Marcus exploration felt like stepping into another world, as he finally walked into the corridor. The lights dimmed behind Marcus, as if afraid to follow him. His flashlight beam was his only lifeline , a thin thread of light cutting through dust and shadows.
He walked with care, tracing the walls with his fingers. The paint here was old, bubbled by moisture, hiding faint symbols beneath. Every few steps, the air grew thicker, almost whispering with echoes he couldn't quite name. Somewhere deep in the building, water dripped in an endless rhythm,very slow, deliberate, like a ticking clock.
Marcus stopped at a junction where the hallway split in two. One path led deeper into darkness; the other ended at a heavy wooden door with a brass plaque tarnished by time. The inscription read:
> Hotel Management – Records & Administration
His pulse quickened. He tried the handle but it was locked. But the lock was old, the kind made before key cards and security systems. Marcus reached into his pocket for a small pick set — a habit he'd never quite unlearned from years of fieldwork. Two careful clicks later. The door creaked open.
The smell hit him first: dust, paper, and something faintly metallic. Inside, shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, each lined with thick ledgers and faded files. He shut the door behind him . He walked up to a shelf,picking a book that revealed names scrawled in elegant handwriting, organized by year and room number.
He started flipping through the pages.The ledger entries were all the same.
Families. Always families.
And in nearly every case — a teenage girl was listed among the guests.
The entries stopped suddenly one year, as if someone had decided that records were no longer necessary.
Marcus's jaw tightened. He pulled out his phone to photograph the pages. Although there wasn't any signal,the camera still worked. Just as he finished snapping the last image, he noticed something odd: a drawer slightly ajar in an old mahogany desk near the far wall.
Inside were documents written in a language he didn't recognize, and sketches of the glowing symbol — the same one carved into the corridor 's wall. Some of the papers showed strange diagrams of the hotel's structure — tunnels beneath the foundations, circles drawn around certain rooms.
As he studied them, the air behind him shifted.
A soft creak.
Then a voice.
"Curious, isn't it, how history never really leaves a place?"
Marcus froze. Slowly, he turned.
Standing in the doorway was Mr. Griff — his expression mild, his uniform spotless. He looked like any polite hotel manager dealing with a curious guest, except for the glint in his eyes. It wasn't anger — it was amusement.
"I didn't hear you come in," Marcus said, keeping his voice calm.
Mr. Griff smiled thinly. "That's my job, detective."
The word detective hit Marcus like a bullet. He hadn't introduced himself that way.
"Excuse me?" he said, masking his alarm. "You must be mistaken."
"Oh, I rarely mistake faces," Griff said, stepping further into the room. "I make it my business to know who stays in my hotel. Especially those who ask too many questions."
Marcus straightened, subtly shifting his weight. "I'm just a guest. The door was open. I was curious about the décor."
Griff chuckled — a sound too controlled to be genuine. "Of course you were. Guests always are. Curiosity, you see, is our most dangerous luxury." He walked to the desk, glancing down at the open drawer Marcus had been studying. His fingers brushed the edge of one paperand for a split second, Marcus saw, a faint shimmer where Griff's skin met the light. Like his hand wasn't entirely solid.
Griff folded the paper neatly, placing it back. "These are old records," he said casually. "They belong to another time. The hotel has a long history — tragedies, renovations, stories that never made the news. We prefer to keep the past where it belongs."
Marcus's mind raced. He needed information — but one wrong question might end the conversation.
"Then why keep them?" he asked quietly. "If the past is so unwanted, why not destroy it?"
Mr. Griff's smile deepened, though his eyes stayed cold. "Because some stories refuse to burn. And some guests never leave."
The air in the room seemed to constrict. The shadows along the ceiling trembled slightly, as if listening. Marcus glanced toward the door, gauging distance and escape.
Griff took another step forward. "You've seen things, haven't you? The marks, the lights. Maybe even the girl."
Marcus didn't answer.
Griff tilted his head, studying him like a specimen. "You shouldn't have come here alone, detective. This place is not kind to those who seek the truth. It tends to keep them."
Marcus's grip tightened on his flashlight. "Is that a threat?"
"No," Griff said softly. "It's a promise."
The lights flickered. For a moment, the world stuttered — the shelves stretched impossibly long, the air bending like heat haze. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone leaving a vacuum where reality used to be. Griff smiled politely again, his tone bright and professional.
"Enjoy your stay, Mr. Stone," he said, using Marcus's fake name. "Breakfast is served at seven."
And with that, he turned and walked away, closing the door behind him.
Marcus stood still, heart hammering. The illusion of normalcy had snapped back into place, but he could still feel the residue of something vast and inhuman pressing against the edges of reality.
He picked up one of the diagrams from the drawer. It was a map of the hotel's lower floors. Faint ink circles marked rooms long sealed off, one of them labeled with a single word:
Chamber.
Marcus folded the paper and tucked it into his jacket. He didn't know what lay beneath the hotel, but one thing was certain — the next step would take him closer to the truth.
And perhaps, to the girl.