The rain had finally stopped, but the air around the Blackthorn Hotel still tasted of iron and dust. The sky was the color of old bruises, swollen with secrets.
At the front desk, the brass bell rang—once, twice—its echo vanishing into the empty lobby.
"Hello?" A man's voice broke the silence.
He leaned over the counter, shaking rain from his coat. His name was Caleb Moren, a travel writer who chased ghost stories across forgotten towns. Blackthorn was supposed to be abandoned after a fire two decades ago. Yet its website still promised "timeless hospitality." He had come for a story. He didn't expect the hotel to answer back.
No staff appeared. Only a faint hum filled the air—like the sound of electricity under the skin. On the counter lay an open ledger. Caleb brushed the dust away.One name, written in elegant handwriting, stood alone:
Elena Voss – Room 207.
He frowned. The ink was still wet.
A soft click of heels made him turn. A woman in white moved down the hall, slow and graceful, her head tilted as if listening to something no one else could hear.
"Excuse me!" Caleb called out. "Do you work here?"
She stopped mid-step. When she turned, her face was pale as moonlight—eyes dark and endless.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered. "It's not time yet."
Before he could ask what she meant, she vanished around the corner.Only the scent of jasmine lingered, faint and sad.
By evening, another visitor arrived.A young woman with copper curls and a camera strapped to her chest.
"Perfect," she said, panning her lens across the cracked walls. "I'm Lydia from Beyond the Veil. My followers are going to love this."
She caught Caleb watching. "You're staying here too?"
He nodded. "I booked online."
Lydia laughed softly. "That's funny. According to local records, this place burned down in 1995."
They decided to stay the night—Caleb in Room 205, Lydia in 208.But sleep never came easily in the Blackthorn.
Sometime past midnight, Caleb heard footsteps in the corridor—slow, deliberate, stopping right outside his door.When he opened it, the lights flickered.
At the end of the hallway stood the woman in white again.Her face was clearer now—eyes wide with fear, lips trembling as if forcing out words.
"Help me," she mouthed."They won't let me leave."
Then, like smoke, she was gone.
The next morning, Lydia looked pale."You need to see this," she said, holding up her camera.
On the footage, as Lydia filmed herself walking through the halls, a reflection followed her—a woman with dark hair and hollow eyes, appearing in every mirror, every glass panel, even in the shine of a doorknob.
Caleb froze."That's her," he whispered. "The woman from the corridor."
Lydia nodded. "Elena Voss. I checked the archives. She used to work here… before the fire."
They ran downstairs to the lobby.The ledger now held three names:
Elena Voss – Room 207Caleb Moren – Room 205Lydia Rose – Room 208
And beneath them, freshly written:
Check-in confirmed. Check-out: Pending.
A cold wind swept through, flipping the pages back. Hundreds of names filled the book, each ending with the same word:
Unresolved.
That night, Caleb woke to whispering.Dozens of voices overlapping, rising and falling like the sea.
"Find her…""Remember the mirror…""She never left."
He turned toward the mirror above the dresser—and saw Elena staring back.
Her reflection moved before his, her eyes desperate.
"They think you're new guests," she whispered."But you're not. You're replacements."
Her hand pressed against the glass from the other side, leaving a wet mark like a bloodstain.
And then, everything went dark.