Christmas in Suite 203 (a story)










From where I sat immersed in the pages of the novel I was reading, I looked up and saw them, walking in together.

Almond-shaped eyes, full red lips and plump cheeks; she was dressed in a sheer, red dress, with silver jewelry. In her elegantly manicured left hand she held a silver purse which sparkled from the light that shone off it. Everything about her screamed of elegance and class, everything except him.

He was standing by her right side, not as elaborately dressed as she. Ripped jeans, baggy tee and a funny-looking cap covered his gangly frame. As I watched them, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was unravelling.

They checked into suite 203 and I finally had to get up and take their luggage to their room. Resentful that I had been roused from my place of hiding, I stood and motioned for them to follow me. As we walked up the marbled stairs to suite 203, they chattered incessantly.

“You were supposed to hold my hand…” she whined
“Sorry, I forgot” he responded tartly “forgive me.”
She swatted his arm playfully. “You know I didn’t mean it, huh? I was just kidding” she stated as she laughed out loud. Something about her laughter made a shiver run down my spine. I took them to their suite and was gone in a flash, back to my book and to hiding in the shadows.

The clap of heels on marbled floors roused me from my sleep and I stood, wiping a sweaty palm over my tired eyes. Reaching for my glasses, I looked up to see the time and the clock read 1:14pm. I must have fallen asleep because the last I remember, it was 11:19am. She was at the reception, talking animatedly with the receptionist, not a hair out of place. I inched my way closer to where they stood as she was saying goodbye. Brushing past, she walked out the hotel’s massive doors with a bag in hand. As she passed, the shivers came.

“Was she with a bag when they came?” I asked
“I don’t think so” the receptionist responded.
“Has the guy left?”
“Not yet.”

In that second my brain snapped. With a gasp I pulled off my slippers and ran up the stairs to suite 203. For a few minutes I banged on the door but no one answered. With the last surge of strength I pushed open the doors, to be greeted by a gruesome sight. There he lay, in a pool of his own blood, a kitchen knife sticking out his chest. There was a look of horror in his open, lifeless eyes as though he couldnt believe the last thing he saw before he passed.

As I stood there tongue-tied I heard from behind me.
“Sola, you are under arrest for the murder of Mr Sam.” Slowly I turned and came face to face with those almond-shaped eyes. Wasn’t she the one that had just left?

All rights reserved


(Literarywizard Writing Club)




Praise Ohanwe is a freelance writer, professional editor, poet and writing coach.

He began writing as soon as he could hold a pen but dropped the art in his teenage years. A few years ago, he picked up the pen again and has never looked back ever since.

With a few years of professional writing under his belt, he has had the opportunity of writing for individuals and businesses. Currently he is interning with Upside Africa.

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