The Guest Room is not haunted

"To care for those who once cared for us is one of the highest honors." – Tia Walker

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Chapter 13: The Root of It All

Sam's breath hitched as he stumbled away from the mirror, his heart hammering like it wanted out of his chest. His mind screamed at him to look away, but his eyes refused to obey.

Because what he saw wasn't possible.

His reflection was smiling.

A slow, knowing grin stretched across its face—one he wasn't making. It wasn't some trick of the light. It wasn't exhaustion. It was him, but not him at all.

Then, in the blink of an eye—it was gone. Lights were On , his reflection was normal again. His own face, staring back, pale and horrified.

Silence stretched across the room, thick and suffocating.

Sam blinked. Then blinked again. Then, very carefully, he took a deep breath and turned around.

"Nope."

He walked to the door. Opened it. Stepped out.

And slammed it shut behind him.

Standing in the hallway, he let out a shaky breath. "Okay. That was just… stress, right? Yeah. Stress. Sleep deprivation. Maybe even indigestion. I knew that midnight sandwich was a bad idea."

He nodded to himself. "Yup. Makes perfect sense."

Then, pretending like none of it happened, he marched downstairs to the living room.

Sam flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. The whole house felt wrong now—like something was watching, just out of sight.

His gaze landed on the guestbook lying on the coffee table.

His stomach dropped.

That book had been upstairs. He was sure of it. He had left it there, closed. But now it sat here, its cover slightly ajar, as if something had been flipping through its pages.

A slow, creeping chill crawled up his spine. The house was silent, but in that silence, he swore he could hear something—a faint rustling, like paper shifting in an unseen breeze. His fingers twitched.

How had it gotten here?

The floorboards hadn't creaked .The doors hadn't opened. Nothing had stirred. And yet, the book had moved, as if something—someone—had carried it down. Or worse… as if it had made its own way.

The pages fluttered slightly, though there was no draft.

Something about it sent a chill through him.

How the hell it came down on its own?

He'd ignored it for weeks now, brushing off every strange thing as a coincidence. But after what just happened upstairs? And how the guestbook just travelled from upstairs to here , he couldn't shake these feelings anymore.

This wasn't just bad luck.

This wasn't just stress or imagination.

Everything had started the moment he arrived here. But when exactly?

Think, Sam.

He retraced everything—

The weird energy in the house from Day 1.

The flickering lights.

The first strange online booking request—for a room that didn't even unlock.

The guestbook flipping open on its own.

The whispers. The impossible handwriting.

The kitchen cabinet door incident.

The vanishing bookings.

The cold, eerie presence watching him rehearse his audition.

The outstanding but chilling performance at the auditions.

And now… the mirror.

His blood ran cold.

"…It all started with the guestbook."

Sam sat up slowly, staring at the guestbook like it might bite.

Alright. He needed answers. Time to run an experiment.

He picked up a pen, hesitated, then wrote on an empty line:

"Hello? Anyone there?"

…Nothing.

He exhaled, a little relieved. See? Just paranoia.

Then—

Right before his eyes—

The ink on the page shifted.

Letters twisted and reformed, rearranging themselves into a response.

"You're finally paying attention. Took you long enough."

Sam's soul left his body.

His hands snapped the book shut, and he nearly threw it across the room.

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.

He sat there for a long moment, gripping his head.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

"…Okay."

A shaky, humorless laugh slipped out.

"Maybe… just maybe… I should start taking this seriously."

Sam sat on the couch, rubbing his temples. The house felt wrong now—like something was watching.

Again his eyes drifted to the guestbook on the coffee table.

He'd ignored it for weeks. Brushed off every strange thing as coincidence. But now? The mirror incident. The whispers. The impossible bookings. Then this.

It all started with this.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed a pen and wrote:

"What are you?"

For a long, tense moment, nothing happened.

Then, right before his eyes—the ink moved.

Not in a normal, fluid way. It bled across the page, twisting and curling into jagged letters.

"The ledger. The record keeper. The witness."

The words seemed… alive.

Sam swallowed hard. His hands felt clammy, but he forced himself to keep going.

Sam's grip tightened on the pen. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"What do you do?"

A pause. Then, the ink crawled forward again:

"I remember. I record. I witness."

Sam's throat felt dry.

"Witness what?"

This time, the response was slower. As if the Ledger was... tired.

Or reluctant.

"All who pass through."

A shiver ran down his spine.

"The living?" he wrote.Hopefully.

The ink paused, then bled across the page once more.

"Not the living."

Sam felt his stomach drop.

"Who used this before me?"

The ink bled across the page, then settled into neat words.

The response was almost immediate, as if the Ledger had been waiting for that question.

"Your uncle. Before him, another caretaker. Before that, another."

Sam's heart skipped a beat.

"Caretaker? Of what?"

A long pause. The page remained still, as if the book was… tired. Fading. Then, in short, precise words:

"The guesthouse. The room. The tenants—both living and dead."

Sam gripped the book tighter.

"My uncle knew? He… managed them?"

The guestbook seemed sluggish now. The ink formed slowly.

"He understood. He kept the balance. He never let them be forgotten."

The words sent a chill down Sam's spine. He tried to process it.

His uncle—who never let go of this place. Who never wanted to leave. Who spoke of the guesthouse with such warmth, like it was alive.

Because it was.

And not just for the living.

"Is that why the room is locked?" Sam wrote quickly. "Because of who—or what—stayed there?"

The guestbook hesitated. Then:

"Yes."

Sam leaned back, his mind racing.

His uncle didn't just run this guesthouse. He protected it. Not just for visitors who paid their rent, but for the ones who never left.

He felt his stomach turn.

The tenants.

Sam had been thinking of this place as haunted—as if the spirits were intruders.

But what if they weren't?

What if… they were here first?

And now, with his uncle gone—who was taking care of them?

His grip tightened on the guestbook.

"Wait," he muttered under his breath. "If my uncle could do it… that means…"

A new, faint response appeared before he even finished the thought.

"It is your turn now."

Sam felt his blood run ice cold.