Tales from the Universe
The Bellweather Hotel has 212 rooms.
Nora counts them twice.
There are twelve floors.
Rooms 101 through 118 on the first.
201 through 218 on the second.
The pattern continues all the way up.
Except the seventh floor.
There is no Room 707.
Nora would probably never have noticed.
Except somebody keeps ordering room service from it.
Nora’s aunt manages the Bellweather Hotel.
During summer break, Nora works there three afternoons a week.
Mostly she delivers towels.
Replaces little bottles of shampoo.
Carries luggage.
Does whatever her aunt calls:
“Character-building employment.”
Nora calls it:
“Being fourteen and underpaid.”
Tuesday afternoon, the kitchen manager hands her a tray.
“Seven-oh-seven.”
Nora looks at the ticket.
Tea.
Toast.
Strawberry jam.
One hard-boiled egg.
“Where’s 707?”
“Seventh floor.”
“There isn’t a 707.”
The manager does not look up.
“Then I suppose you’ve got yourself a mystery.”
Very funny.
Nora takes the elevator.
706 is beside 708.
There is perhaps eight feet of wall between them.
No door.
Nora checks the tray ticket again.
ROOM 707
3:15 PM
She returns downstairs.
“There isn’t a room.”
The kitchen manager finally looks up.
“Did you check?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs.
“Bring it back.”
“What do I do with the food?”
“Eat it.”
This seems like an excellent conclusion to the mystery.
Until Thursday.
At exactly 3:15, another ticket prints.
Tea.
Toast.
Strawberry jam.
One hard-boiled egg.
Room 707.
This time Nora brings her cousin Felix.
Felix is twelve and believes every old building contains secret passages until conclusively proven otherwise.
They inspect the wall between 706 and 708.
Knock.
Measure.
Listen.
Nothing.
Then Felix notices the carpet.
Every hotel room has a small brass threshold beneath the door.
There is one beneath the wallpaper.
They peel back a loose corner.
Wood.
A door has been covered over.
“There you go,” Felix says.
“707.”
“Why would someone wallpaper over a hotel room?”
“Secret murder.”
“You always go directly to murder.”
“Secret tax fraud?”
“Better.”
They put the wallpaper back.
Then they hear something from the other side.
A spoon touching a teacup.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nora and Felix stop moving.
The tray is still in Nora’s hands.
They ask Aunt Claire.
“There used to be a room there.”
Nora waits.
“And?”
“And there isn’t anymore.”
“That explanation has a fairly large hole in the middle.”
Her aunt sighs.
“707 was converted into storage during renovations.”
“Where’s the storage room?”
“It’s not accessible from that hallway.”
“Can we see it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re supposed to be working.”
This is not an answer.
It is, however, confirmation that an answer exists.
The Bellweather Hotel opened in 1923.
Nora and Felix find the original floor plans in the basement records room.
Room 707 is there.
Ordinary guest room.
Nothing interesting.
Then they find renovation plans from 1968.
707 is marked:
CLOSED — SERVICE ACCESS ONLY
Plans from 1981:
No 707.
Plans from 1994:
A blank space.
Plans from 2007:
The wall between 706 and 708 is drawn as solid.
Felix measures the blueprints.
“That’s impossible.”
“What?”
“The outside of the building didn’t change.”
The interior plans did.
According to the newest plans, several feet of the hotel simply disappeared.
Nora smiles.
“Secret tax fraud?”
Felix shakes his head.
“Secret architecture.”
The next Tuesday they wait.
3:14.
Nothing.
3:15.
The printer in the kitchen activates.
Tea.
Toast.
Strawberry jam.
One hard-boiled egg.
Room 707.
This time there is something else.
PLEASE KNOCK.
Nora nearly drops the ticket.
Felix looks delighted.
“Finally.”
They take the tray upstairs.
Knock on the wallpapered door.
Three times.
Nothing.
Then:
Click.
A thin line appears in the wallpaper.
The hidden door swings inward.
Room 707 exists.
It is perfectly clean.
Bed made.
Curtains open.
Lamp burning.
A suitcase rests beside the dresser.
A newspaper lies folded on the desk.
Nobody is there.
Nora checks the newspaper.
August 14, 1968.
Felix checks the suitcase.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to open it.”
“You were touching the latch.”
“I investigate with my hands.”
On the bedside table is a room-service tray.
Tea.
Toast.
Strawberry jam.
One hard-boiled egg.
Untouched.
The tea is still hot.
Behind them, the door closes.
They cannot reopen it.
The handle turns.
Nothing happens.
Nora pounds on the door.
“Aunt Claire!”
No answer.
Felix has stopped investigating with his hands.
He is staring at the desk.
“Nora.”
There is a hotel register beside the newspaper.
The final guest entry reads:
August 14, 1968
Room 707
Arthur Bellweather
Bellweather.
The family that built the hotel.
Underneath is another entry.
Different handwriting.
August 14, 2026
Room 707
Nora Vale
Nora stares.
“I didn’t write that.”
“I know.”
There is a third line.
Blank.
Then letters begin appearing.
Slowly.
As though an invisible pen is pressing into the paper.
Felix Vale
Felix backs away.
“No.”
The room-service telephone rings.
Neither moves.
It rings again.
Nora answers.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice speaks.
Very quietly.
“You shouldn’t have delivered the tray.”
Nora looks at the untouched food.
“Who is this?”
“Arthur Bellweather.”
Felix can hear the voice through the receiver.
His face changes.
Nora grips the phone.
“You’ve been ordering room service for fifty-eight years?”
Pause.
“No.”
“Then who has?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Arthur whispers:
“I thought it was you.”
The lights go out.
When they return, only eleven minutes have passed.
Aunt Claire finds them standing between 706 and 708.
No door.
No seam.
No brass threshold.
Nothing.
She is furious.
Then Nora shows her the newspaper.
Her aunt goes completely still.
“Where did you get this?”
“707.”
“There is no 707.”
Nora looks at her.
“You know that’s not true.”
Aunt Claire sits down in the hallway.
For the first time, she tells them what happened.
Arthur Bellweather disappeared from Room 707 in 1968.
The room was sealed afterward.
Years later, staff began reporting strange things.
Calls from the room.
Lights beneath the door.
Room-service orders.
Guests asking why someone was walking around inside a room that did not appear on their floor map.
So the hotel removed the number.
Then the door.
Then the room from the plans.
Eventually almost everyone who remembered it was gone.
The hotel solved the problem by pretending the room did not exist.
Nora looks at the blank wall.
“But it does.”
Her aunt nods.
“Sometimes.”
The next Tuesday, Nora waits beside the kitchen printer.
3:15.
Nothing happens.
3:16.
Nothing.
3:17.
Felix relaxes.
“Maybe it’s over.”
At 3:18, the elevator opens.
A bellhop steps out.
Nora has never seen him before.
His uniform is old-fashioned.
Dark red jacket.
Brass buttons.
Small cap.
He is carrying a tray.
Tea.
Toast.
Strawberry jam.
One hard-boiled egg.
“Excuse me,” Nora says.
The bellhop stops.
“What room is that for?”
He checks the ticket.
His expression changes.
“Seven-oh-seven.”
Nora looks at Felix.
Felix looks at the elevator.
There are twelve floor buttons.
Except now there are thirteen.
Between 7 and 8 is a small brass button neither of them has ever seen before.
It does not say 707.
It says:
GUESTS ONLY.
Leave a Reply