The Guest Room is not haunted

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." - Maya Angelou

───────────────────────────

Chapter 14: The Keeper's Ledger

"You are the new Keeper."

Sam frowned. "Keeper?"

The Ledger responded, the ink crawling sluggishly.

"Caretaker. Guardian. Witness. Call it what you want."

Sam's breathing slowed. He was starting to understand.

His uncle didn't just run this guesthouse.

He protected it.

Not just for paying guests—but for the ones who never left.

Sam swallowed hard, his pulse hammering. He wrote quickly:

"Why is the guestroom locked?"

The Ledger hesitated. The ink dripped onto the page, like it was bleeding thought. Then:

"To keep them safe."

Sam's hands were ice-cold.

"Them?"

The ink dragged across the page, forming the next words slowly.

"Those who remain. Those who belong to this house. Your uncle understood them. He never let them be forgotten."

The realization hit Sam like a punch to the gut.

His uncle... cared for them.

Not just the living. But the dead.

The guesthouse wasn't just a building. It was a sanctuary. A resting place for those who couldn't leave.

And now...

It was Sam's responsibility.

His hands trembled as he wrote:

"Why me?"

The Ledger's ink pulsed, as if... breathing.

Then, slowly, it wrote:

"It was always going to be you."

Sam's heartbeat slammed in his chest.

"What does that mean?"

The ink stuttered. The Ledger seemed... weaker now.

"I grow tired. I require sustenance."

Sam stared at the words, his blood running cold.

Sustenance.

He suddenly had the horrifying realization that the Ledger was alive—and it was draining something.

Before he could write again, the ink bled one last message across the page:

"It is your turn now."

And then—

The Ledger snapped shut on its own.

The room was silent. Too silent.

Sam sat frozen, the Ledger still shut in his hands, his breathing uneven. The last words it wrote burned into his mind:

"It is your turn now."

The phrase rattled through his skull like an echo in a hollow room.

"It was always going to be you."

Why? Why him?

And what did it even mean?

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. Maybe if he broke it down, it would start making sense.

He grabbed a pen and underlined the key phrases in the Ledger.

"The new Keeper."

"To keep them safe."

"Those who remain."

"Your uncle understood them."

"Sustenance."

His hands tightened around the book.

So Uncle wasn't just a landlord. He was their caretaker.

For the living, sure. But more importantly—for the ones who never left.

"It was always going to be you."

Sam swallowed.

Did Uncle knew? Was this all planned?

His chest tightened as a new, chilling thought surfaced.

Maybe Uncle adopted him for this very reason.

He had no other family. No parents. No one except Uncle, who had taken him in as a kid. Was it really just out of kindness? Or had he always been meant to inherit this house… and its tenants?

"It was always going to be you."

No—this didn't make sense. Uncle had always been warm, cheerful. The kind of man who gave extra pocket money when you were down. The kind of man who made bad jokes at barbecues. He wasn't some kind of gatekeeper for the dead.

…Was he?

Was he even capable of helping them?

Sam drummed his fingers against the book.

If Uncle was the previous Keeper… what exactly did that entail?

Did he help the spirits move on?

Did he just keep them here?

Or was he protecting them from something else?

Sam shivered.

"To keep them safe."

From what?

And how do I even help them?

The idea of fulfilling their last wishes crossed his mind. Maybe that's what Uncle did. Maybe that's what I have to do.

But then…

What kind of last wishes do ghosts even have?

What if it wasn't about wishes?

His eyes flicked back to another phrase:

"I require sustenance."

Sustenance.

A slow dread curled in his stomach.

The Ledger—it's alive in some way. It needs something to keep functioning.

Did Uncle feed it somehow? Was that what his role as Keeper was?

And if so…

What exactly was being given?

Money? No. Spirits don't use money.

Memories? Energy? Pieces of themselves?

A realization struck him cold.

The tenants must have paid something in return.

A transaction.

The guesthouse was not just a shelter. It was an exchange point.

But an exchange of what?

