The 3 A.M Loop

I’m James William. And if I look like I’ve been hit by a truck and then backed over for good measure, it’s probably because of the two people currently sitting across from me.

I shifted my gaze toward Maya. She didn't look up from her book; she never does. Maya doesn't just read; she absorbs data like a high-speed router. Last week, I asked her why she was staring at a spider on the wall, and she spent ten minutes explaining the tensile strength of silk and the predatory efficiency of arachnids. She’s a literal walking dictionary—no, scratch that, she’s a Google server with a bob cut and glasses.

Then, there’s Leo.

Leo was currently vibrating. He’s six feet of pure muscle, the kind of guy who looks like he could bench press a small car without breaking a sweat. But right now, he was clutching his protein shaker like a shield because a door down the hall had the audacity to creak.

"James," Leo whispered, his bottom lip actually trembling. "Did you hear that? That was a low-frequency groan. The house is unsettled."

I sighed, leaning my head back against the chair. "It’s the plumbing, Leo. Not a vengeful spirit."

"Actually," Maya chimed in, finally turning a page with clinical precision, "the sound is likely caused by 'water hammer'—a pressure surge when a fluid in motion is forced to stop or change direction suddenly. It is a hydraulic shock, not a paranormal event."

See what I mean? I’m stuck between a human encyclopedia and a giant pookie who’s one shadow away from a heart attack.

I let out a heavy sigh, the kind that felt like it came from my soul, and reached for my headphones. As I pulled them on, my dark, unruly strands—which had long since overstayed their welcome at my shoulders—brushed against the white plastic. I tucked the black locks behind my ears to get a better fit, finally the noise of Leo’s whimpering and Maya’s lecturing faded into a muffled hum, I closed my eyes. For a second, the world finally went quiet.

That silence lasted exactly three seconds.

My phone, resting on the table next to my arm, let out a sharp, persistent vibration that hummed right through the wood. I opened one eye, seeing the screen light up with a notification that made my stomach do a slow, heavy roll.

It was a group-wide notice from our professor. The project we’d been dreading was officially live. We were tasked with a full documentary and a detailed written report on "Countryside Hospitality: The Reality of Rural Hotel Conditions."

Deadline? The upcoming weekend.

I pulled my headphones down to my neck, the white plastic resting against my collarbone. Across from me, Leo’s eyes were wide as he stared at his own phone, and Maya already had a fresh tab open on her tablet, probably searching for the most remote, decrepit hotel within a fifty-mile radius.

"Well," I muttered, the peace of my music already a distant memory. "I guess we’re going on a trip.”