Realistic or Modern ★ 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐸𝓂𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝐻𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓁 ─ a horror/survival RPG (Closed)

[Ghoulina]

Roger Callahan - Former Manager

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Roger Callahan

Empress Hotel Manager 1968 - 1976

Roger Callahan was covered in a hot, oily sweat as he stormed down a hallway covered in dirty floral wallpaper. His shiny brown chelsea boots stomped along, stampeding around corners ceaselessly. The floor was covered in a heinously bright orange carpeting that was so trod on you could see a dirty path of footprints no matter what direction you looked. "Bad… bad… Leroy Brown…." he muttered between breathy pants. Rounding a corner, he spotted an old green coloured door and stopped in his tracks before letting out a small gasp. In an instant, he bolted to the door and snatched the doorknob immediately. He ripped the door open with such a force it nearly came off its hinges, but behind it only revealed another hallway- identical to the one behind him. "Go fuck yourself." He hissed, stepping back and slamming the door closed so hard that it splintered.

He then continued his frenzied March. His mustard yellow blazer swished as he curved around two more corners, his dark eyes darting from wall to wall. "Baddest man... in the whole damn town… badder than old king kong-" suddenly, the sound of more wood splintering exploded as if it was right beside each of his ears and he stopped again, not even daring to breathe. A clawing followed, a sick scraping moving behind the walls and down the hall. He sped to follow the deranged noises until he reached a dead end, a blank wall with a single golden placard with two words etched into the surface:

Hotel Bar

"Don't you fucking dare you bitch!" The splintering came to a climax as shards of wood began erupting from the drywall and crawling up the wall, intertwining together. Roger lunged forward and grabbed at the pieces, tossing them away in handfuls between his own muttering, his thick Italian Brooklyn accent slurring together a string of profanities. A shard shoved itself into his right hand and he cried out in pain, blood seeping out in a thick ooze as he hobbled backwards. It was too late, and he knew it was, but all he could do was watch as the door completed itself, a solid mass of decayed pieces. It's final component, a golden doorknob, rolled down the hallway behind him and affixed itself before turning with a smooth and effortless click. His blood poured from his hand, dripping down to the carpet in small droplets as he stared with complete resignation- it was Walter. Of course it was.

"Thank goodness, there's some light in here folks! Step inside!" Walter's rich voice resounded with delight. The other side of the door was pitch black, all that Roger could see was the outline of Walter's face and hand as he waved a group of people into the hallway. It was different from the last time he had seen it, he looked far older, horribly drawn with thick ragged fingernails that looked like they were covered in grime. His normally relaxed and joyous face was nearly grey, eyes black and sunken in with deep lines revealed in the droning light of the hallway. As the last person entered, Walter turned to the group and Roger wretched suddenly and turned away. Did they not see him? How could these people not be reacting? Roger's panicked eyes regarded each of them and it became clear that they were not seeing what he was.

Walter's smile was lipless, his teeth now too large for his mouth and a blinding white that seemed washed over with ink that seeped between each tooth and dribbled onto his chin and white dress shirt, covering it in green grey stains. A smell wafted in, a sickly scent of mould and and bad meat that carried a heavy warmth. Bile rose up into Roger's mouth and he stumbled further away, looking down the opposite side of the hall desperately for an escape. "Well folks, I better attend to these darn lights. Rodge will be happy to help you out, won't you buddy?" Roger was already stumbling away but stopped, then turned halfway and forced himself to look at Walter. The older man stood clutching the doorknob, eyes unblinking as he began to grind his teeth together, the squish of a liquid in his mouth just barely audible.

"What the fuck happened to you, man? You're gettin' sick! You need to take these people back, you need to get out of the hotel and and get help, get the police for God's sake- Ugh!" The shard in his hand shoved in deeper, nearly disappearing into his skin as fresh hot blood poured down to the carpet. Walter grinded louder, his smile beginning to curl downward into a frown. Suddenly, without another word the door slammed shut and the wood shards exploded again, flying onto the ground all around them. Where the door had been there was now a hole left behind leading into a fair sized room, it too was covered in the same floral wallpaper yet it was fresh and new, and the carpeting was also the same but there were no tracks beaten into it. Roger grimaced at his poor hand and turned back around again, then realized that the way he had come was closed, and now they could only go forward. The game had begun.

There were two doors, one to the left and another to the right. The door on the right was metal and modern looking with a heavy lever door handle and a silver label holder in the center where a name card was slid inside, but it was so old it was unreadable. The door on the left was more familiar, a cheerful brown colour, the same as the doors to the guest rooms but the number fixed onto its surface did not belong to any of them. In front of each door were two long green velvet covered benches, plush and new. On the back center wall there was an elevator door and a sign above that read:

Floor 14

The highest floor in the building. Roger's breathing slowed, the pain in his hand barely registering to his frenzied mind as he stared at the elevator. There was a panel beside it, but it had no buttons, just two key holes. "Goddamn it…" he whispered, not even giving the slightest of glances to any of the strangers around him. And why should he, he wondered, if they were all going to be dead soon anyways.

OOC: Feel free to interact and roam around, badger Roger if you like! However please note the doors will not budge and the elevator is also not working.

Humble1 Krill Scarecrovv _em_ miyabi SparrowVale

 

[Humble1]

Camila Torres-Serrano
♕ Interaction:

♔ Mention:

♘ Mood: Completely lost

A life-long Californian, Camila viewed earthquakes with a tolerant boredom. It amused her to claim that she slept through them whenever she spoke to an eastern relative.

This one was different.

The building had not followed the normal choppy wave that she was used to. It pitched and heaved, groaned, strained, like something alive trying to eject something that wasn't.

