Nancy Andrews was a wreck at the desk of the Pink Ridge Inn. I had to step away from a conference call and you could hear our owner’s droll voice droning over the speakerphone back in my office. I started the spiel. How many nights? How many beds? Any pets? ID and form of payment? When she forked over her cards, I took note of her hands. They were tanned an artificial orange. A thin band of paler flesh on her left hand, despite the effort, betrayed that she had up until recently worn a ring. Her eyes were puffy and caked with splayed flecks of black makeup.

“Do you guys do weekly stays?” she asked.

“Sure” I said and rattled off our rates.

She had just had her hair done and was fidgeting with her bangs throughout the whole transaction. Though polite, she gave off the vibe of being, for lack of better phrasing, a “hot mess.” For a middle-aged woman it wasn’t attractive.

My manager, Jason, and I were both going through some personal issues. Tack onto that our perennial struggles with hiring staff for the season and you could feel the stress weighing down the air. Each morning we kept the office lights turned off because both of us were drinking hard the previous night. Most days Jason sat at his desk for a few hours clicking through his inbox before calling it a day. That was fine. The Pink Ridge Inn isn’t the most in-demand hotel in Indianapolis, so it’s nothing I can’t handle on my own.

The halls of the Pink Ridge Inn are almost magically empty. Your footsteps on the threadbare carpet creak from one end of the building to the other, echo around corners, tremor up the studs. Muted yellow paint dulls the warm lighting of the wall sconces, spaced just slightly too far apart for adequate lighting. You’ll never see anyone with luggage carts--as if the guests seep through the walls and out into the world. There is only evidence of passing bodies: trash bags bustling with buzzing flies, bundles of soiled sheets and terry, the occasional snuffed-out cigarette butt dropped on the staircase. Once they leave the front desk, most guests were never seen again. At least not by us.

I did room inspections. In that quiet doldrum between check-out time and 3:00 pm, it is my task to follow behind the work of my housekeepers and ensure that whatever issues they’ve left in their wake are addressed by the time the arrivals check in. Anytime after winter--the “in season” months--that averages about 50 to 60 rooms a day. Most inspections involve me doing one quick curlicue through the room, eyes peeled for obvious problems, and then rushing along to the next. Trust in your employees, right?
I was hurrying through Room 407 when a glimpse of Nancy Andrews’ disheveled face startled me. My body jolted, my shoulders seized up, and the muscles in my neck pulled taut. Nancy Andrews was staring out at me from the other side of the mirror hanging above the television. I crept closer, my head craning. She didn’t seem to notice me. How on Earth was I seeing this? Had someone cut a square out of the wall right into the adjacent room? Even so, she was down on the second floor. I tiptoed closer. Ms. Andrews’ eyes brimmed with tears that swirled with her mascara and left a pair of black trails down to the bell of her cheek. She was wiping her makeup off with a micellar wipe, leaving smudges of sick green and powdery peach smears. Her gaze did not flicker even as I stood directly before the mirror. I, myself, cast no reflection.

As if I was seeing a television monitor, Nancy Andrews went about her business unaware of my witnessing her every move. She fought back tears and bit her lip and massaged the bridge of her nose. She cleaned her face of foundation and eyeliner.

Once her cheeks were clear, something caught her gaze. She leaned in. Closer. My eyes widened. Had I been spotted? Her boney, over-tanned hands reached up. She dragged a fingertip down the cheek and with it came a loose strip of skin. Ms. Andrews leaned in more, her nose mere inches from the glass, examining the peculiar flap of flesh that curled off the curve of her cheek. She pinched her fingers down on it and gave it a pluck.
Off came a six inch strip of skin. Like duct tape it made a sickening sound of tearing sinews and tacky release. The underneath of it was glistening red with strands of pink and globules of gelatinous white. A red valley of blood cut down Ms. Andrews’ cheek, welled up, and drained over her jawline. Rather than scream, Ms. Andrews looked over the wound and smiled. She fanned her fingers over the opposite cheek. Her nails raked down and from under each tip crimped up curling petals of flesh. Red beads glistened underneath and I watched in disgust as she set to stripping her cheeks of skin.

