Suddenly, the cellar doors slammed shut with a bang!
"No!" shouted Christopher as he blindly clambered up the stairs. With both hands, he gripped the rusted iron handles and shook the doors with all his strength. The heavy steel chains jingled and jangled, cruelly reminding Christopher that his efforts were in vain. He was trapped, sealed away in a dark tomb with no visible hope of escape.
Beating his aching hands against the wooden doors, Christopher slowly sank to his knees. "Dammit!" he cursed in between pants. "I'm screwed. I'm gonna die down here."
Just beside him lay his old, tattered messenger bag, home to a decade's worth of notes and footage that he'd painstakingly collected throughout his young adult life. Since the age of eighteen, he'd dedicated his life to the paranormal, to the search for the truth. Even if it meant facing imminent death, he couldn't — and wouldn't — stop that fight, so Christopher grabbed his messenger bag and descended the stairs once more.
Upon reaching the bottom, he took out his dying camcorder and pressed RECORD.
"If this is truly the beginning of my end," he said to his audience, "then I will die knowing that I have uncovered the truth about this city. Vampires are real, and they're right here in Volterra.
"All around me, you can see the bodies of the dead stacked on top of each other like they're restaurant leftovers, like they're garbage! Bodies of men, women, and even little children. Don't shield your eyes. Don't look away. This is not fiction anymore. Open your eyes and see the faces of the slaughtered innocents. This is no hotel. This is a feeding ground for vampires, and Michele Distefano is the proud owner."
Just then, Christopher heard voices in the distance, followed by the thudding steps of heavy feet. At the opposite end of the room, a steel door swung open, filling the cellar with light. Two short, burly men entered the room, rolling between them a large metal cart on which several dead bodies lay. Before they could spot him, Christopher ducked behind a stack of corpses and filmed them from a safe distance.
"Let's put 'em over there," said the one in back, his voice muffled by the white cotton mask which covered his nose and mouth. Together, they wheeled the cart to the predetermined site and then began to carefully unload the bodies one after another.
"I hate the stench of this place," said the other man, who was new to the business. "It's like the smell never leaves me, you know? I can take ten baths and still smell like death. I think my wife is starting to notice."
"You'll get used to it," replied the veteran. "I've been doing this for almost eight years now, and I barely notice the smell anymore. But you definitely don't wanna linger here. It'll give you nightmares."
"What sorts of nightmares?"
"The sort that'll make you never wanna sleep again. That's what happened to the guy before you. He couldn't handle it, so one day he just snapped and ran screaming through the lobby. Said we're all going to hell for what we do."
"What happened to him?"
"They sent him away to some nuthouse. Can't have some lunatic spoiling business. Last I heard, he bit off his own tongue and bled to death."
The rookie shook his head. "Damn, that's crazy."
After hauling the last body onto the pile, the rookie doubled over like he was about to be sick. "It's not right," he said, spitting out the words as if they carried a foul taste. "A mother and her unborn child? Who does shit like that?"
"They each have their own preferences. The hotel doesn't discriminate."
"But it's sick!"
"And it's none of our business," said the veteran, and then he grabbed the cart by its handle and started pulling it away with him. "We just do our jobs and keep our mouths shut. Simple as that. If I were you, I'd keep your thoughts to yourself. If the higher-ups catch even the tiniest thread of dissension, the whole spool will unravel, and then I'll be seeing you on one of these carts. It's not worth it, man."
The veteran came to a stop about halfway through the doorway. "And one more thing," he said. "Don't forget to lock the door on your way out."
"But what for?" asked the rookie. "They're not getting out, and certainly nobody wants to go in."
"Hotel policy."
"Of course. Hotel policy."
Sluggishly, the rookie made his way out of the cellar and then closed the door behind him. Pulling off his latex glove, he went to the keypad and started to enter the numeric code which only those of his faction possessed. He'd entered five of the six numbers correctly but was struggling to remember the sixth.
"Shit."
"Silvio!" called a woman in a cheerful tone. Still dressed in her maid uniform, the young brunette approached him and asked, "Are you heading home soon? I need a ride home."
