Jack T. had landed in Los Angeles, California, at 3 AM from a red-eye flight from Seattle.

After renting a ride at the first car dealership, he drove south, toward San Diego, where he had a book signing session for his last work, « Travel With A King ». Not his proudest nor his masterpiece. It was a book with no soul, just for making money.

Since this incident in this fancy hotel in Colorado a couple of years ago, he didn’t felt that writing mojo he used to have anymore. It disappeared in the fire, along with his favorite typewriter, that good old Adler, his loyal assistant since the beginning of his writing career. He also lost his wife and little boy. They aren’t dead, they just don’t want to see him ever again since that dreadful day.

On the interstate 5, driving while Jim Morrison sang lyrics that matched the present moment about driving down a freeway after midnight, Jack felt the heavy weight of sleep affecting his eyelid, therefore his driving, he decided to not taunt the devil, and to stop at the first motel with available vacancy to catch a shower and sleep.

After passing the camp Peddleton, he arrived at Carlsbad where a motel with a view on the Pacific Ocean was available.

He parked his car and took a quick look at the hotel. It was a reflex of his job, he used to think, to take time to watch how things looked and made him feel.

This hotel had nothing really noticeable. It was a regular motel, on three levels. The picture perfect american westcoast hotel. No balcony, doors aligned on three levels directly accessible from the outside. You could watch every tenant going in or out or their room from the front window of your own room.

At the desk, a young man raised his head from his phone as Jack approached.

« – Welcome to the Morrison Hotel. We have room. He said in a atone voice.

• Well… yes. It’s say on your billboard that their vacancy available. That’s why I’m here.
• Yeah… so ?
• I’ll take a room buddy.
• All right. Sea side view ?
• Yeah, why not.
• It coasts more with a view on the sea.
• Yeah, give me a room. I just want a good night of sleep.
• Room 313, the third floor. Here’s the key.
• Thanks.
• It’s 35 $.
• Yeah, all right.
• Also, it’s a weird room.
• Sorry what ?
• It’s a room with… things.
• What are you on about ?
• Previous clients complain of noise, knocking on the door. They found their clothes and stuff down in the pantry when they had putted them neatly when they arrived.
• Well, that’s sound fun. Is there a ghost or something ?
• You wan’t my opinion ?
• Yeah…
• Definitely. Every time I have to go in this room, I do a little prayer even thought I don’t believe in God.
• Jesus ! You surely know how to ease a client !
• There is a weird feeling to that room. You’ll probably feel it.
• All right. I just want to sleep, maybe a few hours of sleep will not disturb anything that linger here.
• Well, I hope for you. I’ve seen your face somewhere but I can’t remember where I saw it. Are you famous or something ?
• No. I just write on papers for a living. Anyway, good night buddy.
• Yeah, good luck… night mister.
• Thanks ! »

Jack started to think that hotels weren’t his things. Everytime, something weird happened when he rented a room.

As he climbs the set of stairs, a feeling of dread took over his body. Every cells in his body was telling him to leave.

Jaskiers