As the sun began to sat slowly, he just walked up the hill, hating himself a little for agreeing to this job. He hated hills, especially when he had to walk up one, and the fact he roamed the whole Prague again for the last couple hours didn't add to that situation. If this one-week-trial wouldn't work out he'd be very disappointed about all extra physical activity going in vain.
Not that he was so scrawny that standing upright was a problem if prolonged, no. His body was rather average for a guy his age, especially for a student kind who had a multifunctional cooker and a very limited amount on his bank account, which led to eating either rice with chicken or potatoes with chicken. On good days he allowed himself some pasta. If he scored the job, it would be a huge win — no need to cook for yourself, plus lower rent as the hotel had a couple of rooms, they were happy to rent out to the staff for a low price.
Pausing midway, he checked his phone to see if he still had enough time to catch his breath and finish this ascend to his first shift. As he stood on the sidewalk with some late-hour tourists passing by, he glanced back to the St. Nicholas Church towering over the Malostranská, its dome visible over the other houses' roofs. Sometimes he still was surprised that the catholic church didn't outright scream about the whole thing two years ago.
Their words were actually quite restrained when giving out statements about the Pits ("It's a natural catastrophe, let us pray for the wounded earth") and then, when the Hallwalkers started making first appearances. He remembered it from one of the news groups in the messenger that he read occasionally:
Not all flesh is ours to shepherd, and those entities are preternatural — not demons, but neither of God.
Sounded creepy, but at least they were not going crazy like the Casparites who announced the Hallwalkers to be fallen angels 'trapped in recursion'.
Surprisingly, everyone got more into religion after the first Pit. And into conspiracy theories, though in his mind both were the same side of one medal.
He looked up to where he should go again, noticing the sign with the hotel name up the street.
After finally winning a little fight against the last three minutes of uphill walking, he got to the building, and circled it to get to the courtyard. Getting in through the backdoor, he looked around as he held it with his hand gently to not let it smack shut.
The place was rather regular for any backrooms, in his opinion. He passed the dimly lit entrance area, walked through doubled doors and ended up in a hallway which stretched forward until forking into three passages — one to the restaurant kitchen, one to the door through which you would get straight to the lobby, and the last one leading to the fire stairs.
He squinted a little, watching the white plastered walls. Rounded angles, no sharp lines. All like the IHCD had been recommending constantly where people were willing to listen to them. Then again, almost every building nowadays was like this, though, he couldn't be talking on behalf of everyone else — he hadn't been to every apartment in Prague. He had every right to think that not all followed governmental recommendations religiously.
Hearing a faint piano music all the way from the lobby he couldn't help but scoff barely audible — sound-proofing here seemed to be close to non-existent which only proved the age of the building. He remembered faintly from the little schedule he noticed printed out at the front desk that live piano music was every day from 19.00 till 22.00 (till 23.00 on Fridays and Saturdays) which probably meant the pianist stayed the nights and worked on a rotational basis. Was the guy’s room free of charge in this case, or was the nightly rate already taken out from his salary? No, both options would be ridiculous if he himself was offered renting with the low prices. Anyway, one thing was clear — the pianist wasn't suicidal and, working till after sunset, certainly had the means to not leave the hotel.
"I don't remember hiring a statue step-in," Emil's voice sounded a little from below.
The Protagonist didn’t jump or flinch from that sudden interruption — just turned his head, only now realizing he came to a full stop by the glass wall of the security room. He looked down at Emil who was watching him from a little window located a little higher than the waist level, a journal of arrivals and leaves laying opened on the sill.
“Sorry. Got carried away a little. Should I write myself down?”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Emil raised an eyebrow at him. “If you want.”
“Isn’t it obligatory? In case I steal something or if the fire starts?”
The detective looked at him with the 'We will all be happy if it does' and disappeared back in the security room. The Protagonist still signed in, watching his own hand writing his name — another little self-check — and then moved to walk into the barely lit security room where the best source of light was two old desk lamps and CCTV monitors.
Inside it smelled like old paper and cheap instant coffee. Flickering screens lined the wall, showing a dozen camera angles — lobby, stairwells, blind corners, one hallway which always seemed to be too long. The screens were obviously old, contaminating the atmosphere in the space with fluorescent hum.
Flicker, pause. Flicker again.
