The storm came without warning.
One moment the road was calm, lined with amber trees and whispering mountain wind. The next, a curtain of rain had swallowed the landscape whole. Lena Marlowe leaned forward in her seat, peering through the smeared windshield as the wipers thudded rhythmically, struggling to clear her view.
Her GPS had lost signal miles ago, and for the last twenty minutes, she'd been relying on memory and an old paper map, the kind that felt almost ironic for a travel journalist to use. Still, Lena had always liked the feel of a map—real, tangible, with creases and coffee stains and handwritten notes in the margins. This one bore a faint ink scrawl: Grand Marietta Hotel – off Route 9, before the cliff bend.
And then, as if conjured by the thought, the hotel appeared.
At first glance, it was just a silhouette behind the trees—a looming figure of ivy-covered stone, dark gables, and tall, narrow windows. It emerged slowly as she drove closer, its front gates flanked by wrought-iron lanterns that flickered in the rain like watchful eyes.
Lena pulled the car up to the circular driveway, her tires crunching on gravel. She shut off the engine and stepped out, pulling her coat tighter against the cold. The rain had softened, but the air was dense and humming with silence, like the world was holding its breath.
The Grand Marietta stood proud despite the years. The facade was weathered but elegant, its entrance framed by carved pillars and a grand wooden door with brass accents polished to a shine. Overhead, the hotel's name was etched in faded gold: The Grand Marietta – Est. 1927.
She couldn't help but stare.
In her research, there hadn't been much—just a few dated photos, a website that hadn't been updated in years, and vague reviews about "old-fashioned charm." But what had caught her attention were the scattered whispers: rumors of strange happenings, stories of guests checking in and not checking out, and a peculiar room that always remained vacant.
Room 402.
She had specifically requested it.
As a journalist, Lena had covered everything from five-star beach resorts to remote desert lodges, but nothing had piqued her interest quite like this. There was a story here—she could feel it. And not the glossy kind full of spa menus and scenic hikes. This was deeper. Older. Possibly darker.
She stepped inside.
A small bell chimed overhead as she stepped inside.
The lobby was warm, a sharp contrast to the chill outside. A fire crackled in the hearth across from a velvet sofa set. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and aged books. Soft classical music played from somewhere unseen.
Behind the reception desk stood a petite woman in her seventies, her white hair swept into a tight bun. She wore a vintage navy blouse with silver buttons and a brooch shaped like a rose. Her smile was faint but kind
"Evening, dear," she greeted, her voice soft and reedy like old lace. "Welcome to the Grand Marietta. You must be Miss Marlowe."
"Lena," she replied, offering a tired smile. She slid her gloves into her bag and shook rain from her shoulders. "I have a reservation. Room 402."
The woman's smile didn't vanish, but something shifted in her eyes. A pause. Barely a heartbeat.
"Oh yes… Room 402," she said, as if recalling an old, unused drawer in her memory. "We don't get many requests for that one."
"You sound surprised."
"Not surprised," the woman said, her tone turning delicate. "Just… curious. It's a room most folks forget."
"Too haunted for most?" Lena teased.
The woman chuckled quietly. "Not haunted, dear. Just... particular."
She handed Lena a heavy brass key with a worn leather tag: 402. Not a keycard.
"The elevator's just there to your left," she said. "Fourth floor, end of the hall. If you need anything, just dial zero."
As she moved toward the lift, she felt her gaze linger on her back—not unkind, but cautious. Like someone watching a glass object on the edge of a shelf.
The elevator creaked open, and Lena stepped inside, pressing the button for the top floor. The light above flickered once, then buzzed to life.
She studied her reflection in the mirror: brown eyes, tired but alert. Damp curls tucked beneath a scarf. Notebook in her bag. Recorder. Charger. She was ready.
The elevator dinged.
The fourth-floor hallway stretched long and narrow, lined with burgundy carpet and lamps that gave off a golden, nostalgic glow. Portraits hung on the walls—guests from decades past, she assumed—but their eyes seemed oddly blurred, their names on the plaques faded or scratched away.
She walked slowly, the wheels of her suitcase humming against the carpet.
Room 402 stood at the very end.
Its door was darker than the others, the brass numbers gleaming despite the dim light. Lena paused in front of it, key in hand. The air here felt... stiller. Heavier. She didn't believe in ghosts, but something about the silence made her skin tighten.
She slid the key into the lock.
The mechanism turned with a soft click.
The door opened.
Room 402 was—unexpected.
Clean. Elegant. Not eerie. Not sinister. If anything, it was too perfect. The bed was immaculately made with crisp white sheets. A writing desk sat by the window, an old rotary phone perched neatly beside a leather-bound notepad. Heavy curtains were drawn shut, but a soft light seeped in around the edges, as if twilight was waiting just beyond.
She stepped inside, letting the door close behind her.
There was no dust. No musty scent. Everything in the room looked as though it had been waiting—not neglected, not abandoned. Prepared.
Lena stood in the center, listening.
Nothing.
She let out a breath, half-laughing at herself. "Dramatic much?"
She set down her bag and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside. The view overlooked the forest below, trees swaying in the storm's wake, shrouded in silver mist.
Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance.
She turned back to the room and sat on the edge of the bed. It didn't creak. It didn't shift. It was steady.
Lena reached for her notebook, flipped it open, and wrote the first line of her assignment.
Grand Marietta Hotel: Where the past lingers just a little too long.
She didn't notice the rotary phone twitch slightly.
Didn't hear the soft click from the closet door.
Didn't feel the room exhale.
Not yet.