The fog clung to the car windows like it wanted to follow him, curling tendrils against the glass as if sniffing, probing. Ethan sat still for a long moment, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, pulse slowing, yet unease refused to loosen its grip on his chest. The metallic scent — coppery and cold — still lingered faintly in the air, clinging stubbornly to the inside of his nose.
He turned the key. The engine rumbled weakly to life, coughing like a tired animal. The Jeep rolled forward, tires whispering against the damp asphalt, fog swallowing the beams of his headlights almost immediately. Shapes emerged and dissolved like smoke: twisted trees, leaning signposts, the occasional shuttered window.
The Hollow Inn appeared slowly through the gray haze, a crooked building with warped siding and peeling paint. Its flickering red neon sign read "H_LL_W," two letters burned out long ago. The sign buzzed unevenly, casting an intermittent scarlet glow over the wet porch. Ethan parked, gripping the steering wheel a moment longer, wishing for something — anything — familiar. He grabbed his bag and climbed the creaking steps, the wood groaning under his weight.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of mildew and old carpet, mixed with the acrid tang of the vending machine. The place was quiet except for a man leaning against the machine, tapping it impatiently with a loose coin.
"Damn thing ate my dollar," the man muttered, not looking up.
Ethan nodded politely.
"New guy?" the man asked finally, glancing at him.
"Yeah… Room six, this machine jammed or something?" Ethan replied, trying to sound casual.
The man let out a dry laugh, jerking a thumb down the hall. "I'm seven. This blasted machine ate my dollar. Just wanted a snack, and it decided otherwise." He kicked the side lightly, metal rattling in protest. "Name's Jack. Heads up — nights get noisy around here. Pipes groan, wind howls… and sometimes, if you're lucky, the fog adds its own… soundtrack."
Ethan gave a small, tired smile. "Thanks for the warning."
"Don't sweat it," Jack said, returning to his battle with the vending machine. He brushed past, hand instinctively steadying on the next door's handle — Room 7's. Ethan froze for a fraction, remembering that last night, he'd brushed against that same knob briefly. At the time, he hadn't thought much of it. Now, in hindsight, the small detail made the hairs on his neck prickle.
Room six greeted him with still air and flickering light from a faulty bulb. He dropped his bag on the bed, ran a hand through his hair, and reached for the lamp. The bulb sputtered once, a weak gasp of light, and then died. Darkness swallowed the room instantly, leaving only the soft hum of the air vent and the distant thrum of the road.
Then, the faint click of electricity dying down the hall. The lights outside went out too. The low hum of current vanished, leaving him with only the fog pressing against the windows like a living thing.
His phone light barely worked, screen glitching with static snow, the glow too weak to illuminate the corners of the room. That's when he heard it:
Scratch.
Soft. Deliberate. The slow drag of something over the wood, a rhythm that was almost casual, almost playful.
Ethan froze, heart hammering in his chest.
"Jack? That you?" he whispered.
No response.
The scratching stopped, only to return again, higher this time, closer to the peephole. A shadow seemed to stretch along the doorframe, though nothing passed behind it.
And then:
"Do you think I'm beautiful?"
The whisper slid through the door, intimate and impossible, like someone had pressed their lips an inch from his ear. The voice was calm, deliberate, female… but wrong.
Ethan's throat locked. Words caught like ice in his windpipe.
"Don't lie to me…"
A hand pressed against the door. The pressure was uneven, slow — scraping. The faint drag of fingers across the surface sent tiny tremors through his spine.
Then, silence. The kind that devours everything. Not a creak, not a rustle, not even the faint hiss of the broken neon outside. Only emptiness.
He waited. One minute. Two. He risked a glance through the peephole.
Nothing. The hallway was empty. Fog rolled down the corridor in thick, curling ribbons, soft as breath. But it wasn't natural — it moved with purpose, almost alive, as though following a rhythm he couldn't hear.
Ethan backed away slowly, every nerve screaming, staying awake until the first weak light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the curtains.
A knock startled him. Sharp. Insistent. Heart hammering, he opened the door to find two police officers standing there, with the innkeeper pale behind them.
"Sir," one officer said, voice clipped, professional, "we need to ask you a few questions."
They led him next door, toward Room 7. The air grew heavier with each step, faint metallic tang lingering, as though warning him.
Inside, Jack lay on the carpet. His body was stiff. His mouth… stretched unnaturally from ear to ear. Skin shredded into a permanent, grotesque grin.
Ethan staggered back, stomach churning. "Oh God…"
"Did you know the victim?" the officer asked.
"Barely," Ethan said, voice trembling. "Met him last night."
The officer scribbled in his pad. "We lifted some prints from the doorknob… you were staying next door, so we need to confirm they're yours."
Ethan blinked. "I— yeah, I touched it for a second. Just passing by."
The cop's eyes were sharp, piercing. "And you heard anything strange during the night?"
Ethan hesitated. His mind immediately went to the words whispered through the door: Do you think I'm beautiful?
He swallowed. "Nothing," he lied. "Just the wind."
The officer nodded slowly, unconvinced. "Stay in town. We might have more questions."
As they left, Ethan glanced once more at the open door. Something glinted on the floor. A shard of glass. From a mirror.
He crouched, careful, heart thudding in his ears.
His reflection blinked back at him.
But the mouth in the reflection… smiled.
And he wasn't smiling.
Some smiles never fade, even when you look away.