The Guest Room is not haunted

"Don't believe everything you hear - even in your own mind." - Daniel Amen

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Chapter 12 – The Echo That Wasn't His

Second POV : Lillian Cho

As she was announcing the results, her mind goes back to Sam's performance.

Some time ago :

Lillian Cho tapped her pen against her clipboard, her gaze lingering on the stage longer than necessary.

She had spent the past hour watching student after student give their best performances, and for the most part, she had already sorted them into mental categories:

Promising. Decent. Overly dramatic. Why did they even bother?

Most auditions were predictable. The strong contenders had confidence, a solid grasp of their characters. The weaker ones tried too hard or not at all. Lillian had gotten good at spotting them within seconds.

Then he walked on stage.

A normal-looking student, average in all the ways that didn't matter. Good height, lean build—nothing that immediately screamed leading man or standout performer. She hadn't expected much. A forgettable audition, maybe.

But the moment he spoke, she felt it.

The shift in the room. The way everything else—the scraping of pens, the rustle of papers, even her own thoughts—seemed to dim under the weight of his presence.

Where did this come from?

Sam wasn't just acting like a villain. He was one.

His voice dripped with something cold, something that seeped into the bones. Every movement was deliberate, restrained yet menacing. When he smiled—that cruel, knowing smile—it wasn't forced. It wasn't an imitation.

For those few minutes, Lillian forgot she was in an audition room.

She was there.

Wherever his character lived—whatever world he was pulling them into—she was standing in it, watching a monster come to life before her eyes.

She swallowed.

Her pen hovered over her notes.

She could already see the others moving on, already shifting their focus to the next name on the list. Another performer stepping forward. Another set of lines waiting to be delivered.

But for Lillian, it didn't matter.

Because she already knew.

She knew who the villain was.

And it wasn't a competition anymore.

Second POV: Lillian Cho (ends )

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First POV : Sam

The night air outside the club was cool, the city buzzing with distant life. Sam stretched his arms, rolling out the tension in his shoulders as Ethan and Alex fell into step beside him.

"That was insane, man." Ethan grinned, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. "Seriously, where did that come from?"

Sam exhaled a short laugh, still feeling the strange weight in his chest. "Guess I got in the zone."

Alex, walking a little behind them, was silent.

Ethan nudged him. "Dude, come on. You saw that, right? He practically scared the judges stiff."

Alex finally spoke, his voice quieter than usual. "Yeah. That was… something."

His tone was neutral, but Sam caught the way his eyes lingered, as if trying to see something past his skin.

Sam ignored it. He was too tired to dissect weird looks.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while. The cool air helped ease the lingering tension in Sam's body, and for the first time in hours, he felt normal.

Maybe he had just overthought everything.

Maybe nothing was actually wrong.

The diner was warm, familiar—its hum of quiet conversations and the distant sizzle from the kitchen forming a comforting backdrop. The scent of fresh coffee mixed with fried food, settling over them like a cozy blanket.

Sam leaned back in his seat, listening as Ethan launched into a story about some disaster at his new workplace. Alex chimed in with sarcastic remarks between bites of his burger. It was easy. Normal.

Until it wasn't.

Sam blinked.

And suddenly—

His drink was half-empty. Ethan's plate was cleared, his fries nothing but salt-dusted scraps. Alex was scrolling through his phone, sipping on what little remained of his milkshake.

The shift was small—minutes lost, nothing drastic—but the unease gripped Sam's stomach like a tightening knot.

Had he…zoned out?

Alex noticed first. "You okay? You spaced out for a second there."

Sam forced a laugh, shaking off the chill creeping up his spine. "Yeah, just tired."

He reached for his drink, fingers tightening around the cool glass.

That's when he saw it.

In the window's reflection—his own face. But something was wrong.

His reflection wasn't mirroring him. It wasn't looking at Ethan, at Alex, at the passing cars outside.

It was staring directly at him.

Eyes locked. Unblinking.

Sam's breath hitched.

Then, in the time it took to blink, it was gone. The reflection was normal again—just a warped copy of reality in the glass.

