Chapter Text
Your arms ache as you strip the 12th bed in a row, tossing tussled sheets into the rolling bin beside you before leaning down to grab a new set. A mundane routine you've grown used to by now, the longest standing employee this shithole has had besides the owner. You're the one they call in to train the newbies, teach them how to properly bleach out any blood and other unsavory liquids that may be on sheets or caked into the carpets.
You've barely gotten the new fitted sheet halfway up the old stained mattress before you hear your name being called, the familiar voice of the owner beckoning you away from your peaceful boring routine. You swallow a sigh, looking toward the top of the mattress you've yet to reach with the sheet, and opting for tossing the fabric down in the middle of the bed to go attend to whatever it is your boss needs so urgently.
The sun beams down on you the moment you step out from the hotel room, a particularly hot spring day where the air smells sweet and sticky, but the breeze is just enough to keep it from being a little too warm despite the uniform you're forced to wear.
You smile politely at the man leaning against the old worn down green truck, eyes shifting down to gloved hands flicking his lighter to life. He gives you a nod as he lifts the flame to the cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes lingering over you in a way that feels like he's sizing you up, rather than leering as you would usually describe it.
Randall, the owner of the lovely broken down motel that you hate with every fiber of your being, ushers you over the moment you're in sight from the counter, the too small room swallowing you the moment you step through the doorway.
Old musty fabric and slowly rotting wood fills your nose, the familiar scent almost comforting despite the look your boss is giving you; One you've grown accustomed to know means strictly bad news.
"Uh oh," You pause just through the open door, cocking your head to the side and refusing to take another step until you're quite sure what the situation is. "That look doesn't mean anything good, what's wrong?"
"C'mere, I gotta' talk to you about something." He waves you over, avoiding your eyes and keeping his head uncharacteristically down, his usual care free demeanor clouded by something a little more nervous, a little more stressed. He sighs when you don't move, finally meeting your stare with drooping eyes and a barely contained yawn. "Let's not do this today, c'mon now."
"What is it, Randall?" You cross your arms, your feet planted where they are and not planning to move, already close enough to hear the man without needing to speak at any more than a normal volume, the room somehow more claustrophobic than normal. "I have to get these beds made. You're the one who wanted them done by 11am--"
"You're fired."
You pause, waiting for the punchline, for the 'aha, got you, kid.' or for him to laugh at how you freeze in place and your words catch in your throat.
It doesn't come.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" You shake your head, still in disbelief at what you just heard. He doesn't respond, just sighs and tosses down a stack of papers you didn't realize he was holding. "Are you being serious?"
"There's more budget cuts, I can't afford to keep you here." He says it like he's telling you that you can't go get ice cream, and not like he's telling you that you're losing your job. Frustration bubbles in your chest, heat growing and spreading as everything settles into reality. "You make the most out of the housekeepers, so you've gotta' go."
"I make 50 cents more than the other maids." The heat grows and spreads as Randall looks at you like you're somehow proving his point, like this isn't absurd, like this isn't how you pay your bills, how you survive. "Randall, you have got to be fucking kidding me."
"Listen, honey, I'm sorry." He shrugs, clearly not as sorry as he's claiming. "I gotta' do what I gotta' do."
"Oh, Jesus Christ." You roll your eyes, turning on your heel as you move to walk out of the room. "Good luck trying to teach the other housekeepers how to get blood out of these carpets, you greedy fuck."
You say it louder than you mean to, the bubbling frustration heating to boiling anger spreading from deep in your chest all the way out to your fingertips, hands clenching and unclenching in search for some kind of outlet. Whatever Randall says goes unnoticed, fading into the ringing in your ears as you pause to take a few deep breaths, deciding yelling isn't going to solve your problems right now.
The pavement beneath your shoes and the bright sky above you just barely start to break through the cloud of anger, filling your lungs with fresh air until they ache, just to let it all out in a long condensed huff. You've barely started to breathe in again when you feel a hand on your arm, the sudden presence making you jump as your eyes snap open to meet the man you had seen previously smoking a cigarette.
He doesn't keep his hand on you, clearly having been trying to talk to you while your ears were ringing and going unheard. Instead, he sizes you up one more time as he breathes out a puff of smoke to the side, dark hair falling into his face as he flicks away the ashes.
"He fire you?" He motions vaguely to the door you had walked out of, nodding in a strange contentment when you keep your reply short, a simple hum in place of real words as you try to figure out why he's speaking to you in the first place. "Housekeeper, right?"
"Yeah?" Your patience quickly starts wearing, the realization that you no longer have to abide by customer service niceties clicking comfortably into place. "Is there a point to your questions, or can I go home so I can figure out how to feed my cat next month?"
