"Home is not a place…it's a feeling".

───────────────────────────

Chapter 1 : A Totally Normal House

The guestbook wasn't his idea.

Sam had found it at a thrift shop while looking for cheap furniture to fill the empty, echoing rooms of his newly purchased Airbnb. The idea was simple—guests would leave kind messages, little stories about their stay, maybe even some travel recommendations. A warm, personal touch.

Now, standing in the doorway of the guest room, staring at the open book on the nightstand, he wished he'd left the damn thing at the store.

Because he sure as hell hadn't written the words on the page.

"Do not stay in the guest room."

It wasn't even signed. Just written in tight, jagged handwriting, as if the writer had been in a hurry. Or shaking.

Sam blinked at it. His fingers twitched at his sides. He could feel his pulse in his neck, heavy and loud.

Okay. Okay. Let's be rational about this.

There were, obviously, a few perfectly reasonable explanations.

One: The last guest was an asshole with a very specific sense of humor.

Two: A previous guest left it, and the note had just been waiting to be found.

Three: He was already losing his mind, which was not great considering he'd sunk his entire savings into this house.

The air felt different now. He wasn't sure how. The room was still the same—soft yellow light from the bedside lamp, neatly folded blankets, the faint scent of old wood and lemon cleaner. But something pressed at the edges of his senses, something just slightly off, like stepping into a room where someone had been talking and stopped the second you walked in.

Sam ran his tongue over his teeth.

Alright. Cool. Probably nothing. Definitely nothing.

He picked up the book. The pages felt dry, a little rough beneath his fingertips. He turned back a few pages, scanning old guest entries.

"Lovely stay! Great location, will visit again."

"Loved the antique decor! A little creaky at night, but that just adds to the charm."

"Bathroom could use an update. Also, saw a woman standing by the bed at 3AM. Otherwise, very cozy!"

Sam closed the book.

Slowly. Carefully.

He placed it back on the nightstand, smoothed out the cover like that would somehow erase what he'd just read, and backed toward the door.

Alright. It's fine. Everything's fine. The house is old. Old houses make noise. Shadows do weird things at night. It's not haunted. It's just… quirky.

He reached for the light switch. Paused. Swallowed.

He was not scared. He was a grown adult. He had bills. A mortgage. He paid taxes. Taxes were scarier than ghosts.

Sam turned off the light.

He left the room, closing the door behind him, and walked away at a completely normal pace. Not fast. Not slow. Just normal.

He absolutely did not sprint up the stairs the second he was out of sight.

---END.