The hotel felt wrong the second I stepped inside.
The kind of wrong that creeps under your skin, makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise even though the air is perfectly still.
It was old—built in the 1920s, my boss said. A “landmark” hotel they insisted on putting me in for this business trip. The lobby smelled faintly of mothballs and something sweeter, almost like wilted flowers. And the woman at the front desk… she smiled too wide when she slid me the key.
“Room 407,” she said, her eyes sharp in a way that didn’t match her smile. “Enjoy your stay.”
Enjoy.
I tried to shake it off as I hauled my suitcase upstairs, but the hallway was worse. The carpet was faded, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper. Only a few bulbs worked, flickering like they were seconds from burning out.
