The Locks of the Grand Eclipton Part 4 by AnonymousHairLover

---

The door to Room 717 creaked open, its heavy oak groaning like a warning as Zack Reed stepped into the dim glow beyond. The air was thick, laced with a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat. His boots scuffed against the floor, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the Grand Eclipton Hotel’s forbidden chamber. Zack’s hand lingered on the key, its cold weight a tether to the world outside, but before he could turn back, a force shoved him forward. He stumbled, catching himself against a wooden chair in the center of the room, as the door slammed shut behind him. The lock clicked, sharp and final, and Zack spun to see Daniel Voss standing there, his chestnut curls half-hidden under a hood, his eyes wide with guilt and fear.

"Daniel, what the hell?" Zack’s voice was low, edged with betrayal, his hand instinctively flying to his black cap, ensuring his man bun—his secret, his floor-length jet-black hair—remained hidden. The room’s amber light cast jagged shadows, revealing shelves lined with glass jars, each filled with coils of hair: blonde, raven, auburn, silver, each a silent scream preserved in glass. Zack’s stomach churned as he took in the sight, the reality of Room 717 crashing over him like a wave. The darkness of the room seemed to pulse, the jars glinting like eyes watching his every move. His heart pounded, a mix of dread and anger flooding his veins. This wasn’t a cleaning job. This was a trap.

Daniel’s lips parted, but before he could speak, a smooth, chilling voice cut through the silence. "Well, well," said William Hargrove, stepping from the shadows near a small table, his tailored suit pristine despite the room’s grim aura. His silver hair gleamed under the lamp, his gray eyes locking onto Daniel with a predatory glint. "You’ve kept your promise, Daniel. But is this the one with longer hair?" William’s gaze shifted to Zack, narrowing as it lingered on the cap. "He doesn’t look like much."

Zack’s breath caught, his eyes darting to Daniel, who avoided his gaze, his curls trembling as he shifted nervously. "I… I told you I’d bring someone," Daniel stammered, his voice thin. "He’s the one." The lie hung heavy, and Zack’s fists clenched. He wanted to demand answers, to shake Daniel until the truth spilled out, but the weight of William’s presence pinned him in place. The hotel manager’s fingers twitched, as if itching to unravel a secret, and Zack’s cap suddenly felt like a flimsy shield.

William tilted his head, studying Zack with an intensity that made his skin crawl. "Longer than yours?" he mused, glancing at Daniel’s waist-length curls, which spilled over his shoulders like a cascade of polished copper. "That’s a bold claim." He stepped closer, his polished shoes silent on the floor, and Zack instinctively backed away, his shoulder brushing against a shelf. A jar wobbled, its contents—a thick braid of dark hair—shifting with a soft rustle. Zack’s eyes widened, the room’s darkness pressing against him, amplifying the horror of the trophies surrounding them. Each jar was a story, a life, a piece of someone stolen by William’s obsession. The air felt alive, heavy with the weight of those lost locks, and Zack’s pulse raced as he realized the depth of the danger he was in.

"Daniel," Zack said, his voice low and tight, "what did you do?" Daniel flinched, his curls bouncing as he shook his head, but he didn’t answer. William’s smile widened, a thin, sharp crescent that promised nothing good. "Let’s see what we’re working with," he said, reaching for Zack’s cap. Zack jerked back, his hand flying up to protect his secret, but William was faster, his fingers deft as they snatched the cap away. Zack’s breath hitched, his heart hammering as the cap fell to the floor, revealing the tight man bun coiled at the nape of his neck.

William froze, his eyes widening, a flicker of shock breaking his composed facade. "Well, now," he murmured, his voice laced with something akin to reverence. "This is unexpected." He reached out, his fingers brushing the bun, and Zack recoiled, his back hitting the shelf again, another jar rattling. "Don’t touch me," Zack snapped, but William ignored him, his gaze locked on the bun with a hunger that made Zack’s stomach twist. With a slow, deliberate motion, William tugged at the tie holding the bun in place. Zack’s hands shot up, trying to stop him, but William’s grip was firm, his movements almost gentle, like a collector handling a rare artifact.

The tie came loose, and Zack’s jet-black hair unfurled, spiraling down in a cascade that shimmered like liquid midnight. It fell past his shoulders, his waist, his hips, pooling on the floor in a glossy wave that seemed to absorb the room’s dim light. The sight was mesmerizing, even to Daniel, who gasped despite himself, his curls suddenly seeming ordinary in comparison. William’s breath caught, his eyes gleaming with a feverish intensity. "Magnificent," he whispered, stepping back to take in the full length of Zack’s hair. "This… this is a treasure beyond compare."