The warmth of the diner suddenly felt thinner, like the air itself had stretched too tight.

Sam took a slow sip of his drink, forcing himself to join back into the conversation.

But the feeling didn't leave him.

Something had been watching..

Ethan split off first, heading toward the subway. That left just Sam and Alex, walking the quiet streets under the dim glow of streetlights.

The night felt... different.

The city was never silent, but tonight, the usual background noise—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional bark of a stray dog—felt muffled, like they were moving through a vacuum. The streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long, flickering shadows.

Alex walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture more tense than usual. He exhaled sharply before speaking.

"You've been weird since the audition."

Sam glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

Alex hesitated, then, "I know you were acting, but… it didn't sound like you."

A strange chill ran down Sam's spine. "It's just acting," he said, maybe too quickly.

Alex frowned but didn't push further. The conversation faded, leaving only their footsteps tapping against the pavement.

Then—

A flicker. The streetlights dimmed for half a second before sputtering back to life. Their shadows stretched unnaturally long for that brief moment, like something unseen had pulled at them.

A gust of wind swept past, sharp and sudden. Sam's jacket rippled. His hair shifted.

But nothing else moved.

Not the trees. Not the trash on the sidewalk.

Then he heard it.

A whisper.

Low, rasping—right at his ear.

But it wasn't Alex.

It was his own voice. Muttering something under its breath.

Sam froze.

His blood ran ice-cold as he turned sharply, scanning the empty street behind them. There was no one there. Just darkness, stretching endlessly down the road.

Alex noticed. "What?"

"…Nothing."

The weight of something unseen pressed against Sam's back, clinging to his skin like static.

He quickened his pace.

And whatever it was—he swore it followed.

Back at the guesthouse, the air inside was still. Not cold, not warm—just stagnant.

Sam barely noticed. His exhaustion weighed heavier than the silence. He tossed his bag onto the couch, kicking off his shoes with a tired sigh.

He wandered into the kitchen, downed a glass of water, and checked his phone. A few texts from Ethan, nothing urgent.

Everything was normal.

He showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and collapsed onto his bed, scrolling mindlessly on his phone.

His eyes flicked across the room. The guestbook sat untouched on the shelf.

It was closed.

Exactly where he left it.

Sam exhaled slowly. See? Nothing.

His body sank into the mattress, muscles relaxing for the first time that day. The hum of the city outside was distant, fading as sleep tugged at him.

He shut his eyes.

And then—

Scratch.

The sound was soft. Delicate.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Sam's breath stilled.

It was coming from the shelf.

From the guestbook.

His eyes flicked open, chest tightening. The scratching was slow, rhythmic. Someone writing.

No.

No, he was just imagining it.

The moment the thought formed, the scratching stopped.

Silence.

Sam forced himself to sit up. His heart pounded against his ribs, but he wasn't about to let some dumb noise mess with him.

His gaze landed on the guestbook.

It was still closed.

But—

A single page stuck out just slightly, as if it had just been turned.

His pulse hammered in his ears.

Slowly, carefully, he moved toward the shelf.

His fingers brushed the cover.

And then—

The pages flipped open.

Not wildly. Not chaotically.

But slowly, deliberately.

As if someone was turning them.

They stopped on a blank page.

Except—

There was a single word written in shaky, uneven letters.

His name.

SAMUEL.

But that wasn't what made his stomach drop.

It was the handwriting.

It was his own.

The room felt wrong. Dense. Heavy.

Sam's skin was ice cold. He swallowed, throat dry.

He couldn't move.

Then—

A breath.

Right behind him.

Too close.

His chest tightened, every instinct screaming : don't turn around.

But his eyes—

His eyes betrayed him.

They flicked to the mirror across the room.

His reflection stood there.

But—

He wasn't standing.

His reflection was.

Its head tilted. Just slightly.

Sam's stomach turned.

Then—

It smiled.

A whisper.

Not from behind him.

Not in his head.

From the mirror.

> "That wasn't me acting."

The lights shut off.

Darkness swallowed the room.

And something laughed.

---END.