"How 'bout this," He lets the half smoked cigarette hang from his lips, reaching back to dig out an old receipt and a pen, scribbling down a number as he continues speaking through the stick in his mouth. "We need a housekeeper, 's long as you don't ask any questions."
You hesitate when he reaches the wrinkled paper toward you, eyes shifting from the smudged ink and back up to the man in the old stained jacket. You take the receipt, noticing the lack of ring on his finger, and wondering what he means by 'we'. Ultimately, you decide not to ask. That's the one condition, after all. And, you'd like to keep the option available at least.
He nods curtly, clearly finished with the conversation as he moves back to his car, slipping into the driver's seat in one fluid motion, like leaving is a specialty of his. You glance back down at the paper in your hands, flipping it over to see what the receipt was for. It's ripped in half, but the pack of cigarettes he was smoking is at the top of the receipt, followed by rope, two metal buckets, and a gas canister before the purchases are cut off.
Well, that's suspicious.
You fold the crinkled paper and slip it into your pocket, catching the man's eye once more before he pulls out of the parking lot, leaving you with several questions that you are apparently not allowed to ask.
The walk home is uneventful, and the apartment is quiet when you open up the door, the only sound to greet you being the little patter of paws rushing to you from your bedroom, followed shortly by a scratchy meow as your cat looks up at you with big eyes.
"Hey, bud." You sigh, tossing your keys into the bowl before you lean down. The fluff of pale orange you call a pet rubs against your calf, eager for attention now that you've returned home even earlier than you normally do. "What are we gonna do?
He's a skrungly little thing you found out by the dumpsters behind your apartment when you first moved in. He was all alone, just a kitten and clearly left there by someone unkind. So, you brought him upstairs and fed him. He's been yours ever since. You named him Oatmeal on account of him always trying to steal yours in the morning, and sometimes, you'll still give him a tiny little bit before you add any toppings.
You sigh, standing up to rub your forehead in hopes it might conjure up a good idea, being left only with a sinking anxiety every time you think of having to apply for new jobs. You've been a housekeeper for years now, it's comfortable, it's routine, it's what you know. The paper feels heavy in your pocket, a clearly bad idea that has "kidnapping" and "murder" all over it, a scenario you would yell at a character on TV for getting themselves into.
And, yet, you don't throw it away.
Instead, you stick it to the fridge, an old faded flower magnet holding the poorly written number in place for the next two weeks while you do everything in your power to find a new job.
Unfortunately, your search is coming up empty.
6 interviews in the last two weeks, all calling you back to say you don't get the job, or not calling you back at all. Rent is nearing, which is going to take out more than half of your savings, and there's no money coming in right now to replace it.
The couch squeaks beneath you as you plop yourself down, having melted out of the interview clothes the moment you walked through the door, now clad in a large t-shirt and a pair of boxers. You swirl the plastic kids cup in your hand, taking a long sip of something alcoholic and fruity you mixed up in the kitchen in hopes it might ease some of your nerves. Oatmeal hops up onto the couch, spinning in a circle for a moment before he settles down at your side, a soft purring slowly filling up the quiet room.
Unsure how much time has actually passed, only going based off of your cup now being empty and your cat being asleep beside you, you let your head fall back against the headrest of the couch, a long breath leaving your lungs as you try to expel all anxiety through a sigh.
It doesn't work.
Your eyes drift to the receipt still stuck to the fridge, numbers taunting you as they stare back. You know it's suspicious, you know it's dangerous and probably stupid. But, you're starting to slowly grow desperate, and the thought of 'what's the harm in calling?' starts nagging at you like an annoying fly, buzzing around in your head until it sounds like a better idea than it actually is.
The nearly empty cup is placed on the coffee table with a small clunk, Oatmeal lifting his head at the sudden noise, eyes unfocused and still half closed from his nap. You snatch your phone from the table beside the cup, already pulling up your keypad to type in the numbers.
It rings once, twice--
It stops ringing.
There's a stark silence on the other end, you would've thought they denied the call if it wasn't for the faint wind howling through the speaker.
"Uhm," You pause, taking the phone away from your ear to make sure you're actually connected to a call, numbers on the screen confirming you've apparently reached someone. "Hi, I'm calling about the housekeeping job. I'm interested in the position."
There's a long stretch of nothing, the hairs on your arms rising like your body is waiting for something, all of the windows in your little apartment suddenly making you feel too exposed. You glance over your shoulder, the empty dark living room feeling a lot more claustrophobic than it had just a minute ago.
There's a faint ringing in your ears as you strain to listen for anything on the other end of the line, a soft static filling your head as a faint response is heard, brief and difficult to make out before you hear the 'beep' of the call ending. An unease spreads like acid through your chest as you stare at the phone in your hands, suddenly regretting taking the receipt from the man at all.
Best case scenario, it was a bad connection, and the alcohol in your system is making it feel a little scarier than it is. Worst-case, you don't wake up tomorrow.
