Quite like all thriller stories, this one started with a phone call.

 

It was not long after 10:00 o’clock, and for once Maya was eager to sink into the stupid back-straining mattress of the stupid hotel. The hotel telephone rang with a startle. Maya took a good minute to answer. In her eight years of traveling, she had never received a call on her hotel room line.

 

“Hello!”

 

“I was wondering if I could get tomato soup in room number twenty-nine.”

 

“I am sorry. This isn’t room service.” She hung up before the soft female voice could respond. Her head was heavy, and her eyes refused to open for several seconds. The sweat-soaked pants clung to her thighs, and she had little intention of showering. Perhaps it was not a good idea to run three miles before bed, plus, she could feel the medicine’s side effects shutting her butt. The phone rang again, and she picked it up again only to slam it down. It rang again, like a loop calling for a break. The sound seemed distant as she grew more tired and further annoyed.

 

“Please, I am exhausted. Can I get a tomato soup in room twenty-nine?”

 

“I told you this isn’t a room service. This is one of the rooms.” This time, Maya, after disconnecting the call, set the receiver aside. The curtains on the window were drawn. A small hint of light from the roadside glared from the slight slit between the two curtains. Her body was too heavy to do anything but lie down, wishing she could move the curtain and watch the moon up in the sky. The ringing of the phone startled her again, and she turned to the ignored receiver. Maya backed away into the headboard. She stared at the phone for all of fifteen minutes. Then it went silent. She picked up the receiver and touched it to her ear with shaking fingers.

 

“My head hurts, and I am having difficulty breathing. Can I please get a bowl of tomato soup?”

 

“Okay. Where are you?”

 

“It’s room number twenty-nine. And thank you so much. I am afraid my brain is going numb.” Maya’s head was numb with a headache. She did not want to deal with pushy guests and faulty wired phones. She couldn’t wrap her head around this strange possibility, but she was too tired to question anything. As she made the call to reception, the phone was nothing but silent.

 

Outside in the hallway, a gust of wind followed her down the stairs, and the broken windows at the top and bottom of the stairs framed her view of a beautifully lit tower at the opposite end. It was surrounded by a crowd gathered to celebrate some kind of festival. A large Columbus ride went to and fro with screaming people. Children were running around the giant aquarium, poking at fish through the glass. Their dirty hands were smudged all over it. She was surprised at the details she could note from such a distance of more than fifty meters. Must be the heightened tunnel vision, she assumed, and went to the reception area, which was deserted to every inch. The clock on the desk was stuck at 07:00 a.m.

 

On the way back up the stairs, she noticed that the sign she believed she had seen lit with the alphabet of “Apple-leaf hotel” on her way in an hour ago was now only visible under the borrowed lights of the nearby fair.

 

She heard the announcement from the festival fair, “The winner of Mega contest 2029 is Meena Desna.” She traced back her steps as fast as her wobbly feet could take her. Her phone, discarded by the bed, showed a dark, uninterested screen. She stringently remembered the date to be eight August 1989. She peeked out of the door to check the room number above her head. “Twenty-nine!”

 

The phone rang again. She picked it up and put it to her ear. “Could I have a bowl of tomato soup in room number twenty-nine, please?” The voice called from the other side.

 

“Who is it?” Maya asked. Her fingers sweated around the phone, and her teeth clattered in fear.

 

‘Maya.” The voice answered.

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Mansi is a fiction writer with primary inclination to horror and thriller.