at various rotational intervals,” Ahhe said.
“Wait, are you saying that I’m trapped here?” John asked
“No. No, of course not, John. You are of course free to leave whenever you wish.”
“Oh,” John said, sighing in relief. “Good.”
“But if you want to return to Earth in the year 2025, you will have to wait until we are rotated back into its temporal alignment.”
John brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “And how long will that be?”
“It varies, but our best guess at the moment is somewhere between fifty-five and ninety million rotations.”
John gritted his teeth. “And how often do these . . . rotations, happen?”
“Quite frequently. There have been two since you’ve arrived.”
“That’s promising I guess,” he said, then began thinking through the math out loud. “I’ve been here for what . . . thirty minutes? Or at least that’s what it feels like. So let’s assume that’s what, 4 times 24, rounded to a hundred, which means 550,000 days . . . THAT’S FIFTEEN-HUNDRED YEARS, AHHE! AT A MINIMUM.”
“Give or take a few rotations to adjust for the occasional dimensional collapse.”
John stood up and reached for his phone, hoping he would check the time and see that he had actually only really been here for twenty, or better yet, ten . . . seconds. When he pulled it from his pocket however, it began to move, breaking into three separate pieces that each leapt from his hand and started to skitter away. He could have sworn he heard the pieces laughing as they did, but was too busy panicking to bother with such minute details.
While John was hyperventilating, Ahhe sighed. “No matter how many times I tell you not to bring anything, you always bring that phone. For now, those are crank demons – nasty little buggers who love to start trouble – but they will eventually grow into full blown poltergeists, if you don’t get rid of them in time.”
“I need to lie down,” John said, trembling, leaning on the chair for support as he slunk his way over to the couch.
“Allow me to show you to your room,” Ahhe said. “It’s private, and we’ve found that it helps you come to terms with your decision quicker. Besides, Druni has just finished setting out your midshift tea.” Ahhe teleported to the stairs, then gestured for John to follow. “Come.”
It took a while for him to find his feet, but John eventually started towards the stairs. He had to lean on the bannister as he descended, letting his weight slowly droop down each step until he reached the bottom. He did not arrive in the lobby as he had expected, but on the second floor that Ahhe had earlier assured him was there, which except for the small cutout with the fireplace and purple chairs, was just a normal hotel hallway.
“This is the employee floor. No one may access it unless accompanied by myself or one of you,” Ahhe said, as he led John all the way down to a door at one end. “Your room, John. I’m certain you’ll find it comforting. It is precisely how you left it. Take all the time you need. When you’re ready to get back to work, or if you need anything in the interim, please do not hesitate to call for me.”
John nodded lazily without looking up. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he needed a key of some kind as he tried the handle. Apparently he did not. The door made a loud click, then unlatched and swung open.
“It is good to have you back, John,” Ahhe said, as he started to drag himself into the room, paused, then finally regained enough of his composure to ask a question that had been itching at him for a while.
“What do you mean, back?” he said, but no answer came. He turned to find himself standing alone, looking down an empty hallway, and though for a moment, he considered calling Ahhe back to answer the question, he decided against it. He was shaky, worn out, and couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than that cup of midshift tea. He hoped it was chamomile.
When he walked inside the room, he was immediately thrown by what he saw. This was not just John’s room, it was . . . John’s room—room 2025, Emissary Suites, downtown Atlanta. Textured grey drywall and paisley patterned carpet replaced the wooden slates of the hallway. The bathroom was Emissary’s ‘city modern,’ with the usual black marble countertops, brushed gold fixtures, and mosaic tile; the only difference were the lights—which, although turned on by a switch, were lanterns just like everywhere else—and the shower.
“Just like I always wanted,” he whispered, as he took in the beautiful sight of a Jacuzzi tub with two rain-shower style heads. He ran his hand along its dark porcelain edge, then, satisfied it was real, turned his attention to one of the items set out on the sink—a stick of deep forest scented deodorant. It was the same he always used. He looked at the tube of cool mint toothpaste, then the bottle of blue cologne, then the shampoo and the conditioner. They were all his usuals.