And, there's nothing to do besides find out, is there?
Your breath feels a little shakier than before, a little more unsure as you glance over your shoulder again like there might actually be something there. You barely register yourself putting your cell phone back down on the counter before you put your head in your hands, your brain feeling too big for your skull, heartbeat pounding in your ears at the sudden migraine.
Chalking it up to putting a little too much vodka in your cup, you decide to call it a night. Oatmeal meows at you from the couch, already on your heels and practically tripping you on the way to your bedroom. He bats at your legs, clearly distracted and wishing for you to pay attention to whatever it is he's so interested in. Instead, you lean down just enough to pat his head before you flop down in bed, the comforter cool against your cheek from your open bedroom window.
You're not sure how long you sleep for, only that it's still pretty late in the day when your consciousness finally starts to catch back up to your body. Your mouth is dry, eyes begging to stay shut like they've been glued together, the dimmest light just barely shining through your eyelids the only thing keeping you from falling back into a restless sleep.
There's sounds you don't recognize, the creaking of wood and the murmur of unfamiliar voices, your brain barely awake enough to find the new sounds odd through the foggy haze still clouding your mind. The bed feels a little softer than it did when you had fallen asleep, the smell of damp wood making you scrunch your nose as you make an attempt to pry your eyes open.
The fist thing you notice as you blink yourself back into reality, is that this is most definitely not your room.
It hits you like a semi truck, snapping upright too fast for having just woken up, the world spinning around you as you try in vain to take in your surroundings through a wave of dizziness. It's dark, the walls and floor ornate dark wood, the canopy bed you're laying on just the same. The room is large, far larger than your own bedroom, filled with stacked cardboard boxes, and complete with a bay window fitted with a rather lovely built-in daybed.
Your eyes land on your cat, sleeping soundly on a throw blanket in the bay window, a small bowl of food and water down on the floor near the spot he's clearly claimed as his own. That's what makes you really confused, not so much the fact that you're not where you're supposed to be, but, that your cat had somehow come with you.
It takes a moment for the room to stop spinning, for your limbs to stop tingling and to feel reconnected to your body. When that finally happens, you move. You swing your legs over the bed, bare feet softly hitting the cool ground as you steady yourself to stand up, still in the T-shirt and boxers you had fallen asleep in. You take in the room with a slightly less fuzzy mind, your bedsheets fitted on a bed that isn't yours, your desk across the room you don't recognize all complete with your chair and laptop.
You take the couple steps to get to the first cardboard box, stacked on top of another and with one of the flaps already open. You don't know why you're surprised when you see your books stacked neatly inside, some of your trinkets and knick-knacks protected with tissue paper. Oatmeal lifts his head with a lazy yawn, his meow getting your attention, realizing the throw blanket he's laying on is one of yours.
What the fuck is going on?
The wall facing the foot of the bed holds two doors on either side of your desk, the one on the lefthand side clearly closet doors, the other one looking like it could maybe lead somewhere out of the bedroom. You're greeted with your own clothes when you open the closet door, clothes you thought you had too many of barely filling half of the walk-in. You don't bother taking the time to gawk, leaving the closet door open to see what's behind door number two. It's a bathroom, much nicer than the one you're used to, full of similar boxes holding the things from your apartment bathroom, like someone had moved your whole life to a new house without you noticing.
You turn on your heel, barely taking a step before you're practically jumping out of your skin, a yelp ripping from your throat and startling your cat as you come face-to-abdomen with the tallest man you've absolutely ever seen. Your eyes snap up in attempt to meet his, neck straining as you try to make out any features on a too-pale face.
Even though you're looking right at him, you can't manage to make out any features, unable to remember something you're currently taking in.
Words catch in your throat, a buzzing across your skin that makes the hair on your arms stand on end and goosebumps run across your legs. Your lips part, but there's no sound, moreso astonished and overwhelmed by confusion to let fear do what it's supposed to.
"Welcome to my home, Child." When he speaks, you're not sure it's actually him speaking. It sounds like it's coming from behind you, or directly above you. It sounds like when you think your name is being called in a crowed, a strange static making it hard to pick out the words. "You're our new housekeeper, correct?"
"What?" You squint without meaning to, eye twitching as your head throbs along to the booming voice bouncing around in your skull. "I--Well, I guess so?" You take a step back to avoid straining your neck so hard, the inability to remember what he looks like while staring at him turning your headache back into a migraine. "I wasn't aware this was a live-in position." You pause, the absurdity of the situation still settling into your bones as your gaze shifts nervously from the tall man in front of you, to your belongings in a room you've never been in.
"Minimal information is given to ensure the safety of the mansion and it's inhabitants." He folds his hands neatly in front of him, long slender fingers bordering on unnatural. You choose not to stare. "I was told you have ample housekeeping experience, is this true?"
