The Serial Killer Checked Into My Hotel / Chapter 1: The Knock at 1 A.M.
The Serial Killer Checked Into My Hotel

The Serial Killer Checked Into My Hotel

Author: Arjun Nair


Chapter 1: The Knock at 1 A.M.

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It was just past 1 a.m. when the counter rattled with a sharp knock, dragging me out of a doze behind the faded reception desk. My ears caught the distant azaan drifting through the Lucknow air, mingled with the soft clang of a rickshaw bell echoing down the lane outside. The tube light above flickered, casting its tired glow over my half-finished flask of chai. The night’s quiet was broken only by the howling of street dogs and the low, restless pulse of the city that never really sleeps. Rubbing my eyes, I looked up, heart hammering from the sudden jolt.

Somewhere in the lull, two figures had slipped into the lobby—a man and a woman.

The air inside was thick with leftover samosa oil and the sharper sting of cheap whisky. I gave them a once-over, instinctively sizing up whether they were locals, runaways, or the kind who bring trouble in their wake. The man wore the city’s dust on his shoes, and the woman slumped beside him, limp as a marionette whose strings had snapped.

He was tall and wiry, a cap pulled low and a mask hiding most of his face, a bag slung over one shoulder. The woman leaned heavily on him, her long hair a curtain shielding her face.

Something about her posture unsettled me. It wasn’t the shy stoop of a new bride, nor the giddy act of a college couple. The man’s mask and cap reeked of someone who dodges CCTV—though in this hotel, only my secret cameras ever watched, tucked away and silent. I tugged at my kurta, doing my best to look casual.

The smell of local liquor was so strong it made my eyes water. The woman was out cold, no doubt.

I wrinkled my nose, taking in the sight—her dupatta slipping, a sandal half-off, body slack like nothing in the world mattered anymore. Just another scene from this street after midnight.

One glance and it was obvious: they’d been out drinking hard. The woman didn’t even know where she was—maybe he’d found her passed out somewhere. I’d seen too many such stories, each with its own mess.

I’d watched couples like this tumble in before, eyes full of secrets, words slurred by the night. Sometimes the girls were locals sneaking out, sometimes they came from far away, chasing a bit of freedom or love—or just running from a hostel warden for a night. This one looked rough: lipstick smeared, bindi off-centre, not a care left.

But I didn’t care. Business is business.

That’s the rule for survival here—no questions, no judgments. Mouth shut, take the cash, mind your work. Yahan sab chalta hai, until someone with a lathi and a uniform comes banging on the door.

The man spat out, "Room chahiye," propping the woman up with one hand and fishing in his pocket with the other.

His voice was sharp and clear, not slurred at all. No Lucknowi courtesy—no ‘bhaiya’, no ‘please’. He kept darting glances over his shoulder: either nervous, or the kind who’s always expecting trouble.

I slipped on my most harmless smile and pulled out a room keycard, starting the check-in routine.

This is what I do best: a smile that says, ‘You’re safe here, bhaiyaji,’ and fingers that move fast, muscle memory from years of handling everything from runaway couples to IT types to the occasional politician’s man. ‘Service’ is king, no matter the hour or the client.

"ID de dijiye, bhaiya. Aapka chalega."

My voice oiled the words, smooth as ghee on hot paratha. If they had ID, great. If not, there were always other ways. Never make enemies at this hour.

All he pulled out were a few five-hundred notes.

"ID bhool gaya."

I frowned, putting on a show of concern. "Bhaiya, bina ID ke nahi hoga. Aajkal police waale bahut check kar rahe hain..."

I lowered my voice, peering over my glasses for effect. Everyone knows Lucknow police—one wrong look and they’ll drag you out for fun. A little drama never hurts to raise the rate.

But the man just stared, unmoving.

His silence was the kind that stops a man mid-sentence, the hush before a lathi charge in Hazratganj. In this line, you learn to measure danger by the quiet, not the noise. I felt sweat bead along my brow. My hand fiddled nervously with the cap of my pen, tapping it against the counter as I waited.

I noticed a big tattoo inked on his arm. This guy was bad news.

It was bold and foreign-looking, black lines standing out against his skin. On this side of town, only boys with a taste for jail or fights show off ink like that. The way he flexed, I knew he wanted me to see.

People like me—who run hotels in Lucknow’s shadows—know better than to mess with these types.

We’re no fools. Police aren’t friends, and if you cross the wrong guest, you risk more than a closed hotel. Sometimes, your family gets a call from the morgue instead.

So I gave in. "Toh uska de do."

I tried to sound casual, routine. Inside, I was praying—Ramji, let tonight pass without drama. My hand shook as I slid the register across, buying time.

He gave the woman a token pat. "Uske paas bhi nahi hai."

He said it flat, like it meant nothing. The pat was careless, as if she were luggage. I glanced at her—still no movement, not even a groan. Odd.

Then he tapped the desk twice. "Ek kaam kar do."

His tone was polite, but his voice chilled the air. It made me hesitate.

No anger, no threats—just a quiet order. My heart thudded, mouth dry. From outside, the bell of a passing rickshaw echoed through the quiet.

Just then, her hair shifted and her face caught the light.

For a second, I saw her clearly—smooth skin, sharp cheekbones, a tiny nose ring glinting. She could’ve been anyone’s sister or daughter, the kind who argues with her tuition teacher or giggles at a chai stall. The sight sent a strange shiver through me—half guilt, half opportunity. I wondered for a moment if she was another runaway, or if fate had sent me trouble disguised as luck. I remembered a similar guest last winter—trouble followed her too. My throat tightened.

I gritted my teeth and decided. "Theek hai, par deposit wapas nahi milega."

Rules are rules, but money talks. I made my voice firm but not harsh, just in case he tried something. Beneath the counter, my hand squeezed a fistful of loose change for luck.

The man didn’t reply. He took the keycard, scooped the woman up, and headed upstairs.

He carried her like a rag doll, limbs dangling. The stairs groaned beneath him. I watched until the landing swallowed them up.

Only then did I accept the cash, a slow smile creeping across my face as they vanished from sight.

That old thrill—like scratching a lottery ticket and seeing the first matching symbol. But tonight’s prize was cursed, though I didn’t know it yet.

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