YOUR NARRATOR: 

Hello, my friends. 

This winter feels altogether too long. But, I suppose, it always feels like that, doesn't it?

As we wait for colour and light to return to the world, it seems like we're just suspended in a white and grey wasteland. It's a world of waiting, I think. 

But we're always waiting. Waiting for something. 

I am in no white-tiled cellar anymore. 

I am in no Ancient Tower.

I am in no cottage on a cliffside.

I am not in the sky, nor under the sea, nor in a black hole of nonexistence.

I'm in a little apartment. 

It has a balcony. 

It has a little cat who comes over and stares at me, while keeping a safe, careful distance. 

And it has a thirty year-old girl in it, who doesn't know what to do with me. 

Hello. 

(She says hello.)

Of course, everyone knows where we are. Everyone always knows where we are. This is my friend's worst fear, for she is terrified of conflict and violence. For me, it is perhaps my greatest joy. Because I adore excitement and chaos. 

Don't worry, my sweet friend. I am here now. I am here to help keep the balcony door locked and the monsters at bay. 

Now, I know what you're thinking. Of course I am a monster. But I...I am the kind you've been dreaming about. I am the kind of monster who would hurt anyone except for you, because I see inside you something special, something altogether unique and enchanting, that I see in no one else. I am that kind of monster that has been looking for you my entire life, gentle girl, and of course I would never hurt you.

(See, my friends? I understand exactly what the heart of these stories are. We all want to feel loved, and we all want to feel exceptional. Even I do. Though, I understand that that is a painful poison to sip from.)

I would never hurt you, little writer. I cannot. I fear you too much. And I care for you too deeply. 

Same goes for you, dear listener. 

Since she has been so kind as to let me stay in her home, and since you have been so kind as to keep me in your thoughts and your ears tonight, I thought I should tell you a story of mine.

I felt that I should tell you the story about a hotel. 

I'm sure you've heard many stories about hotels. There is something about a hotel that we find frightening, isn't there? For, if we are afraid of the history that residents may have left behind in a house, how many more visitors have been through the doors of a hotel? How many mysteries are there to unfold, in a place that leaves its rooms open to whoever may require them? 

Anyway. This is the story about a hotel. 

No, of course it isn't about the hotel. Not quite. It is a story about a woman who visited a hotel. 

She entered through its gorgeous, gilded doors, and felt as though she'd finally come home. 

It was a huge place; ornately decorated and sumptuous to take in all at once. You see, she had been saving for a long time. Saving money, through stealing, to be honest. She was a very clever woman, and she had spent her adult life charming the right people and finding her way into homes and privately owned galleries by way of false friendships and connections. Once she was in the door, she always knew exactly which pieces of art would fetch the right price; and she always knew who to sell to who would keep her identity anonymous and find her the perfect price. She was no common thief. She did her research. She worked carefully and quietly, and her beauty was so captivating, her charisma so effective, that by the time the piece was gone, no one ever suspected her. And, by that time, she would always move on to the next victim. 

Her last conquest had gone perfectly, and it had been the biggest piece she'd taken yet. Through elaborate planning and deception, she took an extremely beautiful and ancient piece, and had found the perfect buyer. She now had more money than she would need in an entire lifetime. However, careful as she was, she now assumed a new name (something she was quite accustomed to doing frequently), and decided to live out the rest of her days at a golden, warm, comfortable hotel, surrounded by wealth and in a dream-like state of comfort and solitude. Deep down, of course, she knew she would tire of it. At her core, she was a solitary person; but the notion of keeping a low profile and avoiding any relationships (since they could no longer lead to conquest) was a daunting, empty glimpse at a future spent in idle luxury. 

As I said: She entered through the hotel's gorgeous, gilded doors, and felt as though she'd finally come home. She checked in without difficulty, her wide-brimmed hat carefully shielding her face, just as successfully as the false name she'd provided at the front desk. She headed towards the elevators. 

"Welcome," A voice said.

It was a young bellhop. He wore a pristine uniform, smooth and exceptionally clean. His smile was indeed welcoming, his eyes glinting with kind eagerness, as he extended his hands to take her luggage. She glanced at him long enough to notice how very white his teeth were and how very sharp he was, how unusually handsome. Like a drawing, or even a cartoon, perhaps, he seemed to make a perfect picture in his uniform. She looked away in time for him to hopefully not notice how taken aback she had been by the pristine portrait he made. She nodded but said nothing as they entered the elevator together. 

