Thecla had always been the observant one in her family. At nineteen, she was on the cusp of adulthood, yet still held onto the innocence of youth, a potent mix of sharp intuition and wide-eyed hope. Her parents often joked that she was an old soul—a description Thecla only partially agreed with. She wasn't old; she was just paying attention.
The family vacation to the old seaside hotel, The Shomon Crescent, had been planned for months, a much-needed escape from the chaos of their everyday lives, a respite from her father's demanding business and her mother's tireless work at the non-profit. But as soon as they entered the hotel's lobby,an encounter with the receptionist ,and that shady shades, a sense of unease settled over her like a heavy, cold fog.
The hotel was, without question, grand. Its Victorian architecture rose eight stories, a monument of faded blue brick and white-trimmed windows, each capped with a pointed lintel. Ornate wrought-iron balconies lined the second floor, overlooking a meticulously maintained, yet slightly wild, coastal garden. In the lobby, the furnishings were plush, the Persian rugs thick, and the dark mahogany paneling gleamed dully under the light of a colossal, crystal chandelier. Yet, there was something undeniably off about it.
The air, even by the sea, felt thick and strangely still, as if the windows and doors had been sealed shut for decades. The shadows seemed to linger longer than they should, pooling in the corners of the cavernous hallways and clinging to the heavy velvet drapes. The scent was a musty, overpowering blend of antique polish and something else—something metallic and faintly sweet, like old, decaying lilies.
From the moment they checked in, Thecla noticed the way the staff exchanged furtive glances, their eyes always flicking away just as she tried to meet them. They whispered to one another in hushed tones when they thought no one was watching, their faces tight with expressions she couldn't quite decipher—was it fear? Or something more sinister, like complicity? It was as if the hotel itself was alive, a colossal, breathing entity hiding secrets within its very walls.
Thecla spent the first two days in a state of growing anxiety, her vacation joy dissolving into a constant, low-grade hum of dread. Her parents, oblivious, were busy "unplugging," as they called it, wrapped up in their books and the hotel's excellent wine list.
One afternoon, after the first nightmare she decided to explore alone of course ,without the shackles of a shade. She found an unused stairwell tucked behind the kitchen, the air instantly colder, smelling of dust and stale bread. Following the stairs to the sixth floor, she found a service hallway—narrower, dimly lit by single, caged bulbs. That's where she noticed the unnatural silence. Even the sound of the ocean, a constant roar everywhere else, seemed muffled here.
She stopped at a service door, its paint peeling. Through the thin wood, she heard it: a low, panicked murmur.
"—another one, just last night," a man's rough voice hissed.
"Quiet, you fool! You want everyone to hear?" a sharper, female voice snapped back. "Just clean it up and report to The Manager. Same procedure. They always check out by morning."
They always check out by morning. The phrase hit Thecla like a physical blow. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence. She didn't wait to hear more. She spun around and fled back down the stairs, her mind spiraling with panicked logic. Disappeared. Clean it up. Check out. It was hotel code for something terrible. Something permanent.
That night, Thecla was jolted awake by a cold sweat. The repeated nightmare that had been plaguing her sleep since their arrival was worse this time. It wasn't all about monsters, it also included an environmental terror. In the dream, she was standing in the lobby, but the walls were closing in, the ornate patterns on the wallpaper morphing into screaming faces. She would try to run, but the thick, red carpet would wrap around her ankles, holding her fast, while the staff, their smiles wide and empty, watched from the shadows. She would wake up with the metallic-sweet scent of the hotel overwhelming her senses.
***
"Mom, Dad, can we talk?" Thecla asked one evening after dinner, her voice steady but her hands trembling where they rested on the tablecloth. It's been two weeks since they arrived at the hotel. Dinner had been a tense affair for her. The cheerful waiter who'd taken their order had a strange, almost pitying look in his eyes when he spoke to her, and the whole meal had felt like a performance for their benefit. She had spent the day exploring, and the more she uncovered, the more her instincts screamed at her to leave.
Her parents, seated comfortably in the plush velvet armchairs of their suite—Room 301, a beautiful corner unit overlooking the foggy coast—looked up from their phones, surprised by her sudden seriousness. Her father, was reading a financial article; her mother, Susanna , was scrolling through travel photos.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" her mother asked, concern etching her features Susanna 's concern was genuine, but often fleeting, quickly replaced by a desire to maintain harmony and avoid trouble.
"I think we should leave this hotel," Thecla said, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. "I'm serious. I've seen some strange things. The staff… they're acting weird. I just don't feel safe here."
Her father paused his scrolling, letting out a short, dismissive laugh. "Thecla, you're just being paranoid. You read too many mystery novels. It's an old hotel; it has character. The staff are probably just overworked, that's all. You're letting your imagination run wild." He put his phone down, adopting a tone of gentle, paternal authority. "We paid a fortune for this suite, honey. Let's enjoy the peace and quiet."
"No, Dad, I'm serious! It's not my imagination." She felt her frustration mounting, a hot flush spreading across her cheeks. "I overheard a conversation between two employees in the service hallway today. They were talking about… about people disappearing. They used the phrase 'clean it up' and 'they always check out by morning.' And the way they look at us—like we're not supposed to be here, like we're on a schedule."
Susanna exchanged a strained glance with Joe, a flicker of genuine concern crossing her face before she immediately masked it with a bright, placating smile. She reached out and squeezed Thecla's hand. "Honey, that's just gossip. Hotel staff have their own little dramas, darling. Maybe they were talking about someone who skipped out on their bill, or a bad review. Honestly, if people were actually disappearing, wouldn't it be all over the news?"
"But they were whispering, Mom! And the feeling here… it's wrong." Thecla pulled her hand back, the warmth of her mother's touch doing nothing to soothe her growing panic. She felt the isolation keenly—it was her against the world, her against the unseen secrets of The Shomon hotel.
Joe sighed, picking up his phone again. "Look, this is your anxiety talking. You're a smart girl, Thecla, but you tend to catastrophize. We're safe. We're together. Let's enjoy our last few days and forget the silly ghost stories. You are being irrational." giving her a stern look,trying to tell her if she continued with the tantrum ,he wouldn't take it lightly with her.
Thecla felt a wave of crushing disappointment and despair wash over her. She had poured out her deepest fears, her most urgent intuition, and they had dismissed it all as mere teenage angst and overactive imagination. She wanted to scream, to shake them and make them see the cold dread clinging to the chandeliers and the silent accusation in the eyes of the staff.
But she knew it was useless. They were insulated by their privilege, their comfort, and their utter disbelief that anything truly dark could touch them. Instead, she forced a tight, brittle smile. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just… tired." She retreated to her room, closing the heavy oak door with a quiet click.
She leaned against the door, taking deep, shaky breaths. I am not irrational, she thought fiercely. I know what I heard. Her parents' complacency had just flipped a switch inside her. If they wouldn't take her seriously, then she wouldn't try to convince them anymore.
She looked out the window at the ocean. The fog had rolled in thick, obscuring the water entirely, leaving only the distant, mournful blare of a foghorn. Thecla grabbed her phone, a small flashlight, and a thick cardigan. She was nineteen, almost an adult, and her instincts were screaming. Her parents were asleep behind their wall of willful denial. She was the observant one. If something was wrong with the hotel, she was going to find out what it was.
I can't wait for them to believe me, she realized. I have to prove it.
With a new, cold resolve settling in her gut, Thecla quietly opened her door, slipped into the dimly lit hallway of hotel, and headed back toward the dark, secretive silence of the service wing.