I winced and shielded my eyes. Morbid curiosity overcame me, however, and I peeked. What greeted me in the mirror was Ms. Andrew’s flayed face--pink muscles pulsating and contracting as her lips stretched into a wide, toothy grin. She began to coo and brush her knuckles over the slimy viscera. She was admiring herself, even as her entire countenance was beginning to scab over under the twirling ceiling fan. She combed her wet fingertips back through her bangs, tracking her scalp with blood and pus.

I staggered backwards, pushing down the bile that was bubbling up from my gut. I clamped my palm tight over my lips and bolted out of the room. The door slammed shut behind me. I skipped the elevator and headed straight down the stairwell. Down to the second floor, up the hall, and to Nancy Andrew’s door: Room 222. I knocked. Hard. Ms. Andrews answered with a worried look. I stared at her. Speechless. Her face was perfectly in tact. No blood, no scabs, no blemishes. She hadn’t even removed her makeup.

“Yes?” she asked.
“I, uh… is e-everything alright in here?” I stammered.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “The room is great.”

“O-okay,” I said. My cheeks must have been burning red. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Well, okay, yeah. Thank you.” She shut the door.

That night I decided to lay off the booze a bit. The hangovers and lack of sleep must have been messing with my head. That is, I thought that was the case until a few days later when I once again made the climb up to Room 407. A guest had checked into it early in the afternoon, returned the keys to the front desk fifteen minutes later, and refused to stay in the hotel. I tried to question them, but they clearly just wanted to get the hell out of there.
If the room was mostly unused, I could tidy up and resell it later that night, so I went to check it out. When I entered the room, everything appeared fine. There was a snack wrapper in the trash can and an ass-print on the side of the bed, but otherwise nothing had been touched. I couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that being in that room felt off. There was an oppressive sense of being… unwelcome. Perhaps there was just something in the air. An offensive smell or stuffiness. I cracked open the window and sat on the edge of the mattress. My eyes instinctively locked on the mirror above the television. I was sitting too low to cast a reflection and my heart beat with a cold, hollow thrum as I recalled Nancy Andrew’s mutilated face staring out at me.

“It’s just a mirror,” I muttered. “A fucking hallucination.”

Nevertheless I had to press my palms against the bedspread and force myself to stand. I watched as my head came into view in the mirror and I let out a sigh of relief. It was just me. I smiled at myself. Ran my fingers back through my hair to push a few stray locks into place. I bared my teeth, leaned in close, and inspected them. Just as I was finishing up, I saw Jason’s reflection come trudging into the room behind me. His hands were weighed down with tools and a duffel bag. Strange, I thought, I didn’t know Jason would be in today. I turned around to greet him, but the room was empty.

I did a double-take between the room and the mirror. In its reflection there stood my manager, clear as day. I watched with bewilderment as he climbed up onto the bed, his heavy boots leaving big dirty craters as he walked towards the foot of the mattress. He went to work on the ceiling with a boxcutter, carving out a two-foot by two-foot square in the drywall. He produced a flathead screwdriver from his back pocket and used it to pry the big square of sheetrock and plaster free. A white powder debris snowed down onto his head, his shirt, the bed. It was hard to see at the angle in the mirror, but it looked like he had cut an opening right underneath a thick pipe that ran between the floors.
Jason bent down and unzipped his duffel bag. He rifled through its contents for a few seconds before he pulled out a coil of thick rope. I was beyond confused. A cold sweat made my polo shirt to cling to my chest. For some reason, I was short of breath. And Jason would soon be out of breath himself. He tossed one end of the rope over the pipe and went to work winding for himself a noose. The look on his face... God, how horrifyingly defeated it was. His eyes were empty. His hands were eerily steady as they worked the rope.

I licked my lips. He tied a knot around the pipe. I clenched my fists. He tested the rope with a forceful tug. I sucked in a sharp breath. He settled the loop of the noose over his head. I shook my head no. He looked directly into my eyes, smiled, nodded yes, and jumped off the bed. Before I could see the rope pull taut, I spun around and shouted. Shouted to an empty room. There was no hole in the ceiling, no footprints on the bedspread, no Jason or his tools.