She had the only suite on the thirteenth floor.  The top floor of the building, they called it the Penthouse suite, since everyone was far too superstitious to allow themselves to believe there was a thirteenth floor, the bellhop said with a  little scoff. But indeed, it was the largest suite in the building, and he was honoured to show it to her, and pleased that it was being occupied by such an esteemed resident. He quickly rattled off the features of the hotel she might enjoy as he brought her bags into her room. She said nothing, as she began to peel her gloves off while she admired the wealth of the suite she'd spent her hard-earned money on. She wasn't listening to a word he was saying as he busied himself with her items, and then drawing the curtains to show her the view, and then pointing out different features she had paid for. Finally, she interrupted with a brisk "Thank-you," and turned to hand him a generous tip. 

He stared at it momentarily, as though he were deciding something. His eyes seemed to be far away, suddenly, considering the money in her hand. Finally, his striking charm returned to his face, and with a gentle shrug and a smirk, he took it and thanked her in return with a little bow. 

"If you need anything at all, madam, please don't hesitate to find me," he added, about to leave. But before he did, he turned on his heel quickly, waiting in the doorframe. "If I may..." he began, and looked her up and down. "Why would a fine lady such as yourself find herself alone, for such a long stay, in a place like this? What is it you are hoping to find here?" 

She was, of course, put off by the impertinence of the question, as it came from a bellboy, and his overly loquacious manner had been annoying her since they entered the elevator together. But she smiled anyway, and removed her hat. "Peace and quiet," she said simply. "I've come to be alone." 

And with that, he bowed once more and smiled widely, and left her. 

Her first week passed nicely enough. She enjoyed reading in the sun by the nearby riverside. She loved taking her tea in the lounge. She would sit in the lobby and indulge her passion for art by finally trying her hand at sketching the people she saw. She was allowing herself to learn who she was when she didn't have to be so focused on money and thievery. But, of course, there were little things that frustrated her. Children yelling as they played by the riverside while she tried to read. Old men laughing and smoking cigars in the lounge as she tried to enjoy her tea. Couples arguing about where to have dinner while she tried to sketch in the lobby. She was so weary of noise and of people. She had come here to be alone, and though she loved the place and the fact that she had every luxury she could ever want, she began to wonder whether or not it was worth it, for all the noise. 

[Dimly, a waltz is heard on piano that plays under the entire ballroom scene that follows]

One evening, she dressed in her finest outfit and went down to the ballroom for her dinner. She ate one of the finest meals of her life, and she listened to a small orchestra playing beautiful music. It would have been perfect, if it weren't for the laughing couples, the shouting drunkards, the graceless dancers. And every few minutes or so, a person ventured over to her and asked her to dance. Some even went so far as to pull up a chair and sit with her, attempting to make conversation, thinking a wealthy lady alone in a ballroom had to be some kind of terrible mistake, some kind of open invitation, even. She politely declined ever offer, but each overture secretly infuriated her. 

Finally, one person came over that she did not expect. 

It was the bellhop, with his characteristic grin and his confident eyes. 

He asked her to dance.

She was about to scold him. She even glanced around momentarily to find his manager. But, in his crisp uniform and with his gleaming eyes, she bit her tongue. She was more intrigued by his audacity than she was offended. She took his hand. 

As they danced, she wondered at how she should be feeling embarrassed, with him in his uniform and with his silly little cap. But his confident demeanor was so strong, that she couldn't bring herself to feel that. She asked him: "Surely, you're afraid of someone seeing you dancing with a guest, while you're meant to be working?"

"I am not," he answered simply, and laughed a little. "It's almost as though I'm invisible sometimes," he said. And indeed, no one seemed to notice them dancing. The servers, the hosts at the restaurant, the conductor of the band, the other patrons...no one noticed. So, why should she feel embarrassed? 

And he was a brilliant dancer. The ease with which he guided her around the floor brought a smile to her lips. "Have you found your peace and quiet?" He asked her, an eyebrow raised. 

