#// debating if he'll make the stew extra salty by crying into it

[tewwor-moving]

@chateautangerine

This place reminds him of something. Rather, someone that used to regale hauntings only under the influence of strong liquor and a heavy moon. The smattering of illusory presences, ever changing interior and décor, the feeling of being known by something that shouldn't be cognizant to begin with.. a place that hungers to keep those it lures.

Reinaldo doesn't think twice to regard everything under the same impression. While the tall tales were experienced by a lone man ( just human — though broken ), he took to the superstitions whole-heartedly. Every whisper or patter of foot catalogues through the ear. Perhaps all for naught, but it's a chance at staying sane. Of keeping track in a senseless maze.

"Yeah, uh— the pantry. Just got done feedin' my dogs." Worry strikes through the heart then. How would they fare without him being there? Their loyalty often wrestles with instinct, but they look after one another well enough. Chowing down supper only occupies them for so long. Soon enough they'll be looking to heap on the bed with everyone ( yes, including him ) accounted for—

The sudden halt of scenery momentarily punts the forming anxiety. He's never been anywhere this fancy. Strange as the situation continues to be, a bit of gawking feels.. reasonable. "Feelin' like I left my stove on at home." He didn't, thankfully, but that slow panic bubbles like a lit kettle.

How much longer can he go before boiling over?

Again, he's fearful of what might be found under the cover. Predictably, that bag of kibble crinkles under pressure. He doesn't dare to sit. Barely dares to breathe, but he does. And with it comes that alluring aroma that almost folds him on the spot. A hand slowly pries itself from the lifeline of feed, finger by uncertain finger. Then the lid's eventually off to confirm that his nose had been correct.

"Cazuela?" Breathless, practically winded with equal parts confusion and wonder. "How—" But he stops himself. Instead, he gingerly places the kibble on the table. "You don't know, do you?"

There’s a curious sound coming from their left. Footsteps. Now, from behind. No one is there. "Robin it is," Cliff nods, a bedtime whisper.  

Something bubbles in his head; soap in an overflowing sink. Robin had come here unexpectantly like they all do, eyes wide and feet plastered to the floor. What would he see on the TV screen? Maybe a fuzzy picture, one where Robin's four feet high, fingers sticky with popsicle and mom still alive. Is she dead? A boy and a girl with his eyes and mussy, dark hair. Someone to say 'I do.'

"Well. If you walked through a door—" Cliff begins, fixing the jacket over his shoulders. He goes hush. "Yes, I did."

Now, a hallway to the right, but it wasn't always there. Cliff turns into it and doesn't seem aware. Not of the never-ending, repeating hallway. Not of the vinyl starting over. Not of the vast emptiness of the hotel or the twinkling, back-of-the-head whispers. The restaurant suddenly before them, bright-yellow-garish.

Cliff takes the cigarette out of his mouth, and he walks closer.

"I was on the cusp of running a bath at the time," he imparts, looking off, then. Distant. "...After reading the reviews they left me." He said it to no one, low, rueful, and airy. Cliff snubs his cigarette out in a waiting ashtray, seemingly unaffected. He looks back. "I'm curious what you're feeling, Robin."

Yearning? Scared? Confused?

The restaurant is empty.

Everywhere: the smell of grilled steak, red and bloody. Butter melting on croissants. An imperceptible tremor has begun to yawn and spill over the tiles at their feet—the bowels of the hotel milk-churning behind every door. Two cloches are waiting for them on the nearest table, their names printed on two shining cards.

A clock ticks, the hands never moving.

Cliff pulls the lid to a bloody filet mignon just like he wanted, and he wonders, trailing off. “No one knows me like they do..."