Outside Room 8

By Olivia Ranz

About the Book
Oswald Haggardy is a man who, for the past forty-five years, has never left his place of business: the Dime-A-Dozen Motel. The very idea of stepping foot outside puts him in a dizzying down-ward spiral. Mocked by coworkers and falling asleep to the sound of cartoons, he struggles every day with boredom and fear as a faceless enemy stalks the dark corners of his room.
But when a mysterious guest arrives and takes refuge in Room 8, turning his already stressful life into an unplanned, chaotic, aggravating nightmare, Oswald’s safety net begins to fray. Or, at least, that’s how he sees it.
More people arrive at the derelict motel, seemingly out of nowhere, and Oswald does his best to cater to them as he struggles with his own repressed feelings. And those dark thoughts of the past multiply as his hours sleeping and hours awake are plagued by tortures seen only to him.

About the Author
Olivia Ranz is a family-oriented woman with a lean towards the science-fiction/thriller side of the world. She owes everything to her parents, Edward and Peggy, as well as her two older brothers, David and Tommy. They’ve supported her through every endeavor and were with her every step of the way through the journey her first published book has made.
Chapter 5 was actually inspired by real life events of Olivia Ranz attending her second comic convention where she met some of her favorite sci-fi actors. Though the aftermath the character went through was very exaggerated in comparison with how Ranz reacted (which was only slight embarrassment and a shrug of the shoulders), the experience did legitimately happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Feb 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886839494

Book preview

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Olivia Ranz

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

Dorrance Publishing Co

585 Alpha Drive

Pittsburgh, PA 15238

Visit our website at www.dorrancebookstore.com

ISBN: 979-8-8868-3090-3

eISBN: 979-8-8868-3949-4

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Dedicated to and inspired by the incredible actor Doug Jones. His kindness and genuine nature were so desperately needed by me when I met him, and I could think of no better way to thank him for who he is than by using my talent to write the following story. Never change who you are, Mr. Jones. The world needs men like you more than you may realize.

Chapter 1

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The Skeleton in Room A

Pick. Pick. Pick.

Oswald Haggardy’s fingernails chipped away at the oily green paint slowly curling from the walls. The only companion around was his gaunt shadow working alongside him as an electric lantern buzzed by his toes.

Pick. Pick. Pick.

He could’ve been listening to anything by now: the sound of the nearby highway, the rattling of the air conditioning unit, or even the annoying squeaks coming from his coworker’s room. However, his mind was firmly latched onto his work and his ears held onto the noises coming from beneath his fingertips.

Pick. Pick. Pick.

Green crumbs flittered onto the floor, sticking messily to his tattered tennis shoes, but he paid them no mind either. The paint fought against every stroke of his nail and threatened to come off entirely. Thankfully he had patience and all the time in the world to make sure it peeled precisely how he wanted it to.

On the other hand, reality gnawed at the back of his mind. Oswald did have a job to do, and he hadn’t even realized that the sun was already sending small streaks of natural light through the only window his hallway had to offer.  

Pick. Pick.

His shadow grew darker, blocking his previously unobstructed view, until the sun overtook his lantern. He begged silently for his shadow to go away for a moment longer, but it melded into his bony hand resting against the wall. Perhaps he could keep going. Just squint a little through the dark patches and hope he didn’t screw anything up. Oswald was stalling now, but knew he’d have to unlock the front doors eventually.

Pick. Pick.

If he was in a different motel, one expected to be catered to and cared for, Oswald would’ve had a bit more enthusiasm about the day’s potential. The possibility of new guests from different walks of life and putting his mind on something other than his paint carvings intrigued him, yet he knew what would really happen today. It would be the exact same as every other day.

Pick.

His sharpened nail lost its vigor the more he thought about his opening duties. Unlock the doors, Oswald, turn on the ‘open’ sign, Oswald, greet folks with a smile, Oswald. A chuckle escaped his hardened lips at the very idea of a new guest coming in, especially on a Tuesday. Who travels on Tuesday?

Pick.

Still though, Ms. Lerner expected him to do his job no matter how inefficiently it was done. He could set the place on fire for all she cared, and he’d considered doing so a few times, but always pulled those thoughts into the furthest corner of his mind. Emotional repression a therapist might’ve called it, but as long as he had wall space to work on and blank pieces of paper, he had no need to give what he was feeling a medical name.