Moving deeper into the room while holding his satchel slung over his shoulder, the Protagonist saw Emil nodding him to the free desk a little aside from the main one with all the screens. He lowered the satchel on it, hung his jacket on the chair and stepped aside, now left in black shirt, old blazer-kind of thing, pants and…
Emil looked down at the slightly worn-out sneakers which definitely were white at some point of their life in a distant past. Seeing the man’s disapproving gaze, the Protagonist shifted his feet a little.
“It’s the most comfortable shoes I have. I’ll buy normal ones from the first salary.”
This earned him another huff from Emil — something told him he’d be hearing those a lot. The man wasn’t even hiding his skepticism about the new hire lasting for more than a week, let alone managing to hold on till the first payment day.
Not pushing, Emil nodded for him to come up to the main table to show the ropes. Halfheartedly — none of these kids he invited for a trial period stayed long enough to really need to remember all this.
Watching the kid pull the old notebook out from the satchel, Emil raised an eyebrow a little — that was something new. Usually, they all wrote down stuff in their phones or tablets. Maybe that cartography and whatever studying thing was somehow affecting his patterns.
'Weird kid,' Emil thought to himself, 'looking around the place like he’s dumbfounded for life. Like he was kicked in the head and still is trying to realize where he is.'
Noticing his nod, the kid sat down onto a folding chair, slightly forward, and opened a notebook on his lap. Emil leaned over the control panel, tapping through the camera feeds without looking up as he started to explain: “Rule one: don’t trust the elevator past midnight. If it stops on three and no one pressed three, just let it close again.”
He adjusted the brightness on the screen.
“Rule two: never check the fire stairs if you didn’t hear the alarm yourself. Mila’s the only one who hears it reliably. If you hear it and she doesn’t — it’s not the alarm.”
The kid wrote everything down like he was at the lecture, and for a moment it made Emil pause. Seriously. That was the first guy he saw who acted like this. He either was strange in the head or just was determined to get this job.
For a second, Emil’s gaze fixed on the slightly shaking pencil in the kid’s hand. Then the latter finally caught up on the silence and looked up, pausing sheepishly as if expecting to be scolded for taking notes.
“You can write this down,” Emil nodded, turning back to the screens. “Just don’t ever read it aloud.”
Click. Another. One of the screens flickered sideways for a second — too fast to register.
“Suite 606 doesn’t call but if the phone rings and it says 606, answer it. If they ask for anything…give it. If they don’t speak, say thank you and hang up.”
“Why?”
Emil sighed, taking out a cigarette and lighting it up even if the sign on the door said not to.
“Just do that.” He replied curtly. “Keep salt at the desk. Matches too. Don’t light candles after 2 a.m., unless it’s dark in all the rooms.”
He looked at the screens one more time and flipped the journal on the desk open to scribble something — a code, or a timestamp. The kid didn’t see clearly, even when stretching his neck out a little.
“Don’t walk the fourth floor alone unless the mirrors are covered. And if one of them isn’t covered, don’t try to fix it — just log it.”
There was a long pause disrupted only by the fan creaking softly overhead. The kid, after finishing scribbling all the info down, finally spoke up: “Can I get a flashlight if I didn’t bring one tonight?”
“What, the flashlight purchase is only after the first salary too?” Emil smirked dryly.
The kid frowned softly, looking back at his notebook as if he could find the answer there. “I mean, I don’t really have one. And I forgot to buy it, so—”
“You don’t get a free flashlight here,” Emil interrupted him. “You get a dumb face and a good memory. Flashlights are in the drawer for extra cases.” He sighed, sitting down. “Stick to the low lights then. You’ll adjust.”
He exhaled a ribbon of smoke, the kid watching as it winded up until getting shredded by the fan's lazy rotation.
“Also,” Emil remembered, “if you feel watched in the storage corridor after 3 a.m. — you are. But it’s usually not interested.”
The screens hummed in front of them — a low, almost soothing sound in the silence which suddenly fell over the room. The hour hand ticked closer to ten.
“Alright,” Emil stood up, stretching his lower back a little, “first walk-through is easy. You open doors, I watch the lights. If you hear humming — don’t hum back.”
The kid blinked at him slowly, closing the notebook. “…what happens if I do?”
Emil shrugged, grabbing the keys and the paper folder from the desk. “That’s how we lost housekeeping’s old supervisor. Nice guy — bad pitch.”
He opened the door, the hallway beyond it flickering slightly — or maybe that was just the kid’s nerves doing the talk. “Come on, kid. Time to meet the hotel.”