"Yes, sir." You nod, 'no questions' repeating in your head like a mantra while a million spin around, all landing right on the tip of your tongue. Some of them being, 'Did you kidnap me?' 'why did you bring my cat?' And 'where the fuck am I?' As the top three. "My belongings and my cat are here." You state it as a fact, a loophole to asking that you're thankful he obliges.
"Indeed." He nods curtly, taking a leisurely glance at the room around you both. "We intend for your stay to be as comfortable as possible while you're here with us."
"Right." You trail off, eyeing the window to see how easy it might be to escape, endless trees staring back at you through the glass. Oatmeal sits and licks his paw without a care in the world, cleaning his head and sitting in what was surely the remnants of a sun patch long since gone.
"It's quite late, I'll give you a tour in the morning." He moves his arm up to check his watch, even the way his bones move under his skin screaming unnatural, like there are too many joints, or maybe not enough. "Be ready by 10am sharp, we will discuss payment and obligations then."
You open your mouth to respond, but with the blink of your eye, he's gone. It startles you almost more than seeing him in the first place, head snapping to each corner of the room in search for someone who isn't there. "What the fuck."
Oatmeal meows like that's his name, hopping down from his spot with a little squeak and padding over to you without a care in the world to rub against your legs. Somehow, that makes everything seem more normal. Less scary, you suppose. Oatmeal would hiss and bat at the ex who cheated on you sometime last year, always hiding under furniture and growling when they would so much as step foot near the door. It's the same thing with that mailman who always leers at you and insists he needs to hand your packages to you directly, even though you know that isn't true.
So, if your little bodyguard has deemed this rather nice house safe, it's kind of hard not to trust him.
Still, you pick him up in one swoop, the cat purring as he rests against your chest and shoulder on the short trip to the bay window, your knee meeting the soft cushion as you lean over to unlock the window with the hand not holding Oatmeal in place. The lock clicks, and you nearly hesitate before you slide the window open, fresh air sweeping in through the room as the wind howls outside.
You're not trapped or locked in here, but you're also surrounded by what looks like miles of woods. It's dark out, the forest turning into inky black nothingness just a couple feet away from the window. Better yet, you're on the ground floor. It's truly like they're not afraid of you leaving. And, somehow, that makes you more nervous than you were before.
The window shuts just as easily as it opened, lock clicking shut before you turn to sit on the rather soft daybed, emotions nearing hollow and empty as you try to asses the situation. No matter how much you try to reason with yourself, nothing quite makes sense. You were definitely not drunk enough to do all this without remembering. Even then, you don't have an inch of dirt, or dust, or a single new bruise as far as you can tell to grace your skin; Nothing to indicate you moved even a single paperclip, let alone boxes full of your shit.
Are you allowed to leave the room? Will anything happen if you ask a question, or will they just not answer?
A simple phone call has never seemed like such a bad idea.
Maybe, somehow, this is all a very simple misunderstanding. Maybe, in some fucked up universe there's an explanation that makes all of this laughably unworrying. Like a horrible lapse in memory and bad timing, or you waking up in your own bed with this all having been a very, very strange dream.
Your phone is sitting unassumingly on the side table, it's the next thing you pick up after Oatmeal decides he'd like to explore the rest of the room. It turns on, no new cracks in the screen, battery full even though you know it wasn't even halfway when you left it on your kitchen counter. Messages and calls don't go through, no matter what app you use, how many times you restart your phone, or click 'resend message'.
Your next thought is trying to wake up from a dream, doing everything from pinching your skin as hard as you can, to trying to poke a finger through your palm, to closing your eyes as hard as you can, and opening them just as slowly. No matter what you try, you're still in the same room as before.
It most certainly doesn't feel like you're dreaming, that familiar floaty haze nowhere to be found, everything a little too real, the pit of your stomach sinking lower and lower as the hours pass you by. You debate leaving the room, but the unknown makes it feel impossible to turn the handle. The tall man had said 'Mansion' and you're not quite sure if his definition is leaning more towards 'very nice house' or 'literal castle'. Getting lost in a potential maze of rooms and hallways doesn't seem like the best idea.
He seemed nice enough, right? Nicer than your last boss, at least. Despite him being much taller and paler than anyone else you'd ever met, and his very presence making all of your instincts scream at you to run away. The thought suddenly makes you self conscious, somehow, bordering on guilty as you decide you shouldn't judge a person based off of what they look like. It's unlikely he can control how tall or pale he is.
What you can judge, however, is the possibility of you being kidnapped right now. It doesn't seem like a typical kidnapping situation. But, last you remember, you were laying comfortably in your own apartment, and hadn't agreed to anything.
It seems like you'll just have to wait until 10am tomorrow morning.