what's in the inn

Peter took a cautious step forward into the inn's dimly lit lobby. Dust floated in the air, illuminated by the faint glow of an ancient chandelier swaying slightly above. Emily followed close behind, her fingers gripping the camera like a lifeline.

"Do you hear that?" she whispered.

Peter paused, listening. A distant creaking noise echoed through the building, like footsteps shifting above them.

"Could be an old pipe," he muttered, though he didn't believe it himself.

He approached the reception desk, brushing off a thick layer of dust. A guestbook lay open, its pages brittle and yellowed. The last entry was dated over fifty years ago.

Emily leaned in. "No one's checked in since 1972… yet the door was unlocked."

A sudden chill ran through Peter's spine. He turned toward the staircase, eyes narrowing. The air felt heavier, charged with something unseen.

Then, from above, came a low, shuffling noise.

Emily instinctively took a step back. "We should leave."

Peter exhaled sharply, trying to steady his nerves. "Not yet. We need to see what's upstairs."

With each step they took, the wooden stairs groaned beneath their weight. As they reached the second floor, the air turned ice cold. A long hallway stretched before them, lined with doors, all slightly ajar.

A single candle flickered at the end of the hall, though no one was there to light it.

Then, a whisper—soft and raspy—brushed against Peter's ear.

"You shouldn't have come."