Pi-

Room B lurked to his right at the end of the hall, drawing his tired blue eyes. The only reason he had for not burning the miserable shack down was lying in that room; bed squeaking and the smell of cheap marijuana seeping out from under the doorframe. She was apparently awake, which was the shock of the day for Oswald. He knew how much the woman loved her sleep, so her being up this early was most likely not a good sign.

P-

The shadow was too much for him now. Any more picking and he’d make a mistake. So, the inevitable reared its ugly face: time to do his job. With knuckles cracking after being rigid for the entire night, Oswald stooped down to turn off his lantern; the humming noise ceasing with the click of the switch. Now he could clearly hear everything else which made his jaw clench in annoyance. The wire running through the bone ached under the pressure, yet that was a minor disturbance to him compared to what he was forced to listen to. The sound of a depressing soap opera emanated from Room B accompanied by the occasional sniffle or cough.

Morning, Margot, he whispered to the closed door. Gonna come out and do your job today? Oh, that’s right, silly me, what was I thinking? Surely you have another excuse.

Despite the tone of his words, Oswald couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pity for the old woman in Room B. She was the one and only housekeeper in the entire motel and was about as old as the building itself but didn’t know it quite so well as he did. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her, his little art project wouldn’t have gotten off the ground. She was the one who encouraged him to start picking at the paint to begin with. Well, he shouldn’t say encouraged; more like provoked. A simple scrape against the wall with the heel of his shoe and he swore Margot nearly exploded. She had threatened to call Ms. Lerner, but Oswald called her bluff. If only she still had that same passion for keeping the motel spotless. Now it was covered in cobwebs with water stain speckles on the ceiling and the hallway that had once been a solid forest green was now an improvised art mural.

Another reason to not do any work, he kept mumbling. But by all means stay in there getting doped up and leeching off Ms. Lerner’s indifference. It’s not like I’m going to stop you. Tried once, look where that got me.

Oswald anxiously rubbed his jaw as he remembered the only time he’d apparently taken his shenanigans and sarcastic tongue too far. It must’ve been a bad day for Margot because all he knew was, he’d mentioned her dropping standards and what followed was a hearty punch to his face. But after his trip to the hospital, he never told a soul. In fact, when Ms. Lerner asked about the fresh scar on his chin that was still there to this day, he’d actually had fun making up a completely bogus story. Strangely enough, getting his jawbone shattered was somehow beneficial to his mental health.

What was that? Oswald asked.

His head turned with a jolt towards a splintery, old desk at the front of the motel. The same old knickknacks he’d set up years ago were still plastered on top of the cracking counter while an orange stuffed dog lay limp over the edge next to a bell. Oswald wrinkled his nose at the toy who could only stare back with its plastic eyes.

I’m not afraid of Margot, he chuckled. But I am smart enough to know how to choose my fights. And stop laughing already! You know I can hear you.

The dog didn’t move, but Oswald noticed its fur quivering underneath one of the air vents.

What do you mean ‘tacky’?

Oswald looked back towards the hall showcasing three years’ work of designs. Almost every inch was covered in the most picturesque patterns his mind could imagine; all peeled from the bubbling paint. Lightning bolts cut their way down from the ceiling, delicate swirls stretched up from the gray, fraying carpet, and symbols he didn’t even know the meaning of freckled the nooks and crannies his other designs couldn’t fit into.

But what stood out above all others was what lay at the end beyond Room 9; the one he had yet to complete. A pair of leathery, veiny wings sprouted from both sides of the janitorial closet and really cemented Oswald’s natural talent despite its unfinished state. He felt pride when he gazed on them and picked paint flecks out from under his nails.

I think it’s my best work, he sighed. It’s no Starry Night, but it’s good enough for the Dime-A-Dozen Motel.

When again the dog made no noise, Oswald scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Well, that’s because it isn’t done yet. Obviously. I’m gonna add more texture along the edges; maybe make them blend more into the wall or add some tears in the skin, but I’ll need a paperclip for that.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind caught fire with all the possibilities he had to choose from. Perhaps scratching more blood veins into them or having fur coated along the edges. Oswald knew a manic smile had twitched its way onto his face, but no one except his dog was there to see it, so he let his big, white teeth jut out as far as they wanted.