And if Sam was the Keeper now…

What was he supposed to give?

His hands clenched into fists.

How did Uncle do this so casually?

As far as Sam knew, Uncle had lived a normal, boring life. He didn't act like some supernatural broker. He didn't look the part.

So how had he helped these spirits?

And if he was gone now…

Had he left willingly?

Or had something—someone—removed him?

Sam's blood turned to ice.

He needed to know more.

But first—

He needed to figure out who the tenants were.

And if they'd come to him…

Or if he had to find them himself.

Sam stared at the closed Ledger in his hands.

His mind was spinning.

Everything it said—everything it claimed—was too much to swallow at once.

His uncle had been the Keeper. Now, apparently, he was.

The guesthouse wasn't just a place for people to stay. It was a home for the dead.

And whatever this "sustenance" was… it was part of some kind of transaction.

But—

Did he even trust this thing?

Sam looked at the book warily, turning it over in his hands.

It wasn't just paper and ink. It had responded to him. It thought. It spoke. It had a will.

That made it dangerous.

How did he know everything it said was true?

It had dripped ink slowly, hesitated, almost like it was carefully choosing its words.

Like it wasn't telling him everything.

Or worse—like it was hiding something.

The thought made his skin crawl.

He had taken its words at face value. Maybe out of shock. Maybe because he was desperate for answers.

But what if this thing wasn't on his side?

His uncle had kept the Ledger, yes. He had "protected" the tenants.

But what if Uncle had been trapped in this role?

What if he hadn't chosen it?

"It was always going to be you."

That sentence felt wrong.

Like this wasn't just an inheritance.

Like it had been decided long before he even had a choice.

Sam's grip tightened on the Ledger, his knuckles going white.

The longer he stared at it, the more wrong it felt.

He thought back to when he first found it.

A thrift shop.

A dusty old store tucked into the corner of a street he didn't even remember the name of.

He hadn't been looking for anything special that day—just killing time, browsing through junk.

Then, at the very back of the store, buried under old newspapers and forgotten records—

He saw this.

At the time, it had felt… weirdly familiar.

He had picked it up, flipping through its blank pages, thinking it was just an old journal.

It had been cheap—almost too cheap for something that looked so well-crafted. The shopkeeper had barely even glanced at it before waving him off.

"That one? Just take it."

It had felt like a steal.

Now, he wasn't so sure who had stolen what.

Had it been a coincidence?

Or had this book found him?

His stomach twisted.

What if…

What if it had always been waiting?

Waiting for him to come to this house?

Waiting for the right moment to reveal itself?

Had his uncle known about this?

Had he somehow arranged for Sam to find it?

But—no. His uncle had never mentioned this book. Never even hinted at it.

Or was there someone else behind all this?

Something lurking behind the scenes?

A force pulling the strings?

Sam swallowed hard. His mind raced through the possibilities, but each one was worse than the last.

This wasn't just some haunted journal.

It had chosen him.

And now—it was speaking.

And the worst part?

He wasn't sure if it was telling the truth.

Sam's grip tightened on the book.

If the Ledger had power—where did it come from?

And if it "needed sustenance"… what exactly had his uncle been feeding it?

The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Maybe Uncle hadn't just been protecting the ghosts.

Maybe he had been keeping something contained.

And now—that job had passed to him.

Without even knowing what he was really up against.

He needed more. More answers.

Sam yanked a pen from the table, flipped open the Ledger, and scrawled:

"What happens if I refuse?"

For a moment—nothing.

Then—

The ink oozed onto the page, slow and heavy, like it was tired.

"You already know."

Sam's mouth went dry.

No. No, he didn't.

Before he could write again, the ink spread into one last sentence—

"They are waiting."

Then, without warning—

The Ledger's pages flipped wildly on their own, as if caught in a storm.

The lights flickered.

A deep, crawling cold slithered into the room.

And then—

A whisper.

Not from the book. Not from his own head.

From behind him.

"Keeper."

Sam spun around—

The room was empty.

But he knew, beyond any doubt—

He was not alone.