She was still a bit vague as to what happened next. Calm, calm, stay calm, disasters can be survived but only if you stay calm. Something in her - some early teenage girl-scout hiking the hills of Camp Lokata - knew what to do even if the adult portion had shut down. Head for a doorway, head for areas that look structurally sound, step carefully, stay calm.

That portion clubbed her adult brain from behind and guided her to safety. Got her into the lit hallway. Got her to a place where a melting Walter Bell stared at a 70s burn-out in a suit made out of the same material that her grandmother had on her sofa.

And then Bell was gone, just this bleeding man and a crowd of strangers and a panicking Sia.

The girl-scout portion of her brain refused to give up control. Someone was bleeding, deal with the injury first. Pulling a handkerchief out of her handbag - Thank you, grandmother, for teaching me that a lady will go without shoes before she forgoes her handbag - she approached the bleeding man. "Hold still, we need to get that splinter out." While he was still processing that order, she seized his wrist and wrapped it in the cloth.

It was only then, dimly, that she recognized the Floor 14 sign behind the man. They had not gone up - who would go up during an earthquake? - there had been no stairs, no elevator.

What the hell?

 

[Krill]

He stumbled through the doorway.

Sometimes things happened, and that was that. But Brent despised it - the happening. The inhuman response. The rush past deliberation.

He felt the thing in his hands, clutched so tightly, and realized with dismay: the fading bible. He flailed for a moment, shunting this way and that, grasping for a sight of his briefcase, full of all his belongings - but it was gone.

He had only the bible.

A weight against his heart.

And these papers.

With his unholied hand he clutched at his chest, where a sharpness was subsiding. He found the firm edges of the postcard, larger than the other papers, tucked away inside.

He breathed, slowly. Forcefully. The moment was passing. The panic was running dry, and a newer sense was dripping in. He narrowed his eyes, brought himself, slowly, to see what was around him. The others. The walls - unfamiliar walls. Where they gone? A back room? But - he spun around.

The door?

 

[miyabi]

​

theo devereaux -- the drug dealer
location: the empress; 14th floor.
interactions: none so far, open to any
mood: annoyed, distraught, confused.
"Memories and thoughts age, just as people do. But certain thoughts can never age, and certain memories can never fade." Haruki Marukami.

The shaking, although an element he was familiar with, had caught him off guard. Never one to be a fan of sudden movements, triggering a disorienting touch of vertigo -- alongside the strong urge to gag, it was safe to say the man wasn't have the best of times. And while he tried to hold it in, brows furrowing and eyes watering -- a burning feeling behind the hazel colored orbs -- his body could only do so much. He wretched, lurched forward, arms resting against the wall, propping himself up; he dry-heaved, dreading the feeling that -- despite looking exaggerated -- was a turbulent, disgusting all-over pain that crawled from the back of his throat. Salivating, grunting, Theo grasped at any opportunity to collect himself; spidery, calloused fingers running through his brown tendrils, shaking. "What the fuck was that?" His thoughts managed to make their ways out loud; however, far too preoccupied to correct himself, the man straightened his back -- staring off into the tiny reflection he'd caught of himself. The small, metallic knob stared back at him -- a figure, one indecipherable, stood behind him. For a moment, he was silent -- a wave of confusion washing over him as he watched the gaunt figure: dark, tall, an overwhelming sense of gloom washing over the presence. And with a blink, it was gone.

Shit. Maybe the drugs were making him see things.

Thing is: Theo hadn't exactly been slammed prior to this dark encounter. In fact, he was sober -- at least, he felt like it; the only thing he could feel at that very moment was a fear he couldn't place, panic that, for some reason, came out of nowhere. May it have been the firm shaking, a unabashedly hostile and bleeding man, the figure, either way Theo didn't want to find out. Fight or flight responses were common, and his body chose flight; to him, it was the smarter decision within the situation. His vision flickered upwards, finally taking a grasp of his surroundings. He knew earthquakes were bad, but never enough to make them change floors unscathed. Floor 14? They never fucking moved. The scene was sufficiently disorienting, far more than the prior events.

Couches looked brand new, sitting in front of doors, as if to keep them out -- or in? His thoughts couldn't process it, not with the distress he was feeling. Fight or flight. The words had, subconsciously, began running rounds within the confines of his thoughts; he needed out and fast, the feeling in his stomach warning him of possible events to come -- and they were nothing good; or maybe his imagination was running rampant once again. He didn't want to find out. With his tall frame, the man had rushed himself to an emergency exit door, footsteps muffled by the carpet below his shoes.

Click.

Nothing. Theo pushed the door again, yet another click, but the door didn't open. He repeated, over and over again the man pushed, but with no response from the door. The feeling in his chest grew painfully, heart nearly in his throat. Thump. In his desperate time of need, the man shoved his body into the door, hoping that it would finally open; however, he'd only gotten a stinging, aching feeling running down his shoulder -- the coldness of the door making him shiver. "God dammit!" The man cursed, chest rising and falling with every deep, frustrated drawn breath. What the hell was he going to do? Fuck these other people, he didn't want to help them; matter of fact, he was only willing to save his own ass when the time came to it. No offense to them, but they made no significant impression on his life; so, whatever happened to them was a thought he didn't care for. Was he terrible for thinking these things? Definitely, but he had no time to help others while he was suffering on his own.

The floor lay barren, aside from the confused bodies and insignificant pieces of furniture. There was nothing useful, the fact leaving him in aggravation; he was getting impatient, antsy even. He wanted to retreat, but with no prospective escape routes, he stood discouraged. Pearly white teeth bit at the ends of his nails, a nervous habit of his as he ran through differing plans in his head. The emergency exit was a dud, the elevator looked to have keyholes -- an odd feature, but it gave him some type of clue. The only problem was that he had no idea where to look.