He moved on from the bathroom to find the bed very well-made, with Mariella level hospital corners. The sconces near the bed were still there, as was the standing floor lamp that sat in the corner behind the oversized armchair where he liked to read. There was even a book sitting on the coffee table. The black, six drawer dresser that pressed up against the wall near the front of the bed was exactly the same too, only with no television mounted above it.
The black-mesh rolling chair sat tucked neatly underneath the desk, exactly as he always left it, but the desktop was, unsurprisingly, sans laptop. In its place, there was a tea tray with an old looking green teapot that upon further inspection, might have been made out of actual jade. It had a cup and saucer to match, with one flaky croissant that had the little black flecks and twists of chocolate under its light brown folds. He gently gripped it between three fingers, listening to the crackle of the bread as he lifted it up and took a bite, then moaned in utter bliss. It was so far beyond the best croissant he had ever had that it must have either been baked by God, or somewhere in Germany.
He poured some of the still steaming tea into the cup and took a sniff, unsurprised to find that it was, of course, Chamomile. He blew until it was cool enough to take a small slurping sip, took another bite of the croissant, then leaned back in his chair to sigh in relief.
Okay. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Hadn’t he been looking for new challenges? Certainly ogres and dragons would present a few, not to mention poltergeists, or whatever a Kaibyō was—which given everything else, he assumed had likely not been a joke. And if John had to wager a guess, he’d be willing to bet . . . oh, let’s say . . . a hundred thousand dollars that there were a slew of other surprises waiting for him beyond the second floor.
It was official, John’s curiosity had taken over. The longer he thought about it, the less this seemed like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from and the more it felt like the beginning of a dream filled with constant distractions, and if the croissant was at all telling, some incredible dining experiences. He almost couldn’t wait to get started working, but Ahhe did tell him to take his time, so, he took a long bath first and sunk into the rhythm of the massaging jets. It was everything he had ever hoped for.
An hour or so later, relaxed, extra clean, and dressed, John went downstairs to the lobby and called Ahhe, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised to hear that he was ready to get to work. They then explained, in as elementary a way as they could, exactly what would be expected of John as The Familiar Place’s general manager.
Although it hadn’t clicked with John before, Ahhe was not just a hologram representing the hotel – they were the hotel itself. The Familiar Place was, in a manner of speaking, alive. If the hotel was its physical body, Ahhe was its brain, which meant that Ahhe handled a good amount of the normal day-to-day. They could check guests in and direct them to their rooms, and could also turn on and off all of the torches and lanterns that hung on the walls, despite the burn on John’s right hand attesting to the fact they were indeed real flames. The list of things Ahhe couldn’t do, however, was longer than one might at first think.
Ahhe could build on to, and shift, the structure of The Familiar Place at will, but their lack of corporeality meant they couldn’t repair any of the things built within it. So when things broke, and things did break, the guests were simply S.O.L. Someone could be sent out to find a replacement, and often did, to the few realms that held stable entrances, but when Edwick took a thirty minute jaunt to Terron to buy a wagon load of new pans, the place ended up without a bartender for a couple hundred-thousand rotations. That was when John realized that lack of the technology and old school chalet vibe had been choices made for reasons more important than mere aesthetics.
Ahhe also couldn’t perform any kind of first aid, nor could they physically move anything from one place to another. This meant no cooking or providing hands-on services for the guests, which is why there were Druni, Edwick, and a few other employees, and also why apparently everyone, including the guests, were expected to help keep the place clean. John was surprised to find that the ogres often carried more than their fair share.
John’s most important task, however, was to hunt down and deal with all of the demonic free radicals that occasionally spawned due to the accidental arrival of certain contraband, such as smart devices; a certain cell phone, for instance. As Ahhe would go on to explain, time played a fairly critical role in the proper functioning of certain technologically advanced items, and anything that passed through the barrier that separated The Familiar Place from time while linked to a broadband network randomly transformed into something else. Ahhe had yet to figure out exactly how it worked, only that what they changed into was not so perfectly random as it first appeared. After nearly twenty-eight million free radical transformations, Ahhe had indisputable mathematical proof that the odds were skewed to slightly favor spirits that lived between realms.
