. MACABREMORTEM .

               This day. This … – holiday, if one could even call it that.
               It wasn’t like the hotel was already crawling with ghouls
               on a daily basis. And she wasn’t just referring to the dead.
               It seemed every sick twist in the world wanted nothing
               more than to cozy up with some murderer that moseyed
               up and down these corridors. Perhaps that was why the
               woman had stopped waiting around at the counter. Guests
               were all the same; if you met one freak you’d met them all.
               Liz had assumed death would give her that one reprieve,
               to be surrounded by friends and loved ones after a life of
              fear and agony.

               Light eyes left her well worn copy of Wuthering Heights,
               instead following the dark and evil looking thing skulking
               around the lobby. He was a sight for sore eyes, even by
               the hotel’s standards. It wasn’t her job anymore, to greet
               all those who dragged themselves in and tried to make
               this place home. But if she didn’t say something, no one
               would. No one else in this place was careful enough to
               speak first, instead just blindly reacting then dumping the
               shit storm on her doormat.

               Liz slammed the book shut, finally emerging from her
               little hiding place to greet the guest with her well rehearsed
               speech. “Mr. Drake would like to formally apologize, but
               the hotel is all booked up for the night – “ She started,
               palms outstretched and resting on either side of the desk.
               “What with our hotel’s … colourful history and an unfortunate
                gathering upstairs, we’re overcrowded. If you’re in town for
                the holiday I’d be happy to get your name for a reservation
                another night?”

                         A regal walk follows a new figure into sight. The Crow sees her first, small black eyes transfer the visual to the dead man, facing her un-surprised. Paint-covered brows woefully arch at the words spoken, a harmless assumption, in a mime-like expression. Much too vivid eyes fall upon her, docile, almost gentle. An apology in them — an apology forewarning his real intentions. An undetectable tilt of his head, the apology gain a new heavy sorrow. The bird’s eyes, Eric’s, Liz wasn’t alive — and so the feathery animal told him.

                                              ⊰ SHE AIN’T HERE, KID. ⊱
                                                            The beaked creature cawed from above.
                                                                                     A misfortune. Ms Taylor was dead. 

                          “Apologies, ma’am.” Eric spoke, a delicate, courteous bow of his head at the words. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding.” the bird took a dive, landing on a chandelier. “It is not shelter I seek.” though the junkie floors above might need it. “I must meet someone, you see. They call him Fun-boy.” visceral thoughts emerged like wild beasts to their prey, hungry and unsatisfied, lusting for blood and horrors past. The memory of Shelly, of that night, came to him. There was laughter, grotesque laughter — Fun-boy’s. 

                          A rage boiled inside him, the black-clad man. A hatred and thirst for vengeance beneath his polite demeanor. The crow fluttered away and onto the second level, perching on the rail, its eyes still on Eric. 
                  “You’d have my eternal gratitude, Miss Taylor, if you could direct me to make his acquaintance.”