The Grand Bellevue Hotel was old—built in the 1800s, elegant but fading.
It had seen wars, scandals, even a murder or two.
But nothing was stranger than Room 403.
It was always booked.
Yet no one had ever seen the guest.
The staff knew the rules.
The room was paid for—always a full month in advance.
No housekeeping.
No service calls.
No disturbances.
The front desk would receive notes, typed and unsigned:
"Fresh towels. Leave them outside."
"Dinner service at 7 PM. Knock once. Do not wait."
The maids would return an hour later—
The food untouched.
The towels still folded.
As if no one was inside.
One night, a new bellhop named Carter got curious.
He knocked on the door.
No answer.
He pressed his ear to the wood.
Silence.
Then—
A soft click from the other side.
Like someone unlocking the door.
Carter stepped back, heart pounding.
But the door never opened.
The hotel manager warned him.
"Don't mess with 403," he said, voice low. "Whoever's in there has been staying for a long time."
"How long?" Carter asked.
The manager hesitated.
Then whispered:
"Since 1907."
Carter didn't believe it.
It had to be a hoax, a rich recluse, a weird tradition.
So one night, he broke the rules.
He stole the master key.
And at 3 AM, he unlocked Room 403.
The door swung open.
Inside—
Nothing.
No bags.
No clothes.
No sign of life.
Just a perfectly clean hotel room.
And on the desk—
An old guestbook.
Carter opened it.
The last recorded check-in:
"Mr. Alistair Crowne, 1907."
The ink was fresh.
As if it had just been written.
Then—
Behind him—
A whisper.
"You shouldn't be here."
The door slammed shut.
And the lights went out.
They found Carter the next morning.
Standing in the hallway.
Eyes wide.
Mouth open.
Breathing—but silent.
He never spoke again.
Room 403 remains booked.
Paid for.
Waiting.