Zack’s face burned, a mix of shame and fury coursing through him. His hair, his mother’s pride, his closely guarded secret, was now exposed, laid bare before a man whose obsession filled the room with trophies of stolen locks. The darkness of Room 717 seemed to close in, the jars’ contents whispering accusations, each strand a testament to William’s madness. Zack’s chest heaved, his hands trembling as he fought the urge to run, to hide, but the locked door and Daniel’s betrayal trapped him as surely as William’s gaze.

William’s focus shifted entirely from Daniel to Zack, his earlier interest in the curls forgotten. He reached for the scissors on the table, their blades glinting with menace, and Zack’s heart lurched. "No," he said, his voice cracking, stepping back until his back pressed against the shelves. William raised the scissors, the metal catching the light, and Zack braced himself, expecting the cold bite of the blades. But William paused, his hand hovering, his eyes tracing the length of Zack’s hair with something like awe. "Cut it?" he murmured, almost to himself. "No… no, that would be a waste. Hair like this… it’s too rare, too perfect."

Instead of cutting, William set the scissors down and reached out, his fingers threading through Zack’s hair with a reverence that was somehow more unsettling than the threat of the blades. He lifted a strand, letting it slip through his fingers, his touch lingering in a way that made Zack’s skin crawl. "So soft," William said, his voice low, almost intimate. "So alive." He twisted the hair, coiling it around his hand, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring a ritual. Zack stood frozen, his body rigid, the violation of his personal space a weight he couldn’t shake. The darkness of the room seemed to amplify every sensation, the air thick with the scent of metal and dust, the jars watching like silent witnesses.

"Daniel," Zack said, his voice shaking with anger as he turned to his friend, who stood near the door, his curls now a shadow of their former glory. "You did this. You brought me here." His eyes burned, the betrayal cutting deeper than any scissors could. "You’re always flaunting your curls, your pride, your damn hair length. Why? Why would you do this to me?"

Daniel’s face crumpled, his hands twisting together, his curls bouncing as he shook his head. "I didn’t want to," he said, his voice breaking. "You don’t understand, Zack. I was proud of my hair, yeah. I loved the attention, the way people looked at me. But then I saw yours." He gestured at the cascade of black hair pooling on the floor, his eyes glistening with a mix of envy and shame. "It’s… it’s unreal. I was jealous, okay? I saw William’s obsession, and I thought… if I gave him you, he’d leave me alone. I didn’t want to lose my hair. I’m sorry."

Zack’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists. "Sorry?" he spat, his voice low but venomous. "You sold me out because you were jealous? You knew what he was, what this place is, and you still brought me here." The words hung heavy, the darkness of Room 717 amplifying their weight. The jars seemed to hum, their contents a chorus of stolen lives, and Zack felt their judgment, their pity. His hair, his secret, was now a chain binding him to this nightmare, and Daniel’s betrayal was the lock.

William, oblivious to their exchange, continued his strange ritual, lifting another strand of Zack’s hair, letting it drape over his arm like a scarf. His fingers moved with a precision, stroking the strands, arranging them in patterns only he understood. "Such beauty," he murmured, his eyes distant, lost in his obsession. Zack’s stomach churned, his anger at Daniel warring with his fear of William’s next move. The manager’s touch was a violation, each stroke a reminder of how exposed he was, how powerless.

Finally, William stepped back, his hands reluctantly leaving Zack’s hair. He stood there, his gray eyes glinting, as if committing the sight to memory. "This changes everything," he said, his voice soft but laced with menace. "Your hair, Zack… it’s a masterpiece. It deserves more than a jar. It deserves… worship." He turned to the table, his fingers brushing the scissors, and Zack’s heart stopped. The room’s darkness seemed to pulse, the jars’ contents shifting as if alive, the air thick with anticipation.

William picked up the scissors, the blades glinting under the amber light, and turned back to Zack. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of cold determination. Zack’s breath caught, his eyes locked on the scissors, his body tensing as every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to escape. The jars loomed behind William, their contents a silent warning, and Zack’s hair felt like a noose tightening around him. His reaction was raw, visceral—a mix of defiance and terror, his hands rising as if to shield his hair, his voice a choked whisper: "Don’t."

---