Rain lashed against the windshield as Ethan drove along an empty mountain road. His GPS had died an hour ago, and his phone showed "No Signal."

Then, through the thick fog, he saw it.

A towering hotel stood alone on the hillside. Its faded sign read:

THE BLACKWOOD GRAND HOTEL

One flickering light glowed behind the dusty reception desk.

With nowhere else to go, Ethan stepped inside.

The lobby smelled of damp wood and something rotten. Cobwebs hung from the chandelier, and old paintings watched him with lifeless eyes. Behind the counter sat an elderly receptionist wearing a perfectly pressed uniform.

Without looking up, she slid an old brass key across the desk.

Room 307.

"I didn't tell you my name," Ethan said.

"You booked long ago," she whispered.

Confused, Ethan assumed she meant someone else. He grabbed the key and climbed the creaking staircase. Every floor was covered in thick dust—except for a trail of fresh, wet footprints leading toward Room 307.

The hallway was silent.

Too silent.

He unlocked the door.

The room looked untouched, as if someone had cleaned it that very morning. Fresh towels. A made bed. A warm lamp glowing beside an old wooden wardrobe.

Then...

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Someone tapped on the bathroom door.

Ethan froze.

He was certain the bathroom had been empty.

Slowly, the door creaked open by itself.

Nothing.

He laughed nervously, blaming exhaustion.

At 2:17 a.m., he awoke to the sound of a child laughing.

It echoed through the hallway.

Giggle...

Giggle...

Giggle...

The laughter stopped outside his door.

A soft voice whispered,

"Can I come in?"

Ethan didn't answer.

The doorknob slowly turned.

Locked.

Again.

The handle twisted harder.

Then silence.

A few minutes later, curiosity got the better of him. He opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

Except for dozens of wet footprints leading away from his room.

Bare footprints.

Child-sized.

He followed them.

They ended at Room 313.

The door was nailed shut.

A faded newspaper clipping lay on the floor.

HOTEL FIRE CLAIMS 42 LIVES — ROOM 313 IDENTIFIED AS ORIGIN

His hands trembled.

Suddenly...

A little girl stood at the end of the hallway.

She wore a burned white dress.

Half her face was blackened.

The other half smiled.

"I've been waiting," she said.

The lights went out.

Darkness swallowed the hallway.

Something began running toward him.

Fast.

Too fast.

Ethan sprinted downstairs, crashing through the lobby.

The receptionist never looked up.

Without stopping, she said,

"Nobody ever checks out."

He threw open the front doors.

The hotel was gone.

Only an empty field remained beneath the moonlight.

His car stood exactly where he'd left it.

Shaking, Ethan drove until sunrise.

At the nearest town, he stopped at a small diner and asked about the Blackwood Grand Hotel.

The waitress went pale.

"That hotel burned down in 1984."

She pulled out an old newspaper.

On the front page was a photograph of the victims.

Forty-two faces stared back at him.

Standing among them...

was Ethan.

Wearing the same clothes he had on the night before.

At the bottom of the article was the guest register.

The final entry read:

Guest #43

Ethan Carter

Checked In: October 31, 1984

Checked Out: Never.

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