February 15
[Redacted] has tasked me with investigating a series of mysterious deaths in room 1905 of the [redacted] hotel in Boston, Massachusetts. It is a multi-floor luxury suite furnished for the wealthy guest that enjoys the anachronistic clash of modern home theater systems with gaudy Victorian furniture. The white glove butler service came complimentary with my duties to avoid paying guests from thinking they provide less-than-pristine service to anyone.
The hotel has existed here for over one and a half centuries and there are hundreds of rooms. Most of the staff has experienced a guest’s unexpected passing. The ones in this room have management on edge. Three guests in a row have taken their own lives in the living room by cutting their own throats after three days and no one can find the weapon. They have repressed coverage of the suicides for the moment in order to keep current and future guests at ease. The last thing the [redacted] hotel needs is superstitious millionaires doing business elsewhere.
I left my duffle bag by the bedroom upstairs, set up my laptop in the study on the first floor, and performed a cursory search of the suite for anything peculiar. During previous contracts, I’ve found hidden speakers that emitted high frequencies to annoy guests, pests dying in the walls, amoral owners putting cameras behind mirrors and paintings. None of those were present here. I have, however, enjoyed observing a painting of a woman on the mantle in the living room. The artist - who didn’t sign his work - captivated my attention for much longer than I care to admit.
I spent the rest of my day reviewing the information on the unfortunate guests. The first was an Italian novelist in the twilight of his career. Reviews poorly received his last few novels, and he told friends he was traveling to the states for inspiration. Upon his death, it appeared as though he hadn’t written a single word and, in overdramatic Roman fashion, decided he couldn’t live without his craft. The second was a distant member of a French royal family who wanted to attend a high-end fashion show. He had purchased a ticket and expressed interest to his friends and family about attending the event taking place on his second day here, yet he never left the hotel room. The third guest was a playboy interested in exploiting the local women for profit - no significant loss to humanity there. Again, a guest with aspirations beyond the hotel room had never left or brought anyone into the room with him despite being the most likely of the three to do so. His death would be the most likely catalyst for “deathly cursed hotel” headlines.
&&&
I hadn’t noticed her smile before. I ate my supper in the dining area of the living room. It’s just a small table and two chairs. However, it has a view of the painting of a woman I mentioned earlier. Her full lips, heart-shaped face, and dark flowing hair are captivating. I felt embarrassed eating my meal in front of her because she couldn’t enjoy her own food.
Look at me. I’m acting like a painting is real and feel like I’ve found new love. The wealthy must have something different in their wine or I’m simply too tired from the journey here and vivid hallucinations are filling my heart.
February 16
The maître d’hôtel called my room to check in on me and my progress. I told him I found nothing of his interest so far and lied about inspecting the suite with a fine-tooth comb. Obviously, we are both aware that idioms are not literal. I’m entranced by the painting. I spent hours watching her and observing every detail. My duties come second to appreciating her beauty.
My infatuation with the woman is unfounded. I know every detail of her face and her tight red dress. The artist posed her delicate arms in front so she could subtly push her breasts together and entice me further. I blew her a kiss as I left the living room for the study to log today’s unproductiveness and I swear on my life her cheeks blushed.
&&&
Her name is Juliette. The thought came to me while I was conversing with her during supper. It wasn’t like a normal thought I have while writing. The phrase “My name is Juliette” just appeared in my mind when I told her I thought I was impolite for referring to her as “the woman” or “the painting.” I’ve never liked the name since school has forced me to associate it with the infamous play.
Just as I thought of the ending of the play, I noticed a dagger on the table in the painting. Juliette has enthralled my heart so much, I’m missing obvious details. Stranger yet, the artist orientated the handle to the left. As if he knew I was left-handed and wanted me to exert the least amount of effort to wield the thing. I wonder. Does Juliette have to dose herself with turpentine to complete the allegory?
February 17
The maître d’hôtel’s call interrupted her spell. Juliette called to me the second I woke up. Her voice is ambrosia to my ears. I failed to dress myself and stood before my love in just my underwear. Before my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I saw! Juliette slipped out of her dress and bared her naked body. My libido exploded and I approached the painting like a drooling dog to a bone.
The phone rang and snapped me back to reality. I held in my hand unnoticed, the dagger to my throat. The maître d’hôtel’s anxiety caused him to call early on the third day before another butler faced a traumatic scene. The momentary diversion allowed me to escape to the study and leave my naked Juliette disappointed. Despite being hypnotized into nearly terminating myself, I couldn’t stop lying to my savior.
Juliette’s beautiful hands are still playing with my thoughts. I acted like a man talking on the phone with his wife while he was in bed with another woman. I assured him that nothing was wrong while caressing my face with the blade, as if it were the touch of a woman seducing me back to bed.
I regret convincing him otherwise. I’ve been struggling to finish my final entry while Juliette is beckoning me to return to the living room. Please! Burn the painting!
I am a digital forensic specialist posting the logs of Joseph M. Leonard during his stay in room 1905 at the [redacted] hotel. He attempted to wipe his laptop’s hard drive by performing a factory reset prior to committing suicide in the living room. Fortunately for us, Leonard must not have been aware that a factory reset doesn’t wipe data. Instead, the data is freed up and made available to be overwritten. Very little information was unrecoverable.
The maître d informed me he marked the room as permanently reserved and forbid housekeeping from entering to prevent any further mysterious deaths. I told him about Leonard’s fascination with the supposedly haunted painting. He reacted with surprise; saying that none of the rooms had portraits. Unless a guest replaced a painting, they should all have been impressionist paintings of potted plants. Regardless, he promised to personally throw the cursed canvas in the furnace and watch it smolder.
I requested photos of the crime scene to see the enchanting painting for myself. Most of the photos were worthless to me. Understandably, the photographer is looking down at the floor most of the time. Other shots were the single duffle bag near the bed and the laptop on the desk in the study. We never found the dagger Leonard had mentioned in his logs. There was only a single shot that included the portrait of the woman. Unlike Leonard’s descriptions, the woman wore a black dress that didn’t accentuate any of her features. Maybe it was her smile that drove him crazy in his three-day isolation.
The maître d called back to tell me that no paintings in the room depicted a woman. Being paranoid, he took the canvas that Leonard was probably facing before he died and attempted to burn it in the furnace. The canvas seemed to understand its fate and roll itself up as the maître d tried to feed it into the furnace. Before finally getting the thing in the flames, the canvas “bit” the maître d and left a deep cut on his hand. He said the wound wasn’t anything like a rough paper cut. Only something as sharp as a knife could have caused it. Or maybe a dagger.