At the present moment, there were no less than 672 of them haunting the hotel in the forms of various spirits, sprites, and demons, that Ahhe couldn’t track the way they could everything else. Something about them caused a kind of interference with Ahhe’s innate ‘radar,’ so unless an employee could both see and identify them for what they were, they were, for all intents and purposes . . . invisible.
His title may have said Hotel General Manager, but John’s position was actually better described as hotel problem solver. He was the point of contact for all guest relations, handyman, hotel demon hunter, and when the need arises, sometimes he’s even the janitor.
“Needless to say, John,” Ahhe had said when they finished the lengthy initial explanation, “Work here at The Familiar Place is challenging and keeps us all very busy.”
John smiled, then said, “When do I start?”
A single rotation later, John was walking up from the lobby to floor 37, where Ahhe said one of the regular tenants needed his assistance. Apparently, a faucet on that floor had been leaking for 689,239,000 rotations, which was, to the best of John’s estimations, about 19,000 years. Ahhe showed him to the room where they kept all of the tools that had arrived over the rotations. They assured John that he wouldn’t be needing any, but he decided to take a couple up, just in case.
Halfway up the first flight of stairs, John realized there were no elevators and tried to figure out exactly how he was ever going to move large, heavy things up and down a building that had . . . . How many floors were there again? 42 at least, if Edwick was to be trusted. When he stepped onto the landing at what he thought would be the second floor, or third, depending on who he asked, he ended up in a hallway he hadn’t seen before. Vines covered the walls and it was absurdly humid, and that was coming from a man who had lived his entire life in Georgia. The plaque on the wall read 37th Floor.
John closed his eyes and laughed in relief. “Oh,” he said to himself. “That’s very nice.”
The call for help came from room 3704. He knocked, then when no one answered, tried the handle and let himself in. When he opened the door, the first thing he noticed were the three inches of standing water covering the floor. Had this been a normal hotel, the wood would have rotted out years ago and the water would have leaked down through the insulation to floor 36, which would have followed suit, until the entire hotel became an infestation of mold that was actively trying to kill everyone in it. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be at all damaging to the wood of The Familiar Place. It did, however, have the small side effect of combining with the heat created by the torchlight and creating an entire jungle-esque ecosystem, complete with croaking frogs and buzzing bugs.
“You’re back,” an airy voice said.
John looked around the room, but couldn’t for the life of him find who said it. “Erm, I’m John, the manager. I’m here to fix your faucet?”
“Oooh John,” the voice said. “Again? You really musssst learn to be more careful. I am Ssssissss, with eight, ssss’ssss. And you’re not here to fix a fauccccet.”
John looked around at the swampy floor. “Yeaahh, I’m pretty sure I am.”
“Well. I am the one who called you, and it’ssss becausssse I need your handssss, not sssso you could ruin my paradisssse.”
“You need my hands?” John asked, slowly backing towards the door.
“Yessss. My sssskin you ssssee issss sssstuck,” the voice said. A thick green vine that had been hanging above the bed to John’s right suddenly began to move, lowering itself until one end hung in line with John’s face and opened two large, reptilian eyes.
“It wassss . . . a rather difficult molt. Do a gal a favor and help me out of thissss dressss,” she said, her tongue flickering in front of him as she spoke. “For old time’ssss ssssake.” She winked at him.
John raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, reached up, and started peeling her skin off. She was a very long snake, so to keep things from growing too awkward, he tried a little conversation.
“So . . . have you been staying here long?”
“Oh, yessss,” she said. “Nearly a million rotationssss. It’ssss incredible. Come sssspend a little time with me on the forty-ssssecond floor ssssometime.”
“Is that so? Maybe I will,” he said, and then continued to banter with her about random things like her homeworld, Avanava, her good for nothing ex-husband, and her 47 beautiful children, all of whom she said looked exactly like her.
