Lobby
She wasn't supposed to actually read the journal.
Oh, she hadn't told the nuns and priests about it, or they would have taken it from her for sure, but she knew she shouldn't be reading the scrolling words that went on by. She couldn't help it, though, and most nights found her under her sheets in the top bunk, while the postulates had dreams of Jesus in the other beds, and while she read about folks hearing things in their heads. No one else thought they had demons but her, and she knew her stepmomma would have said that was the Devil's work, but they sounded real nice, the people, and she just wasn't as sure as she'd been once about being damned.
When the note about the hotel came across the page, she did something without thinking. She slid off the bunk, pretended she was going to the bathroom, and sneaked right on out of that holy apartment. Surely baby Jesus was crying somewhere, but she just needed to see what was in that hotel.
She had the key wound round her neck, tied to a scapular of rope, and the black and white composition notebook was clutched in her hand. She was dressed in a white nightgown that went from neck to ankle, and she wore a plain tan robe overtop, just as long and cinched in a knot at the waist. Her hair was braided neatly, and she had sensible shoes on her feet. The cab driver had looked at her like she was escaped from somewhere for mad folks, and he hadn't waited around for her to explain that she didn't have cab fare.
The hotel was huge and looming, and she was pretty sure she'd never seen something so old and lit up like that. She wandered in tentatively, clutching the scapular at her neck and whispering a Hail Mary as she entered the lobby. Something was making her want to head toward the staircase, and she looked over her shoulder before heeding the desire. After all, she'd come this far, hadn't she?