 Or I could make some cracks stretch around them like they’ve just burst free from the confines of the paint!

He looked back at the toy, beaming joyfully and fists raised high above his head, but the moment of elation disappeared as quickly as it had come, and he shrugged.

Yeah, I know, Cookie. I don’t like me when I get poetic either.

As he half-heartedly resorted to using his thumbs to get the rest of the paint off of his hands, he snatched his lantern and ambled down towards the desk where he delicately placed it right next to the stuffed dog. His graying red hair shivered beneath the vent, but thanks to his starched shirt and vest he could barely feel it against his skin.

I’m fully aware of my responsibilities, thank you, he moaned to the toy. You don’t need to tell me how to do my job.

A pair of rusty keys met his fingertips next as he fished them out of his pocket. Then he turned to face them: the pair of glass doors, thin glass doors at that, which separated him and Margot from whatever lurked outside. He never liked them. Anyone could look in or break in. One good stone throw and their only line of defense would be gone.

Still, it was nice seeing the sunshine cast random spots of colored light against the carpet. Spots only slightly obscured by the year’s supply of grimy fingerprints and body sweat that caked both sides of the glass.

Doors unlocked, Oswald sighed as the key slipped into the lock and gave a satisfying click. He made sure not a cell of his skin brushed against any part of the door as he pulled away. Disgusting thing.  

Open sign on…

He lumbered behind the desk and saw the power switch to an ancient neon sign hanging depressingly outside. The switch taunted him as layers of dust sent up the occasional powdery puff whenever the air moved around it. Oswald knew there was no point in turning it on. Electricity would be wasted and the only letters that lit up were the ‘p’ and the ‘n’. But he knew if Ms. Lerner decided to make a surprise visit, she would not be happy if it wasn’t flickering. Funny how she didn’t care about his paint peeling habit but noticing a run-down sign not glowing really set her off.

Open sign on.

He braced himself for his early morning wake up shock that the switch inevitably gave, and it did not disappoint. Every hair he had on his body stood on end and trembled along with the monotonous hum of the freshly awoken sign.

Better than any cup of coffee, right? he chuckled as soon as the sharp pain ended.

The stuffed dog didn’t find it so amusing.

And now… we greet folks with a smile.

He plopped himself down into a rolling chair, which sagged despite his abnormally thin frame, and trundled up to the desk. From the floor beneath, Oswald fished his secretive pillow; more for his elbows than his head as they cradled his chin for him to watch the doors.

And that was it. That would be his entire day. Nothing but staring at doors that would never open and waiting for guests that would never come. His entire biography would take up about three pages; an interesting enough past, not enough future. Still, Oswald scoffed with a smile. He felt it better to be bored than what he used to feel.

The breeze coming from his nostrils agitated a web in the corner of his desk. The only living soul in the motel apart from himself and Margot was a solitary spider that apparently was annoyed at Oswald’s breathing and skittered up the wall into a small crack on the ceiling.

Good morning, Oswald sighed to the inhabitant. Checking into Room 1, I see. Good choice. There are plenty of dead bugs in there to pick from.

The rank smell emanating from the crack in the ceiling confirmed what he knew lurked behind each door of every room. They hadn’t been cleaned in months and whenever Margot felt like doing her job, which was a phenomenon in and of itself, all she did was spray air freshener and maybe wipe a rag over the dressers. Oswald took his own freshener from the bottom drawer of his desk and waved it around himself until his vision was obscured by a cloud of the sweet-smelling mist. He choked on it for a minute before relishing the scent and leaning back in his chair.

"Back home again, he sang to himself a little too loudly. In Indiana… blah, blah, blah… fields I used to roam. When I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash, then I long for my Indiana…"

Before he could finish his meager attempt at the national anthem for his home state, the door to Room B flew open with such ferocity it nearly made Oswald jump out of his skin. He whirled around and teetering on two stiff legs was Margot McPatterson in all her early morning glory. Mussed gray hair with flecks of black, evidently a hair-dying mishap, was pulled back in a sloppy bun. Acne scars freckling her face that were soon to be covered by thick globs of makeup caught his eye faster than her own venomous stare. But when his gaze did drift to her cloudy, brown eyes, it was evident she’d already had many hits from the cheap weed she purchased every other day.

