The Guest Room is not haunted

Chapter 15: The Keeper's Burden(1)

The air in the guesthouse is thick and unmoving, the kind of stillness that presses against the skin like a weight.

The shadow lingers in that silence, its presence heavy but unreadable. When it speaks, its voice is quiet but firm:

Shadow: "We waited. For a Keeper. A Guardian. You."

Sam exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His pulse hasn't slowed since this thing called him Keeper.

Sam: "Guardian? Keeper? You've got the wrong guy."

The shadow doesn't hesitate.

Shadow: "No."

Sam: "I don't even know what you look like. I can barely see you—how the hell am I supposed to help?"

There's a pause. The shadow doesn't answer right away, and for a second, Sam thinks it won't respond at all. Then, slowly, it shifts—an eerie, fluid movement—before turning toward the guestbook resting in Sam's hands.

It doesn't touch it. Doesn't even move closer. Just gestures toward it, with a stillness that somehow makes the action more unsettling.

Shadow: "Everything you need… is in there."

Sam follows the shadow's gaze, staring down at the book.

His grip tightens.

The weird disappearing messages. The ghostly conversations scrawled across the pages.

Was this really some kind of tool his uncle used to help the tenants?

But how? It's just a book.

Sam: "Alright… let's say you're right. Let's say my uncle really used this thing. How?"

A beat of silence. Then:

Shadow: "…I don't know."

Sam blinks.

Sam: "What do you mean you don't know?"

Shadow: "I only saw him use it once… when I first arrived here."

The shadow's voice dips slightly, like the memory itself is distant.

Shadow: "After that, he left."

Sam frowns, flipping the guestbook open, but the pages remain blank. If this was the key to everything, then it was as good as useless unless he figured out how to use it.

Why Stay in the Guesthouse?

Another thought forms in the back of his mind.

If these spirits are trapped… why don't they go somewhere else? Why only here?

Sam: "Why do you all stay here? Why not go somewhere else?"

The shadow shifts, but this time, it almost seems… hesitant.

Shadow: (pauses, as if choosing its words carefully) "Because he left us something."

Sam: "...What?"

Shadow: "A safety mechanism."

The weight in the air grows heavier.

There's something different about this answer—like the shadow is finally giving him something important.

Then, finally, it speaks the words:

Shadow: "The locked guest room."

Sam's thoughts swirl in a chaotic mess, each revelation piling on top of the last, leaving him barely any time to process. But he can't stop now. His questions keep spilling out, each one clawing at the edges of his mind, demanding answers.

He takes a step closer, his voice steady but tense.

Sam: "Alright, then—how does the locked guest room protect you? And from what?"

The shadow doesn't answer right away. It lingers, silent and unmoving, as if measuring its words before speaking. Sam can feel the temperature drop slightly, the cold seeping into his skin.

Finally, the shadow speaks.

Shadow: "From being erased."

Sam stiffens.

Sam: "Erased? What the hell does that mean?"

His own voice sounds foreign to him—halfway between disbelief and dread.

The shadow doesn't flinch at his reaction. Instead, it answers in a quiet, almost resigned tone.

Shadow: "Forgetting is the same as ceasing to exist."

A faint chill creeps over Sam's skin. He doesn't know why, but those words settle in his chest like a weight.

Forgetting is the same as ceasing to exist.

It's not just about moving on, then. Not just about spirits lingering because of unfinished business or old regrets. This is something else.

Something worse.

His fingers press into the leather cover of the guestbook, his grip tightening as a thought clicks into place.

Sam: "And this protection you're talking about… It's the locked guest room, isn't it?"

Shadow: "Yes."

A shiver runs down Sam's spine. He swallows.

Sam: "But how? How does a single room keep you from being erased?"

The shadow shifts, its form rippling like mist caught in an unseen current.

Shadow: "Because your uncle made it that way. So that we don't disappear."

Sam opens his mouth, ready to push further, to demand details—but the shadow's form suddenly flickers, as if it's growing weaker.

The conversation is slipping through his fingers. He can feel it.

And there's still so much he doesn't understand.

The silence stretches between them, filled only by the distant sound of the wind outside. Sam tightens his grip on the guestbook, his fingers curling around the worn edges as if holding onto something tangible might help steady him. His pulse pounds in his ears, but he forces himself to focus.

The figure standing before him is barely more than a flickering shape in the dim light, shifting and wavering as if unsure whether it should be here at all.

Sam: "Okay, hold on—what do you mean by 'disappearing'? Isn't that just getting free?"

His voice is firm, but he can hear the slight tremor in it. He swallows hard and presses on.

Sam: "You said my uncle was supposed to free you, so isn't that a good thing?"

The shadow stirs at his words, its form shifting subtly. The air around it grows colder, and for a moment, Sam swears he sees something—a glimmer of hesitation, uncertainty.

Shadow: "No."

Its voice is quieter this time.

Shadow: "Not all disappearances are the same."

Sam frowns, his grip tightening on the book.

Sam: "Then what's the difference?"

The room seems to darken slightly. The shadow remains still, but the weight of its presence grows heavier, like something unseen pressing against Sam's chest.

Shadow: (pauses, voice lower) "Some of us are waiting to be freed. Some of us… just vanish."

Sam's breath catches.

Sam: "Vanishing isn't the same as moving on?"

Shadow: "No."

Sam feels a deep, sinking unease settle in his stomach.

If they're not moving on… then where are they going?

His mind races, trying to piece together the implications of what the shadow is saying. If his uncle was freeing some of them, but others were simply vanishing, then something was terribly wrong. Something that not even the dead could explain.