The rain had been falling for hours, a steady gray curtain over the lonely stretch of Highway 1. The ocean roared just beyond the cliffs, invisible in the thick fog.
Elena Foster tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Her phone had died an hour ago, and the GPS signal vanished with it. The only thing left was the hum of her car engine and the faint sound of the wipers scraping against glass.
Just when she started thinking she might have to sleep in the car, a dim light flickered ahead—a weathered wooden sign swinging in the wind:
"The Mariner's Rest Inn."
The letters were peeling, and one side of the sign hung lower than the other. She hesitated. Every instinct told her to keep driving, but exhaustion won. She turned into the gravel driveway.
The inn was an old Victorian building, its windows glowing with the tired light of oil lamps. The front porch creaked as she climbed the steps. Inside, the air smelled faintly of salt and something metallic—like rust… or blood.
At the front desk sat an old woman in a faded shawl. Her eyes were sharp, too sharp for her fragile frame.
"Rough night," the woman said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes."Yeah," Elena breathed. "I—uh, saw your sign. Do you have a room available?"
"Of course." The woman slid an antique key across the counter. A brass tag dangled from it—Room 6.
"Breakfast's at seven," the woman added. "And… don't open the window after midnight."
Elena blinked. "I'm sorry?"
But the woman had already turned away, her figure vanishing into a shadowed hallway.
Room 6 was on the second floor, facing the ocean. The wallpaper peeled like shedding skin. The bed was neatly made, but the sheets smelled faintly of mildew. She cracked the window just enough to let in a breath of sea air. The waves outside crashed rhythmically, like a heartbeat.
She lay down, meaning only to rest her eyes.
Sometime past midnight, she woke to the sound of whispering.
Soft, broken voices. Like someone talking through the wall—or inside her head.
"Elena…"
Her name. Clear, close.
She sat up, heart pounding. The whispers faded, replaced by the slow creak of the window hinge.
The window she had locked before sleeping… was open.
Cold air poured in from the ocean, carrying a smell of wet salt and decay. Outside, through the mist, she saw the faint outline of a figure standing near the cliff—its white dress fluttering like torn paper.
"Elena," it whispered again.
She stumbled back, eyes wide. The figure turned its head toward her, and the motion light outside the inn flickered once—then died.
The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed everything was the reflection in the window:not one face staring back… but two.