And if that visual information didn’t confirm her foul mood enough, her outfit certainly did. The attempts to hide her sagging skin with her nightgown from the 70s were obviously futile as it revealed a long-faded tattoo of an old boyfriend hanging limply against the wrinkled flesh on her left arm. From the looks of him now, Oswald had to wonder just how ugly the guy was when she first got that done.

Margot shuffled over and loomed over the skinny man. He knew she was doing her best to act intimidating, but his real fear of her had greatly diminished the second she decided to strike him. She’d shown all of her cards that day and, despite his forever scarred jaw telling him otherwise, she didn’t have a very high hand. He actually had to fight the urge to laugh when he saw her nostrils flaring.

Do you mind? she snarled.

Mind what? Oswald asked as innocently as he could.

I’m trying to actually enjoy my morning for once and then I hear you bumbling about out here squawking a song.

Squawking? Margot, that hurts. I thought I sounded nice.

You’re deluding yourself, Ozzie. As per usual.

The dilapidated woman paused when she noticed the fresh paint flecks still latched to his nails. She snarled and rubbed the bags under her eyes with her stubby fingers.

You did it again, didn’t you? she sighed.  

A smile curled on Oswald’s lips.

I didn’t think you ever noticed my art, he chuckled.

"That’s not art, Oswald, that’s vandalism," she growled.

They can be the same thing, you know.

No. Vandalism is vandalism; there’s nothing artistic about it.

A lot of urban painters would disagree with you.

Well, we aren’t in an urban area, are we?

Oswald knew enough to stop while he was ahead and hold his tongue when she was like this. No matter what he said next she’d only argue with, so he stuck with something non-verbal and merely raised his eyebrows. But evidently even that was too much as Margot gasped and glared at him.

I’m not taking this from you today! she yelped.

What? Oswald laughed.

Your attitude! I’ve had enough of you constantly groaning, moaning, bitching, and complaining!

Did I say anything?

You didn’t have to!

Margot sputtered, her anger already boiling over at eight in the morning. Oswald accepted then and there that this day would at least be semi-entertaining. Sure, the entertainment would be forced onto him as he watched Margot shriek, but it was better than watching the pebbles in the parking lot flitter about.  

When you do shit like that, you force me to have to clean up after your filthy mess! she continued. Just look at all the paint crumbs in the carpet!

Filthy mess. Now he was insulted, but for the love of all things good and holy he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she was getting under his skin. He took in a breath and tried to come across as the reasonable one in the conversation.

I make the filthy messes? he guffawed. Margot, when’s the last time you picked up a cloth and did a speck of cleaning? All you do is stay locked up in your room watching smutty TV and getting high, which I’ll remind you is still pretty illegal in this state.

Oh, you think I don’t do my job? she snarled.

You tell me; why else do you think Ms. Lerner is hiring another housekeeper? Again?

She fumbled with a response, allowing Oswald a brief amount of time to soak up the fact that he’d tangled her feverish tongue, before she continued ranting. And he listened to every horrible word she said like always. This was how any good day would play out for Margot. On bad days she wouldn’t even come out of her room, but now he was counting just how many times she said the f-word before running out of air. He’d counted it twelve times once and she had yet to beat that record.

And I’m here all fucking day watching your fucking skinny ass butchering the fucking walls while Lerner doesn’t do a single fucking thing about it!

Only four. She wasn’t even trying.

And the worst thing is you don’t give a fuck, do you? she snarled.

I give a… I care, yeah, sure I do.

Then why do you keep doing it?

Boredom, I guess. No better motivator than that.

Margot scoffed and a hint of a grin shone on her face. Oswald leaned forward a bit in his chair to get a better look at it. Seeing her smile was like finding a piece of crystal in a pile of mud, but every time he saw a hint of a shine, the mud, being her chapped lips, would cover it right back up again. This time was no exception.

Regardless, she moaned. It’s fucking annoying. Soon there will be no paint left on the walls at all. Is that what you want?  