My hands were shaking so badly that I could hardly dial Jason’s number on my phone as I fled down the hallway. I was pleading for him to pick up by the time he answered the phone. I asked if everything was alright. He sounded groggy, like he’d just woken up. But everything was fine. He asked if everything was alright at the hotel and I said I wasn’t really sure. This seemed good enough for him and he told me to call if something came up. I don’t know why I didn’t mention the scene that had just unfolded in the mirror. It would sound crazy, I guess.

I avoided Room 407 for the rest of the week. I always had some excuse handy when I was asked to inspect it. If a guest called about an issue in the room, I sent someone else up to handle it. I’m not sure exactly how I planned to avoid the room for the rest of my career with the Pink Ridge Inn. And as all poorly fleshed-out plans go, it all came crashing down eventually. I was working the desk by myself. It was a slow Sunday night. A storm had rolled into the city and its wind and lightning were particularly nasty. I had my emergency reports printed and I was just waiting for the power to be knocked out.

I sat at the desk, watching the heavy rain beat against the parking lot. The phone rang and I sat up with a start at the sudden break in silence. The guest in 407 claimed that their power was cut.
“Like an outlet,” I asked. “Or a lamp?”

“All of it. Nothing will turn on” the guest said.

“Alright, I apologize for the inconvenience. I absolutely have another room I can move you to down here on the first floor if you’d like to swing by the desk and pick up the new keys.”

“That’s fine. Thanks, I’ll be down in a sec.”

I hung up the phone and stood myself at my computer,
transferring folios between room numbers. I put Room 407 on maintenance and waited for the guest to come down. We exchanged keys, chatted about the weather, and then he was on his way. But he called down a few minutes later and said that he’d left his phone charger upstairs. Asked if I would go grab it for him. I swallowed my silly fears and agreed.

The charger was plugged in behind the TV stand, of all places. I swung the door to 407 open cautiously, my eyes slow to adjust to the complete darkness inside. My hands reached out for the wall, feeling their way along the chipped paint until they reached the metal cover of the room’s breaker box. I unlatched the cover and held my phone up to light the breakers. None of them had been tripped. Behind me, in the hallway, the wall sconces were still glowing their dusty white glow.

The breaker box was no use. Some more complicated electrical problem was at play here and I didn’t have the expertise to worry about fixing it. I walked over to the television by the light of my phone screen and leaned over it to wiggle the guest’s charger out of the outlet. Just as I stood up, a wicked flash of lightning illuminated the room and for a split-second I saw my reflection in that god-forsaken mirror. I looked terrified. Pale. Worn down by drinking, stress, and unresolved fear. Then, as if the sky had ripped in two, an explosion of thunder rocked the Pink Ridge Inn. I made that noise where you’re trying to gasp and inhale at the same time--when two abrupt rushes of breath collide in your throat and it makes your chest tighten up and your biceps clench so tight it aches. A cold chill raced down from the crown of my head to the root of my pensi. The click of a hundred electrical appliances failing at once whirred and fell silent. The parking lot lights went dark.

I couldn’t bring myself to move a muscle. A series of jagged lightning bolts cut across the black clouds, illuminating Room 407 with blinding strobes of white. My tired reflection had changed. My frown had curled up into an insane grin. My eyes were alight with passion. Like an imp on the cusp of perfect mischief. In the flickering light of the storm, I leaned towards the mirror until my breath frosted the glass.

The electricity kicked on. Lamplight flooded the room. I saw my reflection clearly then and could see that it was gazing back at me not with my own green eyes, but with a pair so unspeakably black that it made me sick. Then, the reflection lifted its arm. Its blurry hand was clenched around the handle of the Glock 19 I kept in my truck. My reflection pushed the barrel to my temple. Thumbed the safety off. Before he could reach the trigger, I threw my fist against the mirror with a scream.

The mirror splintered out like spiderwebs. A shard of glass pierced my knuckle and drops of red splattered over the shattered glass. The mirror fell from the wall. It dropped behind the TV stand, hit the floor, and its frame busted at the corners. I fled down the stairs to the sound of chiming elevators bells and groaning floorboards. I returned the phone charger to its owner. Blood was smeared over my busted knuckles. I got back to the desk, locked the door to my office behind me, and sat stark silent at my desk until my relief clocked in.