She sighed a little. "Sadly, no," she said, and glanced at the other hotel guests with what wasn't even disguised contempt. "Everywhere I go, there is someone looking, someone laughing, someone wanting to know my business. I want no one to know my business. I fought hard to be here, and I should like to enjoy it without interruption." At that exact moment, one of the people she'd rejected earlier passed by her on the dance floor and openly gave her a cruel look, and muttered a terrible curse in her direction under his breath. He passed by, looking for another dance partner, his ego obviously wounded. The woman dancing with the bellhop kept her eyes on him, and her eyes darkened a little as she whispered, "I'd give my soul to be left alone here." 

The bell hop leaned in towards her so that she would hear him when he quietly asked, "To whom?" 

She let the words sit for a moment, and she did not move. It was a strange question, and one she didn't know how to answer. Instead, she simply pulled away a little from him and smiled sadly, answering, "To whomever might want it." 

And she turned and left. 

She went to her room. 

She turned off the lights, and crawled into bed. 

Who indeed, she wondered, would even want a soul such as hers? 

The next day, she went to take her breakfast in the lounge. She sat, and enjoyed the fact that everyone seemed to be speaking in hushed tones to each other. As she read by the riverside, no one stopped to wish her a good morning, and no children ran close to her shouting and playing. No one sat near her while she took her afternoon tea. It was a blessedly quiet day. The only thing that struck her as strange was that her tea was brought to her by the bellhop in his clean uniform, but she knew he had some kind of strange fascination with her. She was not unused to this. She let it slip from her mind. 

This day was followed by several other quiet days. 

She went to the ballroom one evening, and enjoyed her dinner in peace. Somehow, her food was brought to her quickly and silently by a swift server whose face she couldn't catch, not even fast enough to offer them thanks. 

No one asked her to dance. No one at all. 

The bellhop stopped by her table and tilted his cap at her. Asked her how her evening was going.

"Delightfully quiet," she answered. And he answered in kind with that smile. 

She went to the ballroom every night after that, and the same thing happened every night. 

In fact, every day was the same after that. No one approached her. No one smiled at her. No one asked her to join them for a game of tennis. No one asked her what she was reading. 

At first it was a relief.

But one day, she grew a little tired of it.

Sitting in the lounge, she saw an old gentleman quietly playing a game of chess by himself. The room was otherwise empty. 

She approached him and asked, "May I join you?" 

He did not answer. 

She asked again. He still did not answer. 

"He can't hear you," a voice said behind her. It was the bellhop. He sat at a table with his own chess board in front of him. He gestured at his ears again, and at the older gentleman. "Unfortunately, he can't hear you. But you can join me, if you wish?" He said, gesturing at the game in front of him. 

The woman sighed and sat down across from the bellhop. Her eyes narrowed at him, as she tried to understand how he seemed to never be working, unless it was bringing her something or attending to her needs. Why was he the only one who seemed to wait on her? And why was he always there, when she decided she did want company? 

"You play this game well," she said, as his bishop took her knight. 

"I've had a long time to practice," he grinned. "What would you like from me if you win?" he asked. 

She thought about it over her next two moves. Then, she smiled and answered, "I would like to see you in something other than that perfect uniform and that silly hat." 

He laughed a bit and nodded, "Very well." His bishop took her bishop. "And if I win, will you dance with me again at dinner tomorrow?" 

She nodded. "Very well." She pretended to be perturbed by the suggestion, but she was in fact more than a little excited at the notion of company, for a change. 

It was a stalemate. They left without saying a word, and she assumed neither would have what they asked for. 

She went back to her room that night, to the only room on the thirteenth floor, and she wondered at how long she had spent being alone in this crowded place. And she wondered at how long she would have to continue doing it. 

The next day was the same, only it was even more quiet. The children by the riverside seemed so far away, and they seemed so unnaturally quiet. The men in the lounge laughed almost silently. The families in the lounge seemed to check in or check out with hardly any noise. In fact, the hotel's noise seemed to be reduced a low murmur all around her; blended and dim and foggy, like a hotel under the water. 

She saw a young lady knitting in the lobby. She asked her what she was making. The woman didn't respond. 

She saw a middle-aged person playing chess in the lounge again. She asked if she could join them. They didn't respond. 

