I blinked, lowering the bedskirt slightly. The mirror wasn’t part of the hotel decor. It was loose, shoved beneath the dust cover. And standing on the mirror’s surface was a small, battery-operated plastic toy—a wind-up novelty monkey with tiny plastic hands that scraped back and forth across the glass whenever its mechanical gears turned.
I let out a breathless, half-hysterical laugh.
It was a setup. A elaborate, elaborate prank designed to scare whoever found the note. The battery was dying, making the toy’s mechanism jerk irregularly—hence the sudden pauses and loud scratching.
I leaned in closer, reaching under to turn the little plastic switch off and kill the noise for good.
As my hand reached the glass, my flashlight beam illuminated the reflection in the mirror tile.
The angle showed the underside of the box spring directly above the mirror.
Taped flat against the fabric lining on the underside of the mattress—facing straight down into the mirror—was a glossy photograph.
My hand stopped inches from the toy. I leaned lower, squinting at the reflected image.
The photo was a high-resolution print showing a hotel room bed. On the bed, fast asleep under the white comforter, was me. I was wearing the exact same clothes I had put on this morning. The angle of the shot was taken from directly above the mattress, looking straight down.
Across the bottom of the photograph, written in red marker, was a timestamp: Tonight, 2:14 AM.
I pulled my hand back from under the bed as if the carpet were on fire. I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding wildly against my ribs.
I checked my watch.
2:12 AM.
“No,” I whispered, backing up toward the door. “No, that’s impossible.”
I grabbed the door handle and yanked it. It didn’t move. The heavy deadbolt was disengaged, but the door refused to budge, sealed tight against the frame as if glued shut.
Behind me, the quiet scratching under the bed suddenly stopped.
The mechanical toy had finally run out of power.
In the absolute silence that followed, a soft, dry rustle came from above my head.
I slowly tilted my flashlight beam up toward the ceiling tile directly over the bed.
The acoustic tile had been slid back three inches. Hanging down through the dark opening, swinging gently in the draft of the air conditioner, was a heavy black camera lens—pointed straight down at the pillows.
And from inside the ceiling cavity, a low, raspy breath whispered through the dark:
“You looked too early.”
