The Guest Room is not haunted

Chapter 15: The Keeper's Burden(2)

Sam glances down at the guestbook, flipping through its pages. The old paper is rough under his fingertips, but it's empty. No instructions. No clues. Just an ordinary book.

Sam: "You said everything I need is in here, but I have no idea how to use it."

The shadow shifts slightly, its form flickering like a candle caught in the wind. When it speaks, its voice is unreadable, neither confirming nor denying.

Shadow: "Neither do I."

Sam furrows his brows, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Sam: "Then what good is it? You expect me to figure it out on my own?"

The shadow remains silent.

Sam exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He's getting answers, but they always come in pieces, like puzzle fragments scattered without a clear picture.

Sam: "But you saw my uncle use it once, didn't you? What did he do?"

The shadow doesn't answer immediately. When it does, the pause before its words feels deliberate.

Shadow: "…He wrote."

Sam waits for more, but it doesn't come. He frowns.

Sam: "That's it?"

Shadow: (softly) "No."

Sam's fingers tighten around the book's cover.

Sam: "Then what else?"

No response.

Sam grits his teeth. The way the shadow speaks—always stopping just short of saying something crucial—it's like talking to someone who is trying to guide him without actually giving him the map.

Sam: "Fine. Let's set that aside for now."

He looks up, his voice firm.

Sam: "Then tell me this—who are the other tenants of the locked guest room?"

The moment the question leaves his lips, the air shifts. The space around him feels heavier, thicker, as if pressing in on his skin.

The shadow, which had been answering him in short bursts, now goes completely silent.

Sam waits.

Nothing.

Sam: "Well?"

The silence stretches, unnatural and oppressive. The weight in the room increases, making the air feel colder, denser. It's not just hesitation—this silence means something.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the shadow speaks, its voice softer than before.

Shadow: "…I will answer… but only on one condition."

Sam's eyes narrow.

Sam: "Condition?"

Shadow: "Help me."

Something about the way it says it makes Sam pause. The usual cold, distant tone of its voice carries something else this time. Something almost… human.

Sam: "Help you with what?"

The shadow doesn't answer right away. For a moment, Sam swears he can almost see a shape—a figure trying to take form—but before it can solidify, it flickers again, retreating into the darkness.

Then, softly:

Shadow: "Only you can help me."

Before Sam can ask what that even means, the shadow's form starts dissolving, melting into the surrounding darkness like ink bleeding into water.

His chest tightens.

Sam: "Wait! How do I help you? What do I do?"

His voice echoes in the empty room.

But the shadow is already gone.

The room is still. The only movement comes from the faint sway of the curtains, though there is no breeze. The air remains thick, like the weight of something unseen still lingers, even after the shadow has vanished.

Sam stands in the center of it all, gripping the guestbook so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. His pulse pounds in his ears, steady and unrelenting.

His mind races.

The guestbook—his uncle's ledger—wasn't just a simple log of guests. It was something more. A tool, a key, maybe even a lifeline. But to what? And how was he supposed to use it when even the shadow didn't know?

He exhales sharply, forcing his body to relax.

Think.

He doesn't know how to use the guestbook.

He doesn't know what his uncle was doing with it.

He doesn't know how the locked guest room actually works and is it even safe for him .

And he doesn't know how to help the shadow.

And yet…

His fingers skim over the book's cover, its leather worn from years of handling. His uncle's hands had once gripped this same book, flipped through these same pages. He had known what to do.

There had to be something Sam was missing. A pattern, a clue, something written down that would tell him where to start.

But where?

His eyes flicker to the guesthouse around him—the dim lighting, the dust collecting in the corners, the walls that seemed to press in ever so slightly.

He was alone here. And yet, not.

The thought unsettles him more than he'd like to admit.

Sam lets out a slow breath and presses his thumb against the book's spine. The weight of it is solid, real. Tangible proof that his uncle had been involved in something much bigger than a simple guesthouse.

And now, like it or not, Sam was tangled in it too.

He clenches his jaw.

He has to find a way to help that shadow.

But how? He has no idea.

His grip loosens, and for the first time, doubt creeps in.

Was he even capable of doing this? He wasn't his uncle. He wasn't some expert in spirits or lost souls. Hell, he barely had his own life figured out.

And yet, when the shadow spoke, it had sounded certain.

> Only you can help me.

Why?

Sam presses the guestbook to his chest, as if holding it closer might somehow force the answers to reveal themselves. But nothing happens.

The silence remains.

No voices whisper from the pages. No hidden instructions magically appear.

Just the stillness of the guesthouse and the weight of an unknown responsibility pressing down on him.

Sam exhales. He's not going to figure this out standing here all night.

Tomorrow. He'll start tomorrow.

For now, he needs sleep.

Even if he has a feeling his dreams won't be peaceful.