When the job was finally done, Ssssisss thanked him, then gave him a little squeeze around the midsection and reminded him to come find her on the forty-second floor. He said sure, then closed the door and started walking back down the stairs to the lobby, wondering what exactly went down on that floor. When he reached what he expected to be the lobby, the plaque on the wall read: 42nd floor – Adults Only.”
Beyond the fireplace, there was only a single door. John put his ear to it, then quickly pulled it away and started back down the stairs to the lobby. “Nope. Not today Satan,” he said, shaking his head as he descended.
The nature of the 42nd floor was just one of the list of things John learned about the hotel on that first day, and was a mere drop in the ocean of what he would learn over the next 500,000 rotations. He learned that not all dragons hoarded gold, and that if you’re ever going to borrow from one that preferred to keep books, you should never be late in returning it. He learned that there were more floors in The Familiar Place than he had time to count, which made it particularly easy to go a while without running into any of the other employees, and that some of the floors were . . . more visitor friendly than others.
He learned a few, more important things, as well. It turned out that The Familiar Place wasn’t just a hotel, but was, in a way, a kind of inter-temporal trash heap. Whatever things got lost in time ended up here, in the lobby. He also noticed that very few things aged while they were in The Familiar Place, including him, which was, to say the least, neat. However, it was the one thing that John never learned, or at least, what he could never remember, that would end up haunting him for all of eternity.
Who was the only person who died in The Familiar Place, and how did it happen?
Well, somewhere around his millionth rotation, John would momentarily find out when he ended up on the losing side of a battle with gravity, a force that unlike time, The Familiar Place did have. A guest John had yet to meet—a princess, apparently, based on the pea sized lump she claimed made it impossible for her to sleep in her feather bed—sent him up to the storage rooms on the 233rd floor to retrieve additional down. After searching through what amounted to 3,600 cubic feet of unlabeled boxes, John found the one he was looking for.
Although the box was very large, down feathers weren’t exactly heavy, so John decided to carry the whole thing down in one trip. He figured it would save him the trouble of having to go back up and down over and over again. Unfortunately, he hadn’t taken into consideration how its size might affect his upcoming trip . . . down.
He could only just barely wrap his arms around the box enough to keep it tight to his chest and was struggling to see, but he figured it was only one flight of stairs, after all, and not 232. The truth is, the box wouldn’t have impacted his descent at all, had it not been for the noise that rang out from the step directly below him. He immediately recognized it, even though he hadn’t heard it in about, oh . . . one million rotations.
It was a phone notification – his phone notification.
He tried to peek around the obstructing box and take a look at what was in his path, but it was already too late. His foot was already moving to the next step, and the deviant triplets had placed themselves directly in its path. His foot caught the edge of one of them, his ankle buckled, and unable to find purchase, John fell. He was forced to listen to the sounds of electronic laughter as he tumbled down the hard wooden stairs and snapped his neck. He fought to call for Ahhe’s help, but his efforts were in vain.
After a few moments of painful struggle, John closed his eyes, and slipped away into the sweet, dark nothingness that is death.
–
John was confused when he woke up on the morning of March 13th. For a minute he simply stared, unblinking, at the popcorn ceiling, questioning recent events.
Hadn’t he died?
He was almost certain he did. He brought a hand up to check his neck and make sure it was still intact and inline with the rest of his spine. It was.
It must have all just been a dream, but something about it felt so . . . familiar.
Eventually, he stopped staring at the popcorn ceiling of room 2025, rolled out of bed, and instinctively reached for his phone. Mid grab, however, he stopped and pulled his hand back, repelled by a feeling he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Had he been too dependent on his phone of late? This was his day off, after all. What better chance to spend a little time apart? He opened the drawer of his nightstand and stuck it inside, then spent a few seconds sitting with his feet against the ground trying to remember if he had any plans for the day, or if he was just going to find some work to do around the hotel, like usual. That’s when his attention was drawn to a new email at the top of his mailbox window, which he must have left open last night, along with his laptop.
He cleared his throat and stood up, scratching at his bare chest as he went to lean over the front of the desk and take a closer look.
The subject line read: “John. We want you to join us at The Familiar Place.”
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