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I'm not alone. The door is locked from the outside. Footsteps, a whisper. You finally came back. A scream, then silence.
A week ago, Jessica arrived in a small town in northern England, looking for a quiet place to finish her novel. She heard about an old hotel called Evelyn, built on the ruins of a long-abandoned funeral home. Locals avoided it, but the owner offered her a room at a symbolic price and said, Room 6 only opens for chosen guests. Jessica agreed. The room was simple, but something felt off. A faint smell of burnt paper and too many mirrors.
On the first night, she heard a woman crying, even though she was alone. She thought she was imagining it, but the sound kept coming, closer each time. On the second night, she found an old journal under the bed, dusty and tied with a red ribbon. She opened it and read, I was the writer, but my story never ended. The pages began writing themselves with words that seemed to know her thoughts. The same line repeated, You've taken my place. Now it's my turn.
Jessica began to change. Her thoughts grew darker. Her writing felt unfamiliar. Every time she tried to write, sentences appeared that didn't feel like hers. And every time she tried to leave, the door vanished. The mirrors reflected a different face, older, colder, and dangerous. The spirit spoke inside her head, You are the last guest. I needed you to return.
Jessica tried to resist, but something pulled her in, forcing her to write. Each page grew heavier, each word louder in her mind. On the fourth night, she read the final line: The last guest must choose, finish the story or end with it. She grabbed the pen and shouted, I write my ending, not yours. The room shook, the light exploded, and the door suddenly opened. Jessica ran. She turned back and saw the hotel collapsing as if it had never existed.
She held the journal and whispered, Evelyn Hotel wasn't a hotel. It was a story waiting for its writer. But days later, something strange happened. Every time she opened the journal, new pages appeared. Writing themselves, it was as if the story hadn't ended, as if the spirit hadn't left, and on the last page a new line appeared: You came back to me, but this time you won't leave. Jessica stopped sleeping. Every night she heard the same crying, the same footsteps, the same whisper. She tried to burn the journal, but it returned the next morning, clean, untouched.
She searched the hotel's history and discovered that every female writer who stayed in Room 6 had vanished. No records, no traces, only stories ending with the same line. The last guest wrote the ending, but never left. Jessica returned to the room. She opened the mirrors and wrote one final sentence. I write you. I end you. The lights went out, the voice disappeared, the journal stopped writing, but was it really over?
Jessica published her novel and it became a huge success. In every interview, when asked about her inspiration, she smiled and said, I don't know. It felt like the story wrote itself. And on the final page of the printed edition, a line appeared in different handwriting, You came back to me. And now, everyone who reads will write me again.
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