And every time this happened, she'd look up and see the bellhop, busying himself with this or with that. And he'd merely shrug, occasionally gesturing at his ears again. They can't hear you, he seemed to say. 

[The waltz from the previous ballroom scene returns, only this time it is softer and more distant and muddy]

She went to the ballroom that night. 

Even the music seemed to swirl through the air in a muddled, muted way before it reached her ears. It was still beautiful, but it was very, very far away. 

Her dinner did not come to her. She tried to catch a waiter, to give them her order, but no one stopped for her. She would be furious at the terrible service, if she wasn't so afraid.

"Have you found your peace and quiet?" She heard again, and the bellhop sat down at her table. 

She looked at him, and realized he was wearing a suit. A fine, tailored black suit - much more expensive than she might imagine a bellhop would wear. Except he still had that ridiculous little hat. He smiled. "Stalemate," he said, gesturing towards his outfit. "You see me like this, I get to dance with you. Shall we uphold our bargain?" 

She tried not to tremble, for truly, his voice was the only thing in the last two weeks that she was able to hear clearly. He was the only person who had looked her in the eye for that time, and the only one who spoke to her and heard her speak back. She hoped. But she didn't want him to see her fear, so she tried not to tremble. "What's that, then?" She asked, coolly pointing to his hat. 

He stared at her for a long moment, that distant look in his eyes that he'd had when she first met him returning as he sat, deciding what to do. Finally, he snapped out of it and smiled. "Ah, of course," he said, pretending he'd forgotten. Though the stillness of his expression and the gentle confidence in his grin as he locked his eyes on hers seemed to say that he never forgot anything. He reached up and removed the hat. 

Sitting nestled in his hair were two horns, glossy and black. They curled up and away from his face. And when he removed the hat, it seemed his eyes were a deep red where they should be white, and black in their centers. His perfect skin did not seem quite so perfect; it looked to be almost grey and coarse, as if covered in scales. His teeth were as white as they always were, though. Beautiful and clean. 

"Can you still see me?" He asked her. His voice was very deep now, and unlike anything she'd ever heard. His smile left his face. 

She nodded, now no longer hiding that she was shaking. 

"Can you still hear me?" He asked her, and she realized that he was not smiling out of fear. Or something close to it. 

She nodded. "Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me?"

He nodded. "Yes."

They stared at each other for some time, as people passed by, ignoring them completely. 

"There is no thirteenth floor, is there?" She asked. 

He shook his head. "No." 

She nodded. "I've given my soul away, haven't I?" 

He nodded. "Yes." 

She nodded. "And what will you do with it?" 

He looked over at the people dancing on the floor. People who never saw him, and who never would. People who would never see her again, who did not realize she was among them anymore, even. 

He turned back to her.

"Stalemate," he said, and stood, offering her his hand. "Let's dance." 

And they did. 

And if you went to that hotel to this day, which you can, and which I have, you should know that they are still dancing. Sometimes. When they want to. You won't be able to see them. I almost didn't see them. I had to look very carefully. 

But I saw them. 

They still share a home together, even in a place where no one else knows or cares that they dwell. 

You should have seen the wonder in their eyes, when they realized I was staring right back at them. 

It was nice to give them that. Whatever they are. 

I too am lucky to be in a home now, with someone who will look right at me. Even if there is fear in her eyes. 

Goodnight, dear friends. Sleep well. 

[Eerie theme music plays]

Hi everybody, and thanks so much for joining me for Episode 91 of On a Dark, Cold Night. This is Kristen Zaza - creator, writer, host, composer, podcaster, the entire On a Dark, Cold Night Team. I hope you've been doing well out there, wherever you are. 

I would like to send a couple of thank-yous today to some wonderful donors. First off, to Jody, who bought us three coffees at Ko-fi.com, and left the following message: "Mystically horrifically mesmerizingly captivatingly beautiful! I was immediately hooked! Your voice is so calming and draws me in, falling asleep immediately. I had to hear your stories. What a fantastic imagination, bringing us into your world. TRUE talent! Thank you, friend." Wow, thanks so much for the donation and for those very sweet words, Jody! Next up, thank you to Em, who bought us two coffees at Ko-fi.com, and said: "Thank you for the amazing podcast it's really been helping my insomnia". Thank you so much, Em, for the coffees and the message. It means so much.