Michael Grayson was a small town writer born and raised in southern Maine, seemingly “curious” about the paranormal and trying to learn more, although his curiosity is merely a facade that he puts on for the media, various journalists, and news outlets he has met with, as he is a complete skeptic of most things not tangible. Mike has been traveling around various places around the United States, looking to debunk, and learn more about some of the most paranormal locations in America. “Mr. Grayson, is it true that you actually spoke to someone from the other side while at the Danvers Lunatic Asylum?” “Why yes, it is true, and I’ll tell you a little about it, but if you wish to hear more, you can read about it in my latest publication, Asylum. It was an absolutely bone-chilling experience to behold, going to investigate the location alone, with only my flashlight, radio, and tape recorder. I was actually able to capture some of what was said onto this tape recorder.” He proceeded to pull out his tape recorder, and hit play. There was a long droning of static, but then quietly from the recording, a shrill, scratchy voice spoke out, “They’re all gone. It’s your fault!” (end tape). Mike had a very somber expression, with eyes that seemed to be yearning for something lost to the past. “Are you alright, Mr. Grayson? What do you believe the spirit was trying to say? Could it have any relation to the accident that happened years ago with your family?” (TV shuts off). As Mike sat in his living room, looking over his past interviews, when the phone rings. Mike walks over and proceeds to answer, “Hello?”, no response. “Is anyone there?”, no response. Mike is about to set the phone down when suddenly a panicked feminine voice call out, sounding young, but weak, “Hello? Is someone there? Please help me, I’m in danger and I need you, I don’t know how close it is but I can hear it coming, I’m trying to hide as best as I can, I’m at the Franklin Towers, room 1287, please hurry!” (End call). Mike sat there speechless, as the voice had sounded strangely familiar, but this was his chance to write his greatest novel yet, and make a fortune off of it. He grabbed his gear, and was just about to head for the door when he looked to see a picture of his wife and daughter smiling by their fireplace, with the photo dated 12/25/17, and a heart on the back. He took the photo into his jacket pocket and dashed for his car. Upon arriving to the hotel, he gazed upon the colossal building that stand before him. The busy streets of Portland bustling with people, all who have seemed to stop to stare at Mike as he walked into the lobby of the hotel. The lobby was grand in size, with pillars decorating the center of it, with a very well done trim on the walls, luxurious carpets, and polished marble floors. He walked to the front desk and asked the woman at the service desk, “Excuse me, do you know the easiest way to get to room 1287?” The woman seemed as if though this question caused her pain, as if though a previous trauma had occurred, and she shook her head, not saying a word. “Hello? Can you talk?” Still nothing, she only continued to shake her head, her eyes wide with fear, when a voice called out from an office off to the side to the lobby. “Get in here, and be quick about it, don’t let anyone see you come in.” Mike was reluctant to accept this offer, but he had come this far, and had to act quickly to get answers. He walked briskly to the office and closed the door behind him. “Please, have a seat. My name is Stefan Benson, I’m the manager here at the Franklin towers hotel, now I don’t know why you’re here but you listen to me, you better have a good damn reason to have any interest in that god forsaken room.” “I got a phone call, and it sounded like a little girl, trapped in a room here at this hotel, she said that ‘it’ was after her, I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant but she sounded terrified, and I felt I should come to investigate, as I want to help, but it would also make for a great story.” Hearing this made Stefan’s expression even angrier and poised than before. “You’re a damned fool for coming here, and you’re greedy too, I’ve heard of your works, and seen you on the news, you’re nothing but a dime a dozen reporters trying to get a quick buck by entertaining the media, you probably don’t believe a damn bit of it. Let me tell you, the paranormal world is real, and it exists in this very hotel, and if you’re going to make another cheap story about it I suggest you hear about the history of the room, which I heavily advise you just walk away from. The room, 1287, shouldn’t even exist, because it’s the only room on the 13th floor, and the only reason it was made was so we could have very important people stay here in an exclusive room, that was a wonderful idea, up until we realized what we had opened up here in this hotel. There’s a reason hotels don’t have a 13th floor, and it’s no myth. Whatever call you may have gotten from this hotel, wasn’t real, the phone line has been disconnected from that room a long time ago, as the last people to stay in that room were killed in it, they were all murdered in awful ways and their bodies hidden around the room, it was a family of a mother, a father, and a daughter, only 8 years old. The fathers body was never found, but the window to the room was shattered, but falling 13 stories seems damn well impossible to survive. The worst part about all of this is that it happened 19 years ago. So whatever phone call you received was no call from that malevolent room. Now I know you’re stuck in your cynic ways, and no matter what I say you’re going to try to find a way up to that room so you can get your material to write about. When you leave this office, you can either be smart, and walk away to go back to where you came from, or you can turn right, and go up the stairwell until you get to the “14th” floor, you’ll know it’s the 13th because it will have an * next to the number. Please make the right decision, but ultimately know that I’ve warned you, and here, take this.” Stefan threw a rusted looking key to Mike. This was all an insane amount of information to take in, but Mike opened the door, and turned to Stefan to say, “Thank you, but I’ve made up my mind and I need to investigate this.” “It’s your funeral, Mr. Grayson, and I will not be the one to pick up your pieces.” Mike walked out timorously, closing the door behind him. As he walked out he pressed the stop button on his tape recorder, as he had been recording the conversation, and he started up the stairs. The railing of the stairs were an elegant polished wood, and the rugs were woven with intrinsic designs. The walls were lined with vintage paintings and photographs from long ago. He made the arduous climb up the flights, one.. two.. up until he got to the 12th floor, in which he had to take a break to catch his breath. While doing so, he heard loud footsteps coming from the floor right above him, sounding as if though the feet were dragging. He took a moment to catch his breath and continued on to the 13th floor. As he was making his way up, he noticed that the railings had begun to diminish, and the rugs had begun to develop stains. Upon getting to the thirteenth floor, he peered down the hallway, which seemed to stretch on forever, but there was only one room at the end of the hallway, no other doorways, only one long hallway. The air got colder each step that he took towards the door. 1287 read the tag. He fumbled for the key in his jacket pocket, and he took out his tape recorder as well. He wanted to review what Stefan had said to him, so he pressed play and listened. The mechanisms in the recorder whirred to life, and a voice came out, not of Stefan, but of a little girl. “We’ve been waiting for you, daddy, where have you been?”