Forgetting all about his plight, the rookie gave the woman his complete attention, at least until he noticed just how revealing her top was. She had a habit of wearing uniforms that were a size too small for her busty frame, but none of her male employers had the heart to tell her it was inappropriate. Silvio was no exception.
"Yeah," he answered, "my shift just ended, actually. I can give you a ride."
"Oh, thanks!" Squealing, she threw her arms around his shoulders and pressed herself tightly against his chest. "You're a lifesaver," and then she kissed his cheeks and strutted off toward the service elevator.
Entranced by her swaying hips, Silvio thoughtlessly abandoned the unlocked door and chased after the beautiful Italian woman. Moments later, the keypad reset itself with a quiet beep, waiting for a code which would never be entered. The door remained closed until Christopher pushed it open and stealthily began his escape.
Slinking around every corner, Christopher, in an attempt to hide from a passing employee, made his way into the laundry room. There, amidst the rumbling, tumbling machines, he found baskets full of blood-stained sheets and clothing. He also found extra uniforms lying on the shelf. During a stroke of genius, he donned one of those uniforms and reemerged as a hotel employee.
Inside the elevator, Christopher was busy fiddling with the remaining buttons on his vest when another employee entered the car. In his uniform, he looked the same as Christopher, but he carried himself with an air of sophistication that Christopher lacked. Most importantly, he had a name tag. Raul was his name, and he was an assistant manager. At first he seemed skeptical of Christopher, especially when he noticed the messenger bag he carried over his shoulder.
"Going home?" Raul asked.
"Uh, yeah. It's been a long day. Sometimes you can't help but wonder, is it worth the money? Am I right, or am I right?"
Raul gave an indifferent nod. "Room 310 requires immediate service. Since you're just loitering around in the elevator, I'm sure you have the time to take care of it." Before Christopher could respond, Raul pressed the third-floor button and stepped off at the lobby. "Ensure that she is left satisfied, or it will be your neck."
Christopher's jaw dropped as the elevator doors closed. Suddenly, his bow tie felt unbearably tight, so he pulled it off and tossed it away. Having little choice, he got off on the third floor and made his way toward Room 310.
With a heavy hand, he knocked on the door. "Housekeeping."
Before he could execute his fourth knock, the door opened, making Christopher stumble forward. Upon catching himself, he came face to face with a striking woman who seemed to have stepped right out of an old black and white film. Her curvaceous, five-foot-ten frame was sucked into an off-the-shoulder black dress, but she was classy enough to cover up with a fur stole when Christopher arrived.
"Finally, you're here," she said in a seductive Spanish accent, her full, red lips gathered into a small pout. "I thought I would die waiting for you. Do come inside." She beckoned him with the tips of her long, pale fingers.
"W-What can I do for you?" Christopher asked, struggling to maintain his composure.
Leading Christopher toward the living room, the woman replied, "I need this room service cart taken away. I think they're finished eating, don't you?"
As soon as Christopher set foot into the room, his instincts compelled him to stop, for seated neatly upon the sofa were three young guests, a man and two women, dressed for a lovely cocktail party. At first glance, the three appeared to be engaged in an intimate conversation, but their lips had been still for some time. Even in death, one woman was clutching her half-empty martini glass. Every so often, a drop of blood would fall and splash into the glass, coloring her drink red.
"Is something wrong?" the woman asked, noticing Christopher's sickened expression.
"No, nothing." Christopher tore his eyes away from the horrific scene in front of him. "I'll just get this out of your way," he muttered as he seized the cart by its handle and started wheeling it toward the door.
Before he could slip past her, the woman stopped him by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Even with a glove, her hand felt as cold as a corpse, and Christopher shivered at her touch.
"Thank you so much," she said, and then she reached into the bust of her dress and pulled out a small wad of cash. "For all your trouble."
Five thousand euros was her tip to him, and Christopher didn't have the moral strength to reject it, so he took her money, bid her good night, and pushed the cart out the door.
When Christopher was about halfway down the hall, the woman poked her head out and said, "Oh, and do send someone to clean the room. I hate clutter."
