Room 2041. Another day; another spook, another crappy hotel.
A stranger looks back at Scooby Doo, from the mirror across the bedroom. He doesn’t see the face of a hero anymore; just a washed out has-been.
‘It’s gonna be the caretaker’ he whispers to himself.
He pulls the plunger up on the hypo and watches the blood mix with the heroin, before pushing the colour of a beautiful sunset into his arm. The empty syringe falls to the carpet as he feels the rush – the only rush left in a life of haunted houses, snack food and forbidden sex.