She let out an angry huff before retreating back into her room and slamming the door which made the wooden letter ‘B’ tilt on its nail. Oswald let out a very much held in sigh and the more he thought about it, he somehow felt insulted that she’d restrained herself in her cursing. It was like she wasn’t bringing her prime material anymore and that made him worry. The sound of her soap operas came back, more marijuana smoke puffed from under the doorframe, and he heard her waddling about fumbling at what he knew was another hand-rolled joint. It was hard to mistake the crinkling noise of the cheap paper; he’d become as accustomed to that as he had to the picking paint.

Then again, at least she’d come out. He recalled the time when he didn’t see her for three days straight: the only sign of her still being alive was her room light turning off and on again. He’d take the verbal abuse if it meant he could see her. She was the only person he could talk to in the dreary motel.

I said ‘person’, Cookie, Oswald said to the offended toy. And, quite frankly, you only say what I make you say. You couldn’t disagree with me if you tried.

He heard a quick comeback hurtling his way but stopped it mid-sentence in his head.

Don’t bother, he sighed. I am the only one of us with an actual brain. And don’t – don’t try to quip. I know your quips. I’ll make one for you…

Oswald cleared his throat and moved his voice into a high, nasally octave.  

’Yeah, you’re the only one of us with a brain,’ he chirped in Cookie’s voice. "’More like half of one.’"

He faked a laugh and shook his head.

Yeah, and that half belongs to you, right? he asked the toy, returning to his normal tone. I’m not using it for much anyway, so have at it.

He stroked the dog’s back and savored the feeling of its old, rough fur on his palm. In fact, he got so lost in dragging his fingers and entwining them in every tangle that he didn’t hear the front doors open.

I don’t know, Cookie, he whispered. It’s not like Margot would tell me if anything was wrong. And heck no, I’m not asking her. I value my life.

Well, that’s a relief, a feminine voice spoke with a laugh. I’d hope you would.

At any other point in his life, that startling, out-of-nowhere comment that didn’t come from between his own ears would’ve at least made him gasp. But despite its sudden appearance and oddly loud volume, Oswald didn’t so much as wince. Instead, his eyes merely slid over to the front doors and there, standing in the doorway with the sun beating against her back, was a young woman sporting a brand-new motel uniform. He had to admit; he never would’ve linked the peculiarly soothing voice to the stranger standing a few feet away.

Good morning, she chuckled.

Her dark brunette hair was held back by a solitary black headband, loose and worn from years of use, and a freshly laminated nametag reading ‘Michelle’ glinted as the glass door closed behind her. She quickly noticed Oswald staring and smiled, revealing big, white teeth, before approaching the desk with more confidence than he’d expected. Had he been any other man, he’d be offset by her poise, but instead he stood to greet her.

You must be Mr. Haggardy, she said, holding out her hand for a shake. Ms. Lerner told me all about you.  

He hesitantly took her outstretched palm and was again surprised by her assertive grip. But he had to pry his hand away as she shook it with such enthusiasm, she nearly dislodged it from his wrist.

My name’s Michelle, she continued. Sorry I’m a little late. My GPS took me on a totally insane loop that said it would save me five minutes when it really added twenty.

Oh, no worries, he replied. It’s only five past anyway. You’re the new housekeeper I assume?

Indeed I am.

Michelle couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, yet she already had wrinkles set into her cheeks and forehead from her humongous smile and raised eyebrows.  She looked around the motel like an excited meerkat, taking in every detail that she could, before noticing Oswald’s contribution to the walls. Cringing, he waited for her to make some snide comment like Margot had, but instead saw the lively woman give an even bigger smile; one he feared might break her face.

I have never seen wallpaper like that before, she giggled. It’s very unique.

A rare feeling of pride welled up in Oswald’s chest. That was the first compliment he’d received in he didn’t know how long. No, actually he knew. He’d never received one before. Ever. Michelle approached one of the nearest designs, a thorny vine that looped into the ceiling, and laid her fingers atop it.

Ah, it’s not wallpaper at all, she sighed in a kind of awe. Must’ve taken someone ages to do all of this. Who has that much free time?

Oswald did, but he didn’t dare admit that and simply enjoyed the fact that someone finally appreciated his self-taught talent. Or maybe ‘appreciated’ wasn’t the right word. Michelle appeared to be captivated by it, as a matter of fact. Not once did her fingers lift from the textured wall or her eyes leave their surface. She looked to be studying them. Searching for something, even. It fascinated Oswald; seeing that much fervor in just one look.

