The Cradle of Hot Glass

My old college roommate, Elias, had come to stay with me for a week while he was in town for a conference. I lived in the far east of the city, and his hotel was a converted Victorian factory in the industrial district, so I packed a bag and joined him. The room they gave us was at the top, a former clock tower that had been turned into a singles’ retreat. It was a tight squeeze, with a sloped ceiling and one bed that was raised on a platform, as if it were a stage for a single sleeper. A low wooden railing framed it, so you had to step over to climb in. Underneath, the lift motor hummed its mechanical lullaby.

The day had been a scorcher, one of those rare London afternoons where the sun actually burned. We’d spent hours wandering the streets, drinking lukewarm lager in crowded pubs, and catching up on years of missed birthdays and bad jokes. The attic room was a furnace. The heat from the day had been baked into the brickwork, and the tiny Velux window did little more than frame a square of orange streetlight.

We’d been up until the early hours, talking about our old flatmate who’d gone to Berlin and never come back, and the time Elias accidentally set fire to the kitchen curtains. He was yawning by midnight, but I was wired. He fell asleep mid-sentence, face-down on the pillow, still in his jeans. I clicked through the TV channels for another half hour, but the drone of the lift and the weight of the heat made me restless. I killed the telly and lay on my back, staring at the sloping ceiling. Even without the covers, I was sweating. I could feel my own heartbeat in my temples.

Sleep was a distant dream. I’d tossed for an hour when I couldn’t stand it anymore. I climbed over the railing, careful not to wake Elias, and padded to the window. It was a small, crank-out design, and I turned the handle. The glass squeaked in protest. A gust of cool air hit my face, but it carried a strange smell, like burnt sugar and wet ash. I breathed it in, grateful for any relief.

I went back to bed and this time, I started to doze. The last thing I remember was the sound of the lift motor changing pitch, a deep groan that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. Then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, I was awake. The room was darker than it should have been, the orange hue from the window now a bloody red. The air was thick, like being under a heavy blanket. I sat up, and the railing felt hot under my palm.

Elias was still asleep, but he was shivering, even though the heat was unbearable. His face was pale, and his lips were blue. I shook him, called his name, but he wouldn’t wake. Panic rose in my throat. I scrambled over the railing and stumbled to the window. The pane was cracked. The glass was warm. I looked out, and the street below was gone. Instead of the pavement and the parked cars, there was a shimmering, undulating sea of molten glass, glowing like a river of lava. The air outside rippled with heat waves, and the smell of burnt sugar was overpowering.

I stumbled back, hitting the wall. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, but the screen was cracked, and the clock was frozen at 2:47. I pressed the power button, but nothing happened. I tried the landline, but it was dead. I shouted for help, but my voice came out as a croak. I turned back to Elias, and he was no longer shivering. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide open, but they were milky white. He wasn’t breathing.

I don’t remember how I got out of the room. I only remember the heat, the floorboards burning my feet, and the railing snapping off as I hit it. I fell down the stairs, through the corridors, and out into the street. The air outside was normal. Cool. The pavement was cool. The streetlights were on. But I was covered in sweat, and my hands were shaking. I looked back at the hotel. It stood there, silent, its windows dark. One window, the topmost one, was still red.

I never saw Elias again. The police said he checked out the next morning, but his phone and wallet were left behind. They found no signs of struggle. They never found a body. I moved across the city, to the other side, as far from that place as I could get. But every night, at 2:47, the smell of burnt sugar returns. And sometimes, when I look at my own reflection in a dark window, I see those milky white eyes staring back at me.