Caretaker's Logbook — Mountain Lodge
---
Day 1 — Evening
A family of four arrived today. Father, mother, two children — one boy, one girl. The snow was heavy on the road, yet they looked excited, like city folk always do when they see the mountains. The father carried too many bags, the mother scolded the children for running in the lobby, and for a brief moment, the lodge felt alive again. I checked them into Room 3, overlooking the pines.
They laughed over dinner. The children built a small snowman outside before bed. I watched from the window as the boy adjusted its crooked nose. Innocent things.
---
Day 2 — Morning
The family woke early. They ate pancakes, the mother complimented my cooking though I know it was nothing special. They spoke of hiking the eastern trail. I warned them of the cold. The father smiled and said, "We'll be fine, it's just a holiday."
They returned late, cheeks red, carrying pinecones. The children placed them on the lodge fireplace mantle as if offering a gift to the mountain itself.
---
Day 3 — Afternoon
Quiet day. Snowstorm kept them inside. They played board games in the lounge. I could hear the girl's laughter echoing in the halls. She asked me, very softly, "Mister, do people ever… disappear here?"
I laughed. I told her only the snow disappears when spring comes. She didn't laugh back.
---
Day 4 — Night
Dinner felt strange. They sat in silence longer than before. The father kept staring out the window into the woods. The boy asked if wolves lived here. I said no. He nodded but still looked uneasy.
Later, as I made rounds, I passed Room 3. I heard whispers. Not arguing, not playful talk. Just… low whispers, too quiet to belong to one voice.
---
Day 5 — Morning
The family did not come down for breakfast. Their door was shut. I thought perhaps they slept in. At noon, I knocked. No answer. At evening, I used the spare key.
Room 3 was empty.
The beds still warm. The children's shoes left neatly by the door. The mother's scarf draped over the chair. The father's watch on the nightstand, ticking faintly. But no family.
No footprints outside in the snow.
---
Day 6 — Report
I searched the forest, the trails, the frozen river. Nothing. No broken branches, no signs of struggle, no tracks. Just silence, deep and white.
Their belongings remain. Luggage packed but untouched. Children's drawings still taped on the window.
Room 3 feels colder now.
---
Day 7 — Final Entry
Someone has written in this logbook while I slept. I found the last page filled in neat, steady handwriting. It is not mine.
It reads only:
"Checked out."
Signed by the father.