"Right away, madam."
Once the elevator doors opened, Christopher shoved the cart inside and then frantically pushed the button corresponding to the lobby floor. Six, seven, eight times he pushed it before finally collapsing against the arm rail. When he closed his eyes, all he saw were the twisted, tortured faces of the dead. The vomit came up faster than he'd anticipated, spilling all over the floor before he could cover his mouth, and even when he did, it just spewed through his fingers. By the time the doors opened again, Christopher was standing in a puddle of his own vomit.
Another staff member greeted him with a look of utter disgust. "What happened to you?" he asked.
In response, Christopher roughly shoved the man aside and then took off running through the crowded lobby, knocking guests left and right as he desperately tried to escape. Immediately, he was spotted by security, who cried, "Stop! Stop right there!" but Christopher would not stop. Upon reaching the exit, he pushed open the doors with all his strength and then fled down the stone staircase.
The security guards were right on his tail. "Stop!" they shouted. "Stop!"
Christopher cranked his head to see behind him, and in that moment, he felt his body collide into something. With a hard smack, they slammed into each other, Christopher and some poor girl, and together they tumbled down the stairs.
The girl didn't even make a sound when she hit the ground, but Christopher let out a low moan when he hit the bottom. Right away he picked himself up, but the girl remained motionless.
"Hey," Christopher said, his tone rising in panic. "Hey, are you okay?"
Kneeling beside the girl, he carefully rolled her onto her back, and as soon as he saw her face, his eyes widened.
He knew her face. He'd taken pictures of her before.
"You were with the mayor."
Coincidentally, the girl was Dahlia, who'd just escaped a nightmare of her own. Her tiny body was covered with bruises and scrapes, which Christopher wrongly assumed were from the fall.
He wanted to make sure she was all right, to stay by her side until she awoke, but the threat of capture was too great to ignore. He left her with a sincere apology and then sped off into the night.
By the time the guard found her, Dahlia had already started to stir. She was just sitting up when he came to her.
"Please, miss," he said, "don't get up. You may have a concussion."
"I'm fine," Dahlia replied. "I've had worse."
"Do you want me to call an ambulance?"
Dahlia shook her head. "No, I just want to go to my room," she said, and then she tried to stand on her own, but the guard insisted on helping her.
With his hands on her hips, she staggered to her feet and began to move up the stairs one wobbly step at a time. Immediately, the guard noticed her bloody bare feet and became worried.
"He knocked off your shoes, miss," he said, and then he told his colleague to search the area for her missing footwear.
"I never had shoes," Dahlia murmured. "I left them behind."
"You never had shoes? Miss, are you sure you're a guest in this hotel?"
"Yes, I live in the penthouse suite."
"The penthouse suite?" The guard let out a sigh. "Let's just get you inside, and then we'll sort everything out."
After bringing her inside, the guard told her to wait in the lobby while he confirmed her story with the front desk clerk. "If you're telling me the truth," he said, "I'll see you to your room myself; then we'll call a doctor and have him look you over, make sure you're okay. How does that sound?"
Dahlia managed a small smile. "Okay."
Before leaving, the guard draped his jacket over her bare, trembling shoulders. "See that couch near the piano? You go relax and listen to some music. He's one of the best classical pianists in the region, I hear. Enjoy yourself until I get back."
Obediently, Dahlia sat down on the plush sofa and tried to get comfortable. To calm her nerves, one of the waitresses was kind enough to bring her a drink, which Dahlia gulped down in a matter of seconds and then asked for a second and later a third. It was as she was downing her third beverage that she noticed the couple seated across from her.
A man and a woman, dressed in semi-formal attire, sat intertwined on the couch, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. When they finally parted, the woman glanced at Dahlia with a wicked glimmer in her red eyes.
Dahlia gasped and jumped to her feet. Anxiously, she looked to her left and to her right and saw nothing but red. The couple on the couch, the man sitting at the bar, the woman gossiping in the corner, even the pianist — red eyes, all of them! The terrifying reality of her situation became clearer and clearer with each red eye she saw.
All this time, she realized, I've been living with monsters.