When you work here, he said in answer to her query. Free time is something of an abundance.

Yes, I’ve heard we don’t have many guests, she replied, eyes still latched to the paint.

Any guests, Oswald corrected. Not for an entire month.

How’s this old motel still standing then?

Believe me, I’ve been asking that question for the past forty-five years. Still haven’t come up with an answer.

Michelle snickered and managed to glance away from his art, but the fervor there disappeared as soon as she’d done so, replaced by a look he’d never seen before. A very alien look. Oswald couldn’t put his finger on it, but for whatever reason it twisted his stomach. Was it pity? She might prove to be an interesting coworker, perhaps even more so than Margot. But that remained to be seen and would be seen almost immediately as Margot reemerged from her room now donning her own uniform. It fit a little too snuggly around her stomach and chest, but at least it was clean and buttoned up to the collar. The only thing she was missing was the trite maroon bowtie both he and Michelle were already wearing.

Margot hardly bothered taking a peek at Michelle before rolling her eyes and trudging over to both of them. Oswald braced himself for the tirade she was about to deliver as she did it with every other housekeeper before.

I’m going to be blunt, Margot grumbled. You’ll hate it here.

Michelle guffawed softly but didn’t interrupt.

This is a dead-end job with barely any benefits and nine rooms to clean that no one uses. Just show up, do your work, and keep all of your complaints to yourself. If you do all that, we won’t have any problems. All right?

Yes, ma’am, Michelle answered with a smirk.

And wipe that fucking grin off your face, Margot snarled. God, I hate it when Lerner hires children.

Only the one f-bomb. Oswald was happy Margot was practicing some form of self-restraint.

Children? Michelle repeated. I’m twenty-six.

Oswald congratulated himself on being right about her age.  

Even better, Margot retorted. Young enough to still be a pain and not old enough to sell out yet.

Eh, true enough on both counts, I guess, Michelle shrugged.

If only he had a bowl of popcorn with him to munch on as these two women sized each other up. All of his money would be on Margot, naturally; she’d won every other time against a sharp-tongued coworker and this time would be no different. She had yet to bring out the big guns, but he hoped she’d save those until after at least one room was cleaned.  

Don’t be cute with me, Margot continued. You think you’re so high-and-mighty now, but I know your type.

 You don’t even know my name, the new girl shot back.

Margot squinted to read her nametag.

Michelle, huh? Yeah, trust me, sweetheart, I know your type, she chortled.  

You can’t tell someone’s personality based on their name alone, Michelle retorted.  

Oh, no?

Margot’s hazel eyes landed like an air bomb on Oswald who instinctively crossed his arms. He already knew where she was going to go.

Oswald Haggardy, she snickered, pointing an accusatory finger at his face. All you need to know about him is the last name. Simply remove the ‘y’ and that’s that.

Michelle glanced from Margot to Oswald. He could tell she was feeling the animosity between them as her eyebrows knitted, but she had to know that none of it was coming from him. So, he smiled and let out the most genuine sounding laugh he could.

You need to get some fresher jokes, Margot, he chuckled. That one’s so spoiled even this young lady can smell it.

Margot sneered at him while Michelle snickered behind her palm.

Don’t mind her, Oswald said to the new girl. She’s just trying to intimidate you. This is her method to chase off unruly newbies.

I don’t chase them off, Ozzie, Margot grumbled. They leave because they can’t handle it.

"Can’t handle you, you mean," he replied under his breath.

What was that?

Nothing.

Margot rolled her eyes and shoved her way past Michelle. She barely came up to the new girl’s shoulder, but she still made her stumble and, strangely enough, start to giggle. Oswald couldn’t believe what he was hearing as Michelle wrapped her hand snuggly around her mouth to try and suppress her laughter and Margot heard it, too. She whipped back to glare at her and when Michelle finally noticed she was being watched, she cleared her throat and did her best to hold the rest of her giggling spout back.

Just what I needed, Margot groaned. Another whacko. You and his skinny ass are going to get along just fine. Lucky me.

She grumbled even more insults before resorting to mumbling and sauntered down the hallway towards the janitorial closet past Room 9. Oswald was too distracted by Michelle’s weird behavior that he didn’t listen to Margot clattering